The Ninth Configuration by William Peter Blatty Page B

a halfway out: a way to find help without facing his illness; a way to hide, to hide from himself; and a way to wash away the blood: a way to do penance for the killing-by curing.
    “You see, at the start it was just a pretense,” Fell continued. “But somewhere on the way back from Nam it developed into something more; much more. His hatred of the Kane who killed became denial; and in time the denial became so overwhelming that it totally obliterated Kane’s self-identity: he suppressed the Kane who killed and became his better self-completely. Except when he dreamed. In the conscious state he was Kane the psychiatrist; and whatever contradicted that belief he denied and incorporated into his delusionary system.”
    Fell looked down at his cigarette ash; it was long. He cupped a hand beneath it and tapped it off. “Ah, my God, he had it all,” he said. He shook his head. “Fugue states, redeemer complex, the migraines. You all must have seen some of that-the pain. That’s what got him into drugs.”
    Krebs looked down at the floor as though abashed.
    “Krebs knew,” said Fell.
    Krebs nodded, still downcast, as the others turned and looked at him. “Anyway, I talked them into letting him go through with it,” Fell resumed. “It was an experiment. Partly. That was part of it. So they let him go ahead. Kane was inside the problem, looking out-an inmate functioning as a psychiatrist and coming to bear on the problem like nothing we’d ever seen. We hoped he might come up with some new insight. Oddly enough, I think he did. I think the other inmates have been responding to him. But he’s suffered a setback today. A pretty bad one. Really. Bad. You see, his one big hope of a cure for himself is to wipe out his guilt by a saving act; to cure the other men, or at least see improvement. But that takes time-time and your help.”
    Fell gestured toward Groper. “You’ve seen my orders. I’m in command. But I want Colonel Kane to play out the string.” Fell turned to Gilman. “Gilman, I want you to try to convince the other inmates that you were mistaken. That shouldn’t be too difficult to sell around here. Can you do that, please, Gilman? Would you do that?” A note of pleading had crept into Fell’s voice.
    “Oh, well, sure,” said Gilman quickly. “Sure. Absolutely.”
    “Thank you.” Fell turned to the adjutant. “Groper, you and the rest of the staff will back up Gilman. So will I.”
    Groper looked up from the orders, befuddled. “Colonel, let me get this straight,” he said. “You’ve really been in charge here all the time?”
    Fell nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “He’s Vincent Kane. I’m Hudson Kane. I’m the psychiatrist. Vincent is my patient.” Fell’s eyes were flooding and his voice began to crack. “When we were kids I used to always make him laugh. I was a clown. And I’ve been trying to help him … remember me. But he won’t.”
    He could not hold back the tears any longer. He said, “He’s my brother.”
    Kane awakened in his room. He was lying on his bed, fully dressed. He sat up with an awareness of something being wrong. He saw his brother leaning forward in a chair by the bed, an odd expression of concern on his face.
    “How are you feeling?”
    Vincent stared without comprehension. “What? What’s going on?” he asked.
    “What happened?”
    “You fainted. Don’t you remember?”
    Vincent looked disturbed. He shook his head.
    “What do you remember?”
    “Nothing. I was walking to my room and now I’m here.” He looked puzzled.
    “I fainted?”
    Hudson looked at him intently. “You remember the new inmate?”
    “New inmate?”
    “You don’t.”
    “What the hell are you talking about? What’s going on?” He sounded angry.
    Window glass shattered and a rock flew into the room. It hit a wall, fell on a nightstand and bounced to the floor. Enraged and hysterical, Cutshaw called up from the mansion courtyard: “Tell me all about God, you