The Dark on the Other Side

I

“NOT SELF-INFLICTED,” GALEN SAID.

“Thanks a lot.”

Michael rolled down his sleeve. Linda knew he had been trying not to wince; Galen’s poking and probing, which appeared to be prompted more by a spirit of scientific inquiry than concern for his patient’s pains, must have hurt more than the original dressing of the wound.

Galen leaned back in his chair.

“Unless you found a cooperative dog,” he qualified.

Linda bit back the comment that was on the tip of her tongue. She did not have Michael’s lifelong experience with the older man, which had apparently given him a childlike faith in the great father figure. She had welcomed Galen’s appearance for two reasons: first as an ally, who would help guard Michael from herself, and, second, as the key to the final door through which she meant to pass when all other means were exhausted. But although she herself had anticipated and considered every one of Galen’s rational objections, she found them irritating coming from him.

Glancing around the doctor’s study, she thought she would like the man if she weren’t prejudiced against his profession. The furnishings of the room were so luxurious that they were inobtrusive; every object was so exactly right, in function and design, that it blended into a perfect whole. The exquisite marble head on the bookshelf looked like one she had seen in an Athens museum, but it was not a copy. The rugs were modern Scandinavian designs; their abstract whirls of color went equally well with the classical sculpture, the Monet over the fireplace, and the geometric lines of the rosewood tables and desk. Heavy hangings, deep chairs, beautiful ornaments-they made up a room of soft lights and warm, bright coloring, as soothing to the nerves as it was stimulating to the senses. Only one object-Linda’s eyes went to the soft couch, piled with cushions; and Galen, who saw everything, smiled at her.

“I use it more than my patients do,” he said. “Most of them prefer to confront me, face to face.”

“I didn’t think you ever slept,” Michael said.

“Catnaps. Like all the other great men of history. Hence the couch, in here.”

He had a beautiful speaking voice, as modulated and controlled as an actor’s. And used for the same purpose, Linda thought. Fighting the influence of the voice and the room, she returned to the attack.

“You don’t honestly believe we went looking for a dog and provoked him into attacking Michael?”

“It does seem unlikely,” Galen admitted.

“But not impossible?”

“Trite as it may sound…”

“Nothing is impossible. Damn you,” Linda said.

Galen’s fixed smile widened, very slightly, and Linda flung herself out of her chair and began to pace. That was one of the reasons why she hated psychiatrists; she had the feeling that her every action was not only anticipated, but provoked.

“However,” Galen went on calmly, “unless the evidence to the contrary is strong, I generally prefer the simplest hypothesis.”

“A real dog,” Michael said.

“A real dog,” Galen agreed.

Linda turned, to find both of them watching her. For a moment, the open amusement in Galen’s face almost provoked an outburst; then she saw the strained pallor of Michael’s face, and she dropped into her chair.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You asked me a question,” Galen said. “About the letters. What did you make of them, Michael?”

“Not much. I was hoping you’d have more to say on the subject.”

“I do. But I want your interpretation first.”

“The thing that struck me was the Jonah effect,” Michael said slowly. “The doom and destruction that hit the people closest to Randolph. That, and my father’s inexplicable dislike of him. It was Linda who told me he must have been the head of the witchcraft cult, and thus directly responsible for the death of that boy-”

“Green. The author of The Smoke of Her Burning.” As they both sat speechless, Galen turned to Linda. “Didn’t you suspect, Mrs. Randolph, that your husband never wrote that book?”

“I-I don’t know. I never-” Linda rallied. “I guess I did. But not for a long time, and it was never more than a suspicion. I loved the author of that book before I ever met Gordon; I think it was one of the reasons why I loved him. The external brilliance, the polish-Gordon could have done that. What he lacked, what he never could have produced, was the soul of the book-the compassion, the tenderness.”

Galen nodded. He turned back to Michael.

