I must have blushed because Dr. Jackson smiled. “You’ve been dreaming about the General, not Duff,” he said reassuringly. “And now that you have a possible explanation for the visits of the General, I’m sure you won’t have any more such dreams.”

“Or, if you do, get up quickly and take a shower,” said Father Jackson, grinning.

I ignored him. “Could the appearances of the two be so completely different?”

“They might just have seemed very different on a quick glance, and while you were emotionally upset. One face could have been very distorted, for example. And the General may be much stronger than Duff, possessing strength that would be unimaginable in Duff.”

“But he seemed so much heavier. And his hair is darker and sparser. And his beard . . .”

“How about that, Jimmy? Can you lose and grow hair with multiple personality?” Father Jackson asked. “Maybe we should try it.”

I finished my drink and put my glass on the dresser. “It’s time for me to go,” I said. “I’ve told you all I can.”

Dr. Jackson was staring at me. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

“No, no.”

“Then why are you looking at me that way?”

Father Jackson giggled. “Maybe he finds you attractive.”

Dr. Jackson escorted me out to the car. “I’m sorry about Pete. He never could handle his liquor.”

“Do you think you can help Duff?”

“I’ll know better after I talk with him.”

“Supposing it isn’t a case of multiple personality?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But let’s wait and see.”

I hesitated. “Can a psychiatrist believe in the devil?”

He laughed. “We all, in one way or another, believe in the devil. That’s not to say there is a devil, but in the collective unconsciousness there are still demons and dragons and witches flying around. Deep down, some people think, we’re still very primitive, but the normal conscious mind can control all that.” He started to close my door, then held it. “Are you normally left-­handed, Mrs. Caine?”

“No, why? What’s that got to do with Duff?”

“Nothing. Good night.”

I slammed the door and drove off, showering him with gravel as I left the parking lot. Why had he asked a question like that? I kept wondering all the way home. I had given him my right hand, I was sure, when his brother introduced us. Did left-­handed mothers sometimes produce children with mental problems?

Jack was at his literary labors in the front room when I let myself in. Franny was in her room, maybe reading, and prob­ably brooding over the lack of a television set.

“Why don’t we get her one tomorrow,” I said, “as long as we’re going to be here for a few more weeks.”

He looked up briefly. “Wonderful,” he said without expression. “Why don’t you go into Cainesville and get it.”

“Is Duff upstairs?”