Fischer settled on the mattress edge. "I'm sorry you're in pain."

"It will pa.s.s."

He nodded, unconvinced, then looked at her in silence, until Florence smiled. "Yes?" she asked.

He braced himself for her reaction. "I agree with Doctor Barrett. I think you should leave."

"Ben."

"You're being torn to pieces, Florence. Can't you see that?"

"You don't think I'm doing these things to myself myself, do you?"

"No, I don't," he answered. "But I don't know who is doing them, either. You say it's Daniel Belasco. What if you're wrong? What if you're being fooled?"

"Fooled?"

"There was a woman medium here with us in 1940. Grace Lauter. She became convinced that a pair of sisters haunted the house. She built a very convincing case for it. The only trouble was, she was wrong. She cut her throat the third day we were here."

"But Daniel Belasco does exist. We found his body, found his ring with his initials on it."

"We also put him to rest. Why isn't he at rest, then? Why isn't he at rest, then?"

Florence shook her head. "I don't know." Her voice was faltering. "I just don't know."

"I'm sorry." He patted her hand. "I'm not trying to pick at you. I'm just concerned, that's all."

"Thank you, Ben." After several moments she smiled at him. "Benjamin Franklin Fischer," she said. "Whoever gave you such a name?"

"My father. He was nuts for Benjamin Franklin."

"Tell me about him."

"There's nothing to tell. He left my mother when I was two. I don't blame him. She must have driven him mad."

Florence's smile faded.

"She was a fanatic," Fischer said. "When I started showing signs of mediumship at nine, she devoted her existence to it." His smile was humorless. "My existence, too."

"Do you regret it?"

"I regret it."

"Truly, Ben?" She looked at him with deep concern.

Fischer smiled abruptly. "You said you were going to tell me about Hollywood when we settled down." His smile went awry. "Not that things have settled down much."

"It's a long story, Ben."

"We have time."

She gazed at him in silence. "All right," she finally said. "I'll tell you briefly."

Fischer waited, looking at her.

"Perhaps you read about it," Florence said. "The gossip columns made a lot of it at the time. Confidential Confidential even did a story on the Spiritualist meetings I held in my home. They made it sound like something else, of course. even did a story on the Spiritualist meetings I held in my home. They made it sound like something else, of course.

"It wasn't, Ben. It was exactly what I claimed. As for the stories about me never marrying because I wanted to 'play the field,' as they called it, they weren't true either. I never married because I never met a man I wanted to marry."

"How did you become an actress?"

"I loved to act. When I was a child, I put on little shows for my parents and relatives. Later on, I joined the high-school drama club, a local theater group, majored in dramatics at college. The progression was remarkably smooth; it happens that way sometimes. A G.o.d-given appearance, a combination of fortunate events." She smiled a little ruefully. "I was never a great success at it. I didn't apply myself enough. But there was never anything questionable, either. No dark past, no scars covering childhood wounds. I had a wonderful childhood. My parents loved me, and I loved them. They were Spiritualists; I became a Spiritualist."

"Were you an only child?"

"I had a brother. David. He died when he was seventeen-spinal meningitis." She looked into the past. "It was the only real sorrow of my life."

She smiled again. "It was the 'waning' of my career, they said, that made me 'flee' from Hollywood, 'turning to religion' for comfort. They always neglected to mention that I'd been a Spiritualist all my life. Actually, I blessed my fading career. It gave me the opportunity to do what I always knew I should do-devote myself exclusively to mediumship.

"I didn't fear Hollywood-or flee from it. There's nothing fearful about it. It's a location and an enterprise, nothing more. What those involved in it make of their lives is their own choice. The so-called 'corrupting' influences are no greater than similar influences that exist in any line of work. It isn't the business that matters, but the corruptibility of those who enter it.

"Not that I was unaware of the moral vacuum which usually surrounded me. On crowded sets, at parties, I was often overwhelmed by the atmosphere of unwholesome tension in the air." She smiled, remembering. "One night, when I went to bed, I said the Lord's Prayer as I always do. Suddenly I realized that what I'd said was 'Our Father which art in heaven, Hollywood be thy name.'" She shook her head in amus.e.m.e.nt. "I left within the month and came East to stay."

Fischer began to speak, then broke off as somewhere, faintly, in the distance, the cat yowled. End of pleasant interlude End of pleasant interlude, he thought. Florence looked pained. "The wretched thing." She started to rise.

Fischer pressed her back against the pillows. "I'll look."

"But-"

"Rest." he told her, standing.

"Before you go, would you get my purse?"

Fischer walked across the room and got it for her. Florence opened it and removed a medallion, holding it out to him. Fischer took it. There was a single word engraved on it: BELIEVE.

"It's all within you if you do," she said.

He started to hand it back to her. "No, keep it," she said. "From me to you, with love."