“That was what your father suspected, knowing both students as he did. That was what he told me, privately. Of course he could prove nothing. Green had told him he was working on a book, but had never showed him any of the manuscript. He said he wanted to have it complete before he submitted it for criticism.”

“I should have known,” Michael said, flushed with self-contempt. “I call myself a writer… But there were other things. The campaign speeches, even Kwame’s songs…For a while I played with the idea that he had stolen them from Gordon.”

“They were not written by the same man; but they were written by the same kind of man,” Galen said. “Despite my reluctance to accept your theories of diabolic possession, I do believe in what you might call mental vampirism-a spiritual blood sucking, a leechlike drain of the intelligence and emotions of others. You’ve met people, I’m sure, who left you feeling drained and depressed after a few hours’ conversation. Usually this is an unconscious demand, but Randolph is quite conscious of what he’s doing. Make no mistake, he was never guilty of ordinary plagiarism. His victims gave him what he wanted, half convinced themselves that it was his work.

“Eventually, however, the vampire goes too far, and destroys the source from which it draws its vitality. It is symptomatic, not only of Randolph’s effect on others, but of their personality weaknesses, that they should resort to suicide, or some other form of escape, rather than attacking Randolph. For it was not only intellectual brilliance he sought, it was brilliance coupled with a sense of insecurity. You might say, if you were mystically inclined-which I am not-that Randolph was drawn, by a kind of spiritual chemistry, to people of this sort, just as they were attracted to him. The stronger souls-pardon the expression-resisted him. As you did, Mrs. Randolph. He miscalculated with you, possibly because his instincts were confused by a more basic desire. But there lay the danger to you. Randolph literally could not let you go. What he fails to fascinate he must destroy. And eventually he destroys even that which he fascinates.”

“Then everything he’s done,” Michael muttered, “all his success-a fraud. A gigantic fraud.”

“Not at all. He has one undeniable talent: Charisma, we call it-the ability to charm and command affection, loyalty. All leaders have it, to some extent, and all of them depend on advisers, speech writers, hired experts, to supply any qualities they may lack. If Randolph had accepted that kind of help, he might have been a successful politician and a good teacher; he is not a stupid man. But he isn’t content with mere competence. A healthy, strong body, and the finest of training, let him excel in the sports he selected-and don’t underestimate the power of that confident personality on his opponents. But he knew that eventually he would lose, when he got into the big leagues, against opponents who were simply better than he was. So he quit.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Michael said. “You’re on our side after all, you old-”

“I am merely presenting what seems to me, at the moment, the most logical hypothesis. I’ve followed Randolph’s career with some interest, since your father told me his suspicions. I respected his judgment, and I was intrigued by Randolph’s behavior. If your father was correct, there were certain alarming tendencies… Well. Candidly, I was relieved when he decided to give up his political career.”

Michael opened his mouth to speak, but Linda forestalled him.

“So you believe in a perfectly materialist, rational explanation.”

“Yes. Given your husband’s personality, and motives, the rest is clear. The dog is a real dog, manipulated and concealed by Randolph in an attempt to play on your nerves. Your erratic behavior is a result of secretly administered drugs and a form of hypnotic control, intensified by your increasing suggestibility as doubts of your own sanity increased.”

“But I thought no one could be hypnotized to do something he wouldn’t consciously do.”

“An error,” Galen said succinctly. “Or, shall we say a great oversimplification.”

“My attack on Michael-”

“Posthypnotic suggestion, conditioning…” Galen paused. The Gray eyes appraised her coldly. “I am not saying that your mental and emotional state is normal, at the present time.”

“I know that,” Linda said. “What I don’t know is how abnormal it is.”

“You mean, are you still a potential threat to Michael?” Galen pondered the problem without visible emotion. “I would guess that you may well be.”

