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Emily jerked her head around to the
senator, hoping for permission also to take notes, but he frowned
again and shook his head imperceptibly.
    Disappointed, Emily turned
her attention back to the girl. She had no idea what to expect. The
senator had said that Kimberly was a trance medium---that
disembodied voices might speak through a spirit "control" that took
possession of her. Assuming the poltergeist felt like talking,
would he speak through Kimberly directly, Emily mused, or did he
have to speak through a control?
    Probably there's a certain
protocol, she thought wryly.
    Kimberly laid her head
back into the dark green armchair and became quiet. She let her
half-closed eyes fall on Emily's rose crystal and murmured,
"Pretty." Then her eyelids fluttered shut. Mrs. Lividus dimmed the
lights, which put Emily instantly on the alert. Kimberly began to
yawn repeatedly. Soon after, her body fell into a slump. Her
breathing became heavy and even; she seemed to be asleep. Emily had
an impression, nothing more, that a trickle of tears flowed down
the girl's pale cheek.
    The lights dimmed even
more. Emily strained to see. As soon as her eyes adjusted to the
darker room, the lights were turned down yet again, forcing her to
adjust again. It was distracting--and worse, disorienting. She felt
drugged, but she'd taken no refreshment there. She tried to focus
on something, anything--the paisley pattern of the oriental carpet.
But it was no use; the paisley spiraled madly beneath her, a
Persian maelstrom pulling her down, down into its
depths.
    What saved her at last was
a sound she knew well: the scratching of pencils on tablets. Yes,
yes, notes! They were taking notes! Two men--educated men, rational
men -- were taking notes! They were watching a girl take a nap and
calmly recording their observations. She clung to the sound of the
pencils as a drowning sailor would to a floating log, miserably
grateful for its existence.
    And then the pencil
scratching suddenly stopped, as a low moan came from the girl,
followed by a voice -- a shockingly male and angry voice -- that
said, "I'll damn well go where I please
and do what I damn well want!"
    There was a pause, and
then the man's voice again, now melancholy: "Merciful God ... I cannot stand it any more ." And then a cry -- a piercing,
blood-curdling cry that ripped through the hushed and darkened
parlor. Kimberly shuddered and awoke.
    Immediately Mrs. Lividus
turned up the lights and went to her niece. Pressing her cheek to
the dazed and tear-stained face of the girl, she murmured
reassurances. The New Age publisher let out his breath in a rush,
as if he'd been holding it all night. The Harvard professor nodded
quietly to himself and resumed his note-taking. The senator was
leaning forward with furrowed brows and his elbows resting on his
knees, the fingers of his hands tented together, forefingers
pressed against his lips, as he studied Kimberly in the arms of her
aunt.
    And Emily? She saw
everything in incredible detail. She missed none of it, from Aunt
Lois's apparent distress at her niece's pain, to the chip on the
Majolica plate that stood on the mantle behind them. It gave her
mind something to do while her body remained frozen In place on the
horsehair sofa. The temperature in the parlor seemed to have fallen
thirty degrees; she had goose bumps on her arms.
    I don't like
this , she thought. This is sick and unkind, to the girl if nothing else. She's
obviously deeply disturbed.
    Mrs. Lividus had whipped
out an enormous hanky and was handing it to the girl to blow her
nose. She placed her substantial bulk between her niece and the
audience, and that broke the spell for Emily. She turned her
attention back to the senator, who seemed still entranced, and
wondered: Why does he bother with this
stuff? He's not old; he's not suffering from terminal disease. He
doesn't lead a dull and hopeless life. He
continued to amaze her. Here was a man with looks, brains, charm,
money and power, who