Fischer forced a smile. "Thank you." He slipped the medallion into his pocket. "I'm really all right, though. Worry about yourself, not me."

"Will you sit with me after I rest?" she asked. "I've got to contact Daniel Belasco, and trance is the quickest way. But I don't want to sit alone."

"You won't consider leaving, then?"

"I can't, Ben, you know that." She paused. "Will you sit with me?"

Fischer looked at her uneasily. Finally he nodded. "Right."

He left the room without another word.

12/23 12:16 P.M.

The cool water rippling against his face felt good. The skin of his burned calf had contracted, making it painful to kick, but he didn't want to stop. Every time he lifted his right hand from the water, the pain in his thumb intensified. I need this, though, he thought. He hadn't been swimming for almost a week.

He reached the shallow end of the pool and stopped, holding on to the coping with his left hand. Edith was sitting on a wooden bench near the steam-room door. "Don't overdo," she said.

"I won't. I'll just do two more laps."

Twisting around, Barrett began to swim again. He closed his eyes and listened to the splashing sounds his arms and feet made.

He wondered how badly the atmosphere of the house was affecting Edith. When he'd waked up, he'd tried to rise without disturbing her, but the moment he'd stirred, her eyes had opened. There'd been a smell of brandy on her breath, and when he'd gotten up he'd seen a decanter of it on the table, a small silver cup beside it. She'd told him that she'd found them in the cabinet and taken one cupful to relax. He'd put the decanter back in the cabinet, telling her she'd taken a serious risk drinking anything in this house. She'd promised not to touch any more.

Barrett's hand touched the far end of the pool and, turning, he started swimming back. We should be out of here by tomorrow night, he thought. If he could get the Reversor functioning without delay, he was certain they could leave by then. He smiled to himself, wondering if Edith had any concept at all how the Reversor was going to change the atmosphere of the house.

He reached the shallow end and stood up, hissing at the coldness of the air on his body. Edith helped him up the steps and wrapped a towel around his shoulders. "Can you stand a few minutes in the steam room?" he asked.

She nodded, handing him his cane.

"I think it would do me good."

"Yes. Go in." She pulled open the heavy door.

"You'd better remove your outer clothes," he told her.

"All right."

Barrett tossed the towel onto the wooden bench and limped inside the steam room as Edith let the door thud shut. He groaned in pleasure at the feeling of the wet heat on his body. Breathing through his teeth, he felt around until he found a bench. The top of it was burning hot. He eased around the room, feeling with his cane, until it touched the hose. Moving his left hand along its length until he reached the wall, he turned the spigot once. Cold water gushed from the end of the hose. Barrett washed it over the bench top and sat down, putting aside his cane. Reaching down, he worked the bathing suit across his hips. It slithered down his legs, and he shook it off.

He looked toward the door. Edith was taking rather a long time. He frowned. He didn't want to stand again. Still, he mustn't leave her alone for more than seconds.

He was on the verge of getting to his feet when the door opened and he saw the outline of her figure. He was surprised to see that she had taken all her clothes off. As the door jarred shut, he said, "Over here." He'd have to remember to put in a brighter bulb. The one overhead was either deficient in wattage or covered with grime; probably both.

Edith moved cautiously across the steam-obscured room. She made a faint sound as she walked through the gush of cold water. Barrett pulled the hose until the end was in his hand, then washed off the bench beside himself, wincing as some of the water sprayed against his leg. He tossed down the hose, and Edith sat beside him. Barrett heard her drawing in erratic breaths, trying not to let the hot air down her throat. "All right?" he asked.

She coughed. "I never could get used to breathing in steam rooms."

"Try putting water on your face and taking a breath as you do."

"I'm all right."

Barrett closed his eyes and felt the damp heat seeping into his flesh. He twitched as Edith's hand settled on his leg. He covered it with his. After several moments she leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I love you," she said.

Barrett put his arm across her shoulders. "I love you, too," he said. She kissed him on the cheek again, then on the corner of his lips. He felt a stirring in his body as she pressed her lips to his, moving her head as she kissed him. Barrett opened his eyes as one of her hands ran down his stomach. Edith? he thought.

After several moments she swung around and straddled him, her lips never leaving his. He felt her hot, slick stomach thrust against his. Reaching down, she took hold of his s.e.x and began to rub it against herself. Barrett's breath began to labor. The hot air seared his throat and chest. He made a startled sound as she dug her teeth into his lower lip. He could smell the brandy on her breath.

Her lips ran across his cheek, her tongue trailing over the skin. "Make it hard," she whispered in his ear. Her voice was almost fierce. Barrett caught his breath as she grabbed his injured hand and pulled it up against her breast. He jerked it back as fiery pain ran up his wrist. "Don't!" she ordered, clutching it again.