“God damn it!” Michael was on his feet, ignoring Linda’s outstretched hand, and Galen’s un-perturbed smile. “Your theory stinks, Galen. Oh, I know, it all makes sense. It even explains why the dog attacked me, and yet left before it did any serious damage. The storm excited it, so that it broke away from its handlers, and they called it back before it could be killed or captured because they didn’t want their supernatural effect ruined. I’ll even admit to hearing a funny whistling sound that might have been Gordon, calling the dog. But your version doesn’t explain Gordon’s motive. Why the elaborate plot? Why all the hocus-pocus? And why me, for God’s sake?”

“Your theory isn’t strong on motive either,” Galen pointed out. “The mechanism isn’t that complicated, or obscure; Randolph’s original reason for inviting you to his home had nothing to do with plots, supernatural or otherwise. He may have selected you, in preference to others, because of some amorphous idea of getting back at your father, who was one of the few people who never succumbed to the myth; after that, the development of the relationship between you and Mrs. Randolph would give even a balanced mind cause for dislike. What do you consider a motive, anyway? Four million dollars? You’re talking about human behavior, which is difficult enough to comprehend even in so-called normal individuals. People have committed murder over a dirty plate, or a sum as small as three dollars.”

“All right, all right,” Michael said irritably. “Stop talking down to me. I’ll accept any hypothesis you shove at me, if you’ll just tell me what to do about it.”

“You know better than to ask me for advice.”

“Professional reticence?” Linda asked, too politely.

“Professionally I’m full of advice. As a human being I’ll be damned if I will take on the combined role of leaning post and punching bag. Make your own decisions and kick yourself if they turn out badly.”

“There’s something you may not know,” Michael said. His voice was quiet, but he was furious; Linda knew him well enough now to recognize the signs. “If Randolph were just our personal Nemesis, you’d be justified in staying out of this. But he is planning to go back into politics. That’s a fact; I’ve checked it out. By your own description he’s a paranoidal maniac with enormous charm. Does that remind you of any other political figure in recent history? Gordon isn’t a runty paperhanger with a funny moustache; he’s got a lot more on the ball.”

Galen’s lips tightened. He showed no other reaction; but after a moment Michael flushed and turned away.

“I have not refused to concern myself,” Galen said quietly. “What I’m trying to do is make this a joint project.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael muttered. “You’re right; the long-range effects aren’t important now. The main thing is to get Linda free of him. At the risk of sounding simpleminded, I suggest one of the quick divorce mills.”

“What’s happened to your brain?” Galen asked nastily. “You can’t treat this as an ordinary case of mental cruelty. Randolph is not an ordinary man.”

“He doesn’t own the whole goddamned world.”

“He owns her.” Galen’s head jerked in Linda’s direction. Illogically, it was at that moment, with the impact of his brutal statement still aching, that Linda decided to trust him.

“He’s right,” she said to Michael. “Call it what you like-obsession, neurosis, whatever. He does own me.” She turned to the psychiatrist. “You’ve been very persuasive, Doctor. But I don’t believe any of it. Gordon isn’t an ordinary man, you’re right. He’s not a man at all, not any longer.”

Galen leaned back in his chair.

“At last,” he said, with a sigh. “I thought I spotted something… What do you think he is? Demon, disciple of Satan, werewolf…Ah. The dog.”

In Michael’s hurried, incoherent account, this theory had somehow escaped mention-probably because he rejected it himself. Linda knew there was no use trying to avoid it. Squaring her shoulders, she looked Galen straight in the eye.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I think he is.”

“Hmph.” Galen rocked back and forth. “Why?”

“If you don’t stop saying that-” Michael began.

“Shut up. I’m investigating Linda’s crazy ideas, not yours. Lycanthropy…You are not referring, I’m sure, to the mental aberration which involves cannibalism, necrophilia, sadism, and a craving for raw meat, among other symptoms?”

“Is there such a thing?” Linda asked incredulously.

