The Right Hand of Evil

CHAPTER 11

Ted sat in the comforting darkness of the bar, staring at the drink in front of him. Straight vodka, with just a twist of lime for flavor. In the back of his mind a tiny voice whispered to him to leave the drink where it was, and go home.

Shut up, he silently whispered back. It's just one drink, and I deserve it. Anybody would!

He lifted the glass and stared at the clear liquid for a long moment, as if daring the voice in the back of his mind to challenge him again.

It remained silent, and Ted raised the glass to his lips, drained it, then lowered it to the bar and nudged it toward the bartender, who immediately responded to the unspoken request. As the bartender-another Tony, for Christ's sake-refilled his glass, Ted studied himself in the mirror behind the bar. What the hell had everyone been staring at all day? There wasn't anything wrong with the way he looked-in fact, he looked a hell of a lot better than most of the jerks who'd been staring at him. But it wasn't just the way they looked at him that pissed him off. It was the way they acted, too.

It started that morning, right after he'd left the house. He'd been on his way to the Home Depot to pick up some wood stripper and a sander and the other supplies he needed to restore the dining room floor, but as he was going around the square in the middle of town, he passed a small brick building whose columned entry and small dome had immediately identified it as the St. Albans Town Hall. And with that identification had come the echo of the words he'd heard at his aunt's funeral.

"…there will be a lot of opposition to giving you a variance."

"I hope you're prepared for a fight on that one.…"

If there's going to be a problem, I might as well know about it right now, Ted told himself. He slid the Toyota into an open slot half a block past the brick building. As he walked back, he nodded to the two people he passed. One was a woman about his own age who was clutching the hand of a little boy who was perhaps a year older than Molly. The other was a man of about sixty, clad in overalls, with a fringe of gray hair sticking out from beneath a stained baseball cap.

Neither the man nor the woman replied to his greeting, though he was certain they'd both heard him. And he'd also had the distinct impression that they knew who he was.

The funeral, he told himself. They saw us at the funeral, and they've heard all the stories about Uncle George and Aunt Cora. Well, there were bound to be small people with small minds in small towns. But there would be just as many other people who wouldn't hold his family against him.

Entering the Town Hall-which at first glance appeared completely deserted-he looked around for a building directory and saw a sign on a door identifying it as the office of the Town Clerk. Inside, there was a long counter, behind which were two desks, one occupied by a young woman with short blond hair and a look of efficiency about her, the other by a man who looked to Ted as if he should have retired a dozen years earlier. A small plaque on his desk identified him as Jefferson Davis Houlihan.

The words TOWN CLERK followed his name, in letters just as large as the name itself.

"May I help you?" the efficient-looking blonde asked, offering Ted a polite if not quite warm smile. The plaque on her desk-much smaller than Houlihan's-informed him that her name was Amber Millard.

"I'd like to check the zoning on a piece of property," Ted replied. Was it his imagination, or did Amber Millard and her boss exchange a quick look? When he gave her the address of the house and saw the smile on her face turn brittle, he knew it hadn't been his imagination.

"That would be residential," she told him so quickly that Ted was certain she'd already looked it up. Her next words confirmed it: "Here's a copy of it. Someone else was just asking about the same property." Getting up from her desk, she came to the counter and handed Ted a single sheet of paper.

He scanned it carefully, though he was already certain of what it said. "Would you mind telling me who was asking about my house?"

This time, Amber