"My thumb!" he cried. The pain was so severe, his vision started blurring. He could hardly breathe, his lungs struggling with the scalding air. Edith didn't seem to hear. She clutched at his organ, groaning so loudly it made Barrett's heartbeat leap. "For Christ's sake, make it hard!" she cried. She jammed her lips on his again.

Barrett couldn't breathe. Gagging, he jerked his head back, slamming it against the tile wall. He cried out in new pain, his face contorted. Edith fell against him, sobbing. Barrett tried to catch his breath. "Edith," he gasped.

She wrenched to her feet and turned away. "Don't," he muttered, reaching for her dazedly. He felt a rush of cold air as she opened the door, saw her outline vaguely. Then the door thumped shut again.

Wincing, he bent over, feeling for the hose. He rubbed cold water on his face, drawing in a breath through clenched teeth. My G.o.d, what's come over her? he thought. He knew that the curtailment of their s.e.x life must have had a damaging effect on her, but she'd never shown desire like this. The house must must be affecting her. Standing groggily with his cane, he inched his way across the steam-filled room, grimacing at the increase of heat on his face. The ceiling bulb had all but disappeared from view now, no more than a spot of pale light overhead. Barrett reached the door and felt for the handle. Finding it, he closed his fingers over it and pushed. The door held fast. He pushed it harder. The door wouldn't move. His features tightened. Clutching the handle as hard as he could, he pushed again. be affecting her. Standing groggily with his cane, he inched his way across the steam-filled room, grimacing at the increase of heat on his face. The ceiling bulb had all but disappeared from view now, no more than a spot of pale light overhead. Barrett reached the door and felt for the handle. Finding it, he closed his fingers over it and pushed. The door held fast. He pushed it harder. The door wouldn't move. His features tightened. Clutching the handle as hard as he could, he pushed again.

The door refused to budge.

A flicker of uneasiness oppressed him. Barrett willed it off. "Edith?" he called. He hit the door with the palm of his left hand. "Edith, the door is stuck!"

There was no reply. My G.o.d, she didn't go upstairs My G.o.d, she didn't go upstairs, he thought with sudden dread. He pushed at the handle again. The door was wedged in its frame. The heat and dampness, he told himself; the door had warped, expanded. "Edith!" he called. He pounded on the door with his fist.

"What is is it?" he heard her answer faintly. it?" he heard her answer faintly.

"The door is stuck! Try to open it from your side!"

He waited. There was a thump on the door, and he felt it stir. He grabbed the handle again and pulled with all his strength as she thrust her weight against the door on the other side.

The door held.

"What are we going to do?" he heard her ask. She sounded frightened.

Could she possibly use the bench to batter open the door? No, it was too heavy. Barrett scowled. The heat seemed to be getting worse. He'd better turn it off.

"Lionel?"

"I'm all right!" He lowered himself gingerly to his left knee to get below the worst of the heat. He made a worried sound. Well, there was no other way. He couldn't stay in here. "You'd better get Fischer!" he called.

"What?" He couldn't tell if she hadn't heard or was appalled by what he'd said.

"You 'd-better-get-Fischer!"

Silence. Barrett knew the thought of going alone through the house was terrifying to her. "It's the only way!" he shouted.

Edith didn't answer for a long time. Then he heard her call. "All right! I'll be right back!"

Barrett remained motionless for a while. He hoped to G.o.d she didn't run into anything. In her mental state, it could be catastrophic. He scowled. I can't just stay like this, he thought. I'd better turn off that steam.

He looked abruptly to his right; he thought he'd heard a sound. There was nothing but swirling steam. He stared at it with slitted eyes. It was thick and white and coiling, and made shapes. A person with an uncontrolled imagination might see all sorts of things in it.

Barrett hissed. "Ridiculous." He stood and edged his way across the floor until his shins b.u.mped against the edge of the wooden bench. Kneeling again, he reached beneath the bench for the tap wheel. He couldn't find it and began to crawl along the bench, feeling for it.

He froze. He was certain that he'd heard something this time, a kind of-slithering noise? Barrett shivered despite the heat. "Ridiculous," he muttered. He continued crawling. No wonder this house had claimed so many victims. Its atmosphere was incredibly conducive to delusions. The sound he'd heard was probably coming from the tap wheel he was searching for-an escape of steam, probably too much pressure. It was getting awfully hot in here. noise? Barrett shivered despite the heat. "Ridiculous," he muttered. He continued crawling. No wonder this house had claimed so many victims. Its atmosphere was incredibly conducive to delusions. The sound he'd heard was probably coming from the tap wheel he was searching for-an escape of steam, probably too much pressure. It was getting awfully hot in here.

His hand came in contact with the tap wheel, and he felt a burst of relief. He tried to turn the wheel, but it stuck. He fought off premonition, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg as he wrapped both hands around the wheel. "Stuck," he said aloud, as though to convince somebody in the room that the problem was a normal one. He strained the muscles of his arms and back, trying to revolve the wheel.