“As a form of psychotic paranoia, sometimes called zoanthropy, there certainly is such a thing. It is comparatively rare, but well documented; some of the famous mass murderers of history probably suffered from a form of this complaint-Gilles de Rais, Jack the Ripper…

“But that’s not what you mean. You are referring to the belief that some human beings can transform themselves into animal form, through the application of various magical techniques. The werewolf is the most familiar to us, because it is a product of European mythology and is described by the classical authors. In the East, however, one encounters were-tigers, and in Africa the supernatural beast may be a hyena or a leopard. The leopard societies of West Africa, which terrorized whole villages, are well known; there was a strong element of such a cult in the Mau Mau atrocities, in Kenya. The mutilations inflicted on the victims of these societies resemble those made by the claws of a predatory animal, and were done with artificial instruments designed to resemble claws.

“Of course it’s impossible to separate the supernatural and pathological elements. A culture with an implicit faith in lycanthropy produces men who are susceptible to the mania, and an individual who found it impossible to attain prestige by normal methods might well turn to lycanthropy as a means of intimidating those he cannot otherwise control.”

“Good God,” Michael muttered.

“There is, as well, a connection between lycanthropy and witchcraft,” Galen went on calmly. “The tradition of supernatural animals is widespread and very ancient. The ability of a witch or warlock to assume animal form was one of the powers granted by Satan to his disciples. Often witches made their way to the Sabbath meeting in animal form. The great black goat was a manifestation of Lucifer. Black is, of course, the color of evil. And the black dog is not unknown as a supernatural animal, sometimes representing the warlock and sometimes Satan himself. The wild dog or wolf like beast is a symbol of the bestial qualities of the human mind, freed from the bonds of reason and conscience.”

“A vile slander on animals,” Michael said.

Galen went on, without appearing to hear him.

“You see, I am sure, how the various traditions mingle-pre-Christian superstitions, perversions of Christian theology, and a variety of mental aberrations, ranging from paranoia to autohypnosis and hallucination. But the elements of the classic Western werewolf legend are explicit. Some werewolves, as in the popular films, are helpless victims of a curse, involuntary skin-turners. Most are not innocent; they seek the change by diabolical means and use their animal form to satisfy bestial desires. According to these accounts, it is the soul, or astral body, of the man that takes the animal form. The real body lies in a cataleptic coma, barely breathing; but the astral form is actual, physical, in that it can inflict pain and death, and feel pain and death. Any wound inflicted on the animal is reproduced on the sleeping human body, and drawing the animal’s blood forces it to resume human shape. In some traditions, the beast can only be killed by a silver bullet, or by a sword which has been blessed by a priest. When death occurs, the body of the beast disappears and the body of the lycanthrope is found with the same wounds that killed the animal. Intelligent observers have already suspected the werewolf’s human identity because of such signs as hairy palms and eyebrows that meet in the middle. He is often strangely affected by the full moon. Has Gordon any of these traits, Mrs. Randolph?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Linda said disgustedly. “Those are old wives’ tales.”

Meeting Galen’s gently ironic eye, she began to laugh, helplessly.

“Oh, dear…that’s probably the craziest thing I’ve said yet. Maybe I’m not as far gone as I thought I was. No, I think Gordon belongs to your second category. How was it you phrased it? ‘The ability of a warlock to assume animal form was one of the powers granted by Satan to his disciples.’”

“It makes sense,” Galen said. “Given his past history, his dabbling in demonology as a young man, and his desire for control over others.”

Linda’s insane desire to laugh broke out again at the sight of Michael’s stupefied expression.

“Wait a minute,” he gasped. “First you said…And now you’re saying…”

“You seem to be degenerating,” Galen snapped. “I’m not telling you what I believe. I am endeavoring to ascertain what Randolph himself believes.”

“I think he believes it,” Linda said stubbornly. “What I just said.”

“I don’t know,” Michael said.

Galen rose. He seemed taller; from where Linda sat, on a low chair by the desk, he seemed to tower over her.

“Maybe we’d better ask him,” he said.

