Dark on the Other Side (26 page)

“Well, well,” he said, after Michael’s voice had stopped.
“No wonder you look like hell.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“What do you want me to say?” He glanced from one of them
to the other, and smiled faintly. “If it comes to that—what do you want
me to do? Put on my wizard’s robes and exorcise the devil?”

Michael sat down on the bed. He grinned.

“I rather expected you to put in a call for the men in
the white coats, and order rooms for two.”

“I may yet,” Galen said coolly. “You realize—neither of
you is unintelligent—that everything you’ve told me can be explained in
terms of pathological mental conditions?”

Michael glanced apprehensively at Linda and was reassured
by what he saw. The strain, the underlying fear were still there, but
Galen’s comment had not shaken her. She had anticipated it. Perversely,
he was moved to marshal the very arguments he had once demolished
himself.

“Andrea’s death?”

Galen shrugged.

“The phenomenon is sometimes called thanatomania. With
the heart condition you mentioned, the result was virtually a foregone
conclusion. I’ve seen several cases myself where there was no
diagnosable organic weakness. You must have read the newspaper
accounts, a few years ago, of an excellent example of thanatomania. The
woman had been told, by a soothsayer, that she would die on a certain
date. She died. In a modern hospital, under professional care.”

“I read about it,” Michael admitted unwillingly. “What
about the dog, then? I saw it too.”

“Then the dog is a collective hallucination, or a real
dog.”

“Hallucinations don’t bite,” Michael said.

Galen glanced at the dirty bandage on his arm.

“I’ll have a look at that later,” he said calmly. “Aside
from my concern, personal and professional, for your physical health,
I’d like to examine the marks.”

Bemused by fatigue and relief, Michael grappled with that
one for several seconds before he understood enough to get angry.

“Another example of thanatomania?” he said sarcastically.

Galen’s tone of annoyance was indicative; he usually had
better control of himself.

“Good God Almighty, Michael, do I have to synopsize the
professional journals? You’ve read enough of the popular literature to
know that patients have inflicted everything from fake stigmata to
signs of rape on themselves, in order to prove whatever point they feel
they must make. And don’t try to tell me you aren’t deeply enough
involved, emotionally, with Mrs. Randolph, to be suggestible.”

Linda spoke for the first time.

“So involved that he would be forced to concoct a crazy
theory in order to excuse my attempt to kill him.” It was a statement,
not a question. Galen nodded, watching her. She went on calmly, “Yes, I
can understand that kind of reasoning. But I do have one question,
Doctor. Why did you give Michael his father’s letters?”

Galen’s slow, close-lipped smile spread across his face.

“The first sensible question anyone has asked yet,” he
said. “The answer is complex, however. I suggest we adjourn.”

“Where?” Michael asked.

“My house, naturally. I want to have a look at that arm.
And I agree that, for whatever reason, this atmosphere is unhealthy for
both of you. Pack a bag, Michael, while I untie Mrs. Randolph.”

Michael turned to obey, but he was diverted by the
spectacle of Galen, every professional hair in place, calmly untying
the knots that bound Linda to the bed. Glancing up, Galen met his eyes
and smiled affably.

“This is not, by any means, my most unusual experience,”
he said, and turned his attention back to his work.

“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….