Legion by William Peter Blatty Read Free Book Online

off but the priest went on. “We’re a part of the world. If it’s evil, we shouldn’t be thinking that it’s evil. We’d be thinking that the things we call evil are just natural. Fish don’t feel wet in the water. They belong there, Bill. Men don’t.”
    “Yes, I read this in G. K. Chesterton, Father. In fact, that’s how I know your Mister Big in the velterrayn isn’t some kind of a Jekyll and Hyde. But this only compounds the great mystery, Father, the big detective story in the sky that from the psalmists to Kafka has been making people crazy with trying to figure the whole thing out. Never mind. Lieutenant Kinderman is on the case. You know the Gnostics?”
    “I’m a Bullets fan.”
    “You are shameless. The Gnostics thought a ‘Deputy’ created the world.”
    “This is truly insufferable,” said Dyer.
    “I’m just talking.”
    “Next you’ll tell me Saint Peter was a Catholic.”
    “I’m just talking. So then God told this angel I mentioned, this Deputy, ‘Here, kid, here’s two dollars, go create for me the world–it’s my brainstorm, my latest new idea. And the angel went and did it, only not being perfect we have now the current chazerei of which I speak.”
    “Is that your theory?” asked Dyer.
    “No, that wouldn’t get God off the hook.”
    “No kidding. What is your theory?”
    Kinderman’s manner grew furtive. “Never mind. It’s something new. Something startling. Something big.”
    The waitress had come by and slipped their check on the table, “There it is,” said Dyer, eyeing it.
    Kinderman absently stirred his cold coffee and shifted his glance around the room as if watching for some eavesdropping secret agent. He leaned his head forward conspiratorially. “My approach to the world,” he said guardedly, “is as if it were the scene of a crime. You understand? I am putting together the clues. In the meantime, I have several ‘Wanted’ posters. You’d be good enough to hang them on the campus? They’re free. Your vow of poverty hangs heavy on your mind; I’m very sensitive to that. There’s no charge.”
    “You’re not telling me your theory?”
    “I will give you a hint,” said Kinderman. “Clotting.”
    Dyer’s eyebrows knit together. “Clotting?”
    “When you cut yourself, your blood cannot clot without fourteen separate little operations going on inside your body, and in just a certain order; little platelets and these cute little corpuscles, whatever, going here, going there, doing this, doing that, and in just this certain way, or you wind up looking foolish with your blood pouring out on the pastrami.”
    “That’s the hint?”
    “Here’s another: the autonomic system. Also, vines can find water from miles away.”
    “I’m lost.”
    “Stay put, we have picked up your signal.” Kinderman leaned his face closer to Dyer’s. “Things that supposedly have no consciousness are behaving as if they do.”
    “Thank you, Professor Irwin Corey.”
    Kinderman abruptly sat back and glowered. “You are the living proof of my thesis. You saw that horror movie called Alien?”
    “Yes.”
    “Your life story. In the meantime, never mind, I have learned my lesson. Never send Sherpa guides to lead a rock; it will only fall on top of them and give them a headache.’’
    “But that’s all you’re going to tell me about your theory?” protested Dyer. He picked up his coffee cup.
    “That is all. My final word.”
    Suddenly the cup fell out of Dyer’s grasp. His eyes were unfocused. Kinderman grabbed at the cup and righted it, then picked up a napkin and blotted at the spillage before it ran over onto Dyer’s lap.
    “Father Joe, what’s the matter?” asked Kinderman, alarmed. He began to get up, but Dyer waved him down. His manner seemed normal again.
    “It’s okay, it’s okay,” said the priest.
    “Are you sick? What’s the matter?”
    Dyer picked a cigarette out of his pack. He shook his head. “No, it’s nothing.” He lit up and then