For the last few minutes, Linda had been partially aware of background noises, but in the immediacy of the conversation she had paid little attention. Now the meaning of the muffled sounds came home to her-a doorbell ringing, footsteps down the stairs and along the hall, the rattle of locks, and the opening and closing of the door. She sprang to her feet. The footsteps were coming down the hall, toward the study. Footsteps she knew. Gordon’s steps.

II

She was on her feet, halfway to the window in a mindless flight, when Galen’s hand caught her arm. His grip was as hard as steel.

“I’m sorry, I meant to warn you,” he said; the even voice contrasted alarmingly with the intensity of the hard hand on her wrist. “He came more promptly than I expected. Trust me, Linda. This has to be done.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Michael.

“Just keep quiet,” he said rapidly. “Don’t look surprised, at whatever I say, and don’t contradict me or volunteer anything. If you weren’t half-witted tonight, I wouldn’t have to tell you-”

There was no time for further speech. The door of the study opened. Linda had a glimpse of the impassive manservant who had admitted them to the house; behind him was Gordon.

Without meaning to move, Linda managed to get behind Galen. He had released his grip on her arm. There was no need for further constraint, and he must have known it. She was as incapable of movement as she was of speech.

Gordon’s fine dark eyes moved slowly over the three faces confronting him.

“My poor little errant wife,” he said, “and-friend. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you, Dr. Rosenberg, but of course your reputation is well known. It was good of you to call me.”

“Sit down, Mr. Randolph,” Galen said equably. He did not, Linda noticed, offer the other man his hand.

Gordon took the chair indicated. He seemed perfectly at ease, except for the weariness in his face-normal in a man who has been trying to track down an insane wife.

Carefully, he did not look at Linda. He was acting again, and doing it well, simulating wary concern, pretending he didn’t want to frighten her… He looked at Michael instead, and a pathetic shadow of his old charming smile touched his mouth.

“Sorry, Mike. I’ve been a little off my head the last few days, or I wouldn’t have thought-what I’ve been thinking. And all the time you were planning this. I’m eternally in your debt.”

It was a little obvious, even for Gordon. Linda knew quite well what he was doing, but being able to analyze his methods did not make her immune. Huddled on the low hassock where Galen’s ruthless arm had deposited her, she fought a doubt she had thought long conquered-doubt of Michael, and of the doctor to whom he had brought her.

Michael said nothing. He was standing, as if he felt more secure on his feet. His wooden-faced silence did nothing to relieve Linda’s doubts.

The silence deepened. Galen, who had seated himself behind his desk, picked up a pen and began scribbling with it. His eyes intent on the meaningless doodles with which he disfigured the pristine surface of the desk blotter, he was humming under his breath, and-Linda realized-flatting badly.

It was a crude trick, but Gordon succumbed. Linda didn’t see the crack in the barrier at first, it was so small. Only later, when she recalled the interview, did she appreciate Galen’s over-all strategy.

“I’m grateful to you, too, Doctor,” Gordon said. “But I don’t quite understand…May I speak to you alone?”

“Why?”

Galen did not look up from his doodling. Critically he studied a scribble which looked like an arrow, and carefully added three oblique lines to represent the feather at the end of the shaft.

“To discuss what’s to be done.”

“That concerns all of us,” Galen pointed out. “Your wife has told me a very disturbing story, Mr. Randolph.”

He looked up; and Linda, who had felt the full effect of that passionless stare, was not surprised to see Gordon recoil slightly.

“Disturbing?” he repeated.

Galen, who had returned to his drawing, nodded vaguely.

“In what way?”

Galen shook his head and went on doodling. By now the precise movements of his pen had caught everyone’s attention. Gordon was almost craning his neck to watch, and the distraction had shaken his concentration.

“I must insist, Doctor,” he said; his voice was no longer pleasant.

“On what grounds?”

“Why-because she is my wife. I have the right-”

“You have no right.” Galen’s voice was remote. “Your wife has placed herself under my care. I called you in to ask you about certain statements she has made, not to report to you.”

