The Right Hand of Evil

CHAPTER 8

The silence that fell over the old house that night was far deeper than any of its occupants had ever experienced before, and except for Molly-who fell asleep almost the moment Janet laid her in her crib-each of them lay awake for a long time. They listened to the silence.

No insects chirped.

No animals rustled in the darkness outside.

Even the ancient frame of the house itself uttered no sound to disturb the quiet.

Yet each of them heard echoes of voices in the silence; each of them found eyes watching them from the darkness.

For Janet, it was the eyes of Jake Cumberland, reaching out to her from the deep shadows of the magnolia tree outside the cemetery. They held her in thrall. And the voice was Alma Morgan's, telling her that Cora Conway had been perfectly sane. But Corinne Beckwith's voice, too, echoed softly in the night, whispering of a baby who would have been her husband's cousin-if it had lived.

If it had ever existed at all.

Her eyes open, Janet scanned the darkness, as if somehow the truth of what might have happened in this house forty years ago might be hidden in the black folds of the night.

But the darkness, like the silence, kept its secrets.

As the night crept on, and sleep continued to elude her, Janet felt an urge to reach out to Ted, to slip her hand into his if for no other reason that to feel the comfort of knowing she wasn't alone in the silence and the darkness. But it had been so long since she'd welcomed his touch that she could no longer bring herself to reach out to him. When sleep finally embraced her, she lay with her back to her husband.

For Ted, it was the darkly penetrating eyes of Father MacNeill that glowered at him out of the darkness, the priest's voice that echoed in the silence. "A hotel?… I hope you're prepared for a fight on that one!" But far more than the threatening words, it was the look he'd seen in the cleric's eyes that kept Ted awake in the silence and darkness of the night. The look flared up the moment Ted told him he wouldn't be coming to his church, wouldn't be listening to him preach every Sunday morning, and though the priest only let him see it for a few seconds, it was a look Ted had seen before.

It was the same look he'd seen in Frank Gilman's eyes the day he'd lost his job.

The same look he'd seen in Tony's eyes just before he'd walked out of the bar to go to Gilman's office.

The same look he'd seen in the eyes of so many people.

All the men who'd ever fired him.

All the others who'd refused to hire him.

All the bartenders who'd poured him drinks.

All the men who once had been his friends.

He'd seen it in the eyes of his father.

He'd even seen it in the eyes of his son.

It was a look he'd learned to recognize long ago, when he was still a boy. A look that told him he did not belong, that there was something everyone else knew, something everyone else shared, that they would never share with him.

For a while, in the first years of his marriage, he hadn't noticed it in Janet's eyes. She'd hidden it well at first, but as the years went on he'd started catching glimpses of it. She tried to hide it, but he'd seen it clearly enough.

A look of superiority.

No understanding, nor pity, nor even sympathy.

Only superiority. And something else.

It rose up out of the darkness, and though he'd never let himself recognize it before, in the silence of the night he finally knew exactly what it was he'd seen so clearly in the priest's eyes that afternoon.

And not just the priest's eyes, but everyone else's as well.

Contempt.

Their eyes had always said it all:

You don't belong here.

You're not part of us.

We don't want you here.

It had been that way all his life, for as long as he could remember. From the time his mother left him when he was only a baby, until his father died while he was still in school.

Through all the places he'd never fit in, all the jobs where they'd found reasons to fire him.

Never, ever, had he felt like he belonged.

But here-in this house-he did belong. This house had been his uncle's house, and his grandfather's house, and his great-grandfather's house. And now it was his house.

And he belonged!

A burning fury at the injustices he'd suffered began to glow inside Ted Conway. As he lay in the quiet of the house-his house-he swore he would never let it happen again.

This time, he would show them all.

He would restore this old wreck-make it more beautiful than it was when it was built. And he would have his hotel.

He would have it, no matter who tried to stop him, and it would succeed. It would succeed so well that no one-not the priest, not his wife, not his son, not anyone-would ever dare hold him in contempt again.

Reaching out in the darkness, he slid open the drawer of the nightstand. His fingers closed on the pint of bourbon he'd hidden away that afternoon.

Now, in the silence and darkness of the night, he opened it and held the bottle to his lips.

I'll show them, he swore to himself once more as the warmth of the fiery liquid fueled the rage inside him. I'll show them all!

It was Luke Roberts's eyes that kept Kim awake that night, for every time she closed her eyes, she saw them again. Saw the terror, and the accusation.

And heard his words in the silence that the darkness had brought: "If there wasn't a baby, how come you can hear it cry at night? And how come it cries if its ma didn't kill it?"

Could any of it be true? Of course not! He'd just been trying to scare her. But still she found herself listening, straining to hear…

What?

She didn't know.

As the night stretched on and the silence grew heavier, she strained to listen for the sounds that had always lulled her to sleep at night: crickets chirping, frogs calling for their mates.

Even the whine of mosquitoes or the bark of the dog next door-the barking that Scout had instantly echoed, waking everyone in the house-would have been welcome this night.

So would the droning of traffic in the street, or the eerie hoot of an owl hunting in the night.

But to hear nothing at all…

She tossed and turned restlessly until Muffin, curled on the pillow beside her, angrily swiped her, then moved to the foot of the bed. And finally, blessedly, she fell into sleep.

And heard it.

It was a scream such as she'd never heard before; an unearthly wail that tore the mantle of sleep from her with enough force to jerk her upright in bed.

Her heart was pounding and her skin was clammy with a cold sheen of sweat.

But the night was still so silent that she knew at once the scream she'd heard existed only in her mind.

She lay back down, curled tightly on her side.

And saw it.

A creature, blacker even than the night, crouched on the far side of her room, as if about to lunge for her.

She froze, too afraid even to breathe, and then, out of the silence, she heard the words whispered to her by her dying aunt: "It will protect you… Don't ever take it off."

Her fingers closed around the cross, and she felt her terror begin to ebb.

A shadow, she thought. It's only a shadow!

Propping herself on her side, she saw that the moon was just beginning to rise, its silvery glow barely seeping through the windows, whose years of accumulated grime had yet to be washed away.

And on the windowsill stood Muffin, her back arched, her tail sticking straight up.

As Kim watched, the cat paced the length of the windowsill.

"Muffin," Kim called out quietly. "Come on, Muffin. Come back to bed."

The cat hissed in the darkness, then turned and stalked back the other way.

"What is it?" Kim asked, getting out of bed and going to the cat. "What's wrong? What's out there?" Kim pressed close to the window, straining to see through the heavy smudges that coated them, at the same time reaching out to soothe Muffin with a gentle stroke.

The cat hissed, and took another swipe at her. This time, its claws left three stinging welts on the back of her hand. Then, as if to make its desires crystal clear, the cat struck hard at the windowpane.

"Now?" Kim whispered. "Why do you have to go out now?" She reached out as if to stroke the cat again, but when Muffin hissed a warning, she quickly snatched her hand back. "All right," she said as she fumbled with the window latch, struggling to work it loose. "If it's that important-" The latch came free, and she jerked the window open.

In an instant the cat was gone.

Kim pulled the window wide and peered out into the night, searching for some sign of her pet. "Muffin?" she called. "Muffin, come back!"

But the silence of the night swallowed her words as thoroughly as if she'd never spoken them.

And then, just as she had when she'd awakened a few minutes earlier, she froze, her heart beating with cold terror.

Nothing had changed-nothing she could see or hear, at least.

The night was still silent, and even the light of the moon could barely penetrate the darkness.

But there was something out there.

Kim could feel it.

Something-or someone-was out there.

Out there, watching her.