Gordon rose to his feet in a single powerful surge, his face distorted by the expression few people other than Linda had seen. Disregarding his instructions, Michael took a step forward, but it was Galen who stopped Randolph, with a single small gesture of his right hand, so quickly done that Linda could not have described it.

The effect on Gordon was astounding. He fell back, his face losing its color. Then, as if compelled, he leaned forward and looked at the drawing Galen had made.

“The College,” he said, in a choked voice. “You are one-”

“Oh, yes,” Galen said cheerfully.

Because she was sitting by the desk, next to his right hand, Linda was the only one who saw that hand move. A long index finger flicked a switch; and all the lights went out.

With the curtains drawn and the door closed, the room was plunged into primeval blackness. Linda heard the long, shaken intake of breath that came from Gordon; it went on so long it seemed impossible that human lungs could hold so much air. Then it burst out, in a sound that shocked the brain and senses as it affronted the ears. She heard a heavy chair fall, and the rush of something through the dark, and she dropped to the floor, crouching, for fear his blind rush would bring him to her. He found the door, after an interval that seemed interminable; the light from the hall was yellow and comforting, silhouetting his tall body. Then he was gone. The front door slammed, waking echoes from the lovely crystal chandelier in the hall.

The lights came on again.

“Hmph,” Galen said.

Crouching on the floor behind his chair, Linda was busy shaking. A pair of hands caught her by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet. She stared into Michael’s face.

“You all right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but dumped her unceremoniously on the hassock, and wheeled on the figure pensively posed behind the desk.

“What College, you congenital liar?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Galen said placidly.

“Another lie…The drawing. What is it?”

Galen stirred and stretched.

“The drawing, like the gesture I made, is an invention. A meaningless hodgepodge of symbols and Hebrew letters. I regret to say that my years of Hebrew school are far behind me, and my knowledge of the Cabala is even vaguer. The effect on Mr. Randolph was interesting, though, wasn’t it?”

Michael regarded him with no admiration whatever.

“Of the two of you, I almost think I prefer Randolph. The College, I suppose, is an equally imaginary group of-what? Adepts in magic, squatting on top of Mount Everest thinking about the universe? You deliberately let him think…”

“I let him think what he wanted to think. And I found out what I wanted to know.” He turned a contemplative stare on Linda, huddled on the hassock. “You were right. I felt sure that you were, but I had to check. And implant a certain useful suggestion.”

Michael picked up the chair Gordon had overturned in his flight, and sat down. Under its drawn pallor, his face held the first gleam of hope Linda had seen for hours.

“He thinks you’re a powerful warlock yourself. That isn’t all you learned, is it?”

“I wondered if you’d notice.”

“I was blind not to see it before.”

“When you described his reaction to the power failure in your apartment, I wondered. Knowing that his concern for Mrs. Randolph was only problematical, I suspected another, more immediate cause for his panic.”

“He’s afraid of the dark,” Michael said. Linda saw him shiver, and felt the same chill. She would never hear that word again without remembering.

“Yes. Significant, in view of the poetic words of your young friend at the college.” Galen’s voice changed. “Damn you for mentioning it, Michael; I should be immune to that kind of verbal magic, but when I think of what that poor devil sees, when the lights go out…”

“It isn’t only the dark Gordon fears.” For once Linda was immune to that kind of magic. “He’s afraid of flying. He doesn’t drive a car. He quit smoking.”

“No contact sports,” Michael muttered. “Even then…Swimming? Lots of other people around, spectators, competitors, just in case…”

“I believe that Elliott Jacques is correct when he states that this particular anxiety comes to its peak during the crisis of middle life. Randolph is about forty, isn’t he? I’ve seen a number of such cases, since the realization often produces symptoms which require psychotherapeutic treatment-psychosomatic illness, insomnia, claustrophobia, to mention only a few. Randolph’s reactive symptoms are new to me; but they have a dreadful logic of their own. He fears, not only the dark, but the ultimate darkness. He is afraid of dying.”

“And that’s why he turned to Satanism,” Michael muttered. “Those conversations we had about good and evil…He doesn’t believe in God, but he can’t accept the inevitability of death. There’s only one other dispenser of immortality. ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.’”

“Especially if you don’t believe in Heaven,” Galen said. “I hope you’re enjoying your abstract intellectualizing, Michael. You may drown in it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I took a calculated risk with Randolph. We’ve learned some interesting and useful things about him, but we’ve also stirred him up. He left here in a frenzy of rage and fear.”

“You mean-he’ll try something else?”

“Almost immediately, I should say.”

Slowly, the two pairs of eyes turned to focus on Linda.

III

“No,” she said. “No, he wouldn’t dare. He was frightened. “I’ve never seen him so upset.”

“That’s precisely the danger. A man of his temperament doesn’t back down under a challenge. He’ll be all the more eager to strike before, as he thinks, I have time to conjure up all my powers.”

“God damn your arrogant soul,” Michael said softly. “You deliberately, cold-bloodedly, stirred up that rattlesnake, knowing he can-”

“It had to be done.” Galen’s seldom-aroused temper showed in his flushed cheeks. “Oh, hell…I ought to know better. One of the basic rules of this trade is not to meddle with your friends’ problems… Tell him, Linda.”

“Michael, he’s right. How long could we go on, with this hanging over us? Watching each other out of the corners of our eyes, afraid to sleep… Twice I’ve tried to kill someone,” she said, feeling Galen’s silent commendation like a rock at her back. “If I have to go on dreading that, I’d rather be dead. Gordon is off balance, for the first time since I’ve known him. We’ve got to keep him on the defensive.”

“How?” Michael demanded.

“Don’t look at me,” Galen snapped.

“He’s afraid of dying,” Michael said. “Why?”

“Give me five years of analysis and maybe I can tell you,” Galen said. “What the hell do you think I am, a mind reader?”

Linda wrapped both arms around her body, but their limited animal warmth did not touch the chill that froze her mind.

“You both know,” she said, shaping the words with difficulty because her lips were stiff with that inner cold. “You know what we have to do. Force the issue, keep him off balance. We’ll have to follow him.”

“Where?” Michael’s voice sounded as stiff and difficult as hers.

“Back home, of course. Back to the house. Galen’s absolutely right, he’ll be wild with anger, he won’t be able to wait; he’ll try something tonight. And all his-his materials are back there.”

“Doesn’t he have a place here in town?” It was Galen who spoke; Michael was visibly struggling with conflicting emotions.

“A small apartment. He couldn’t keep anything concealed there.”

“Especially a large black dog,” Galen murmured.

Michael, who had arranged a truce in his internal civil war, nodded thoughtfully. Having scaled one barrier, Linda faced the next.

“Doctor. I don’t-I don’t want to say this, but I must, I can’t keep anything back now. Your theory appeals to me a great deal. If Gordon is a conscious villain, that makes me innocent, not only of intent to harm, but of serious mental instability. I’d like-oh, how I’d like!-to believe it. But I don’t.”

Galen nodded. She knew that she had told him nothing he hadn’t suspected, but that he was relieved by her candor. He turned to the other man.

“How about you, Michael?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Galen got to his feet, rather heavily; for the first time Linda was conscious of his real age. “We’ll go after Randolph. I have a few business matters to arrange before we leave, though. You two had better have some food. I ate on the plane.”

Michael shook his head.

“I have some matters to arrange too. Can I borrow your car?”

“What for?”

“Never mind, then. I’ll take a taxi.”

“I’m incurably nosy,” Galen said mildly. “Here, take the keys.”

Michael caught the bright jingle out of the air with one hand. He looked at Linda with an expression that she was to remember, often, in the next hours. Then he turned on his heel and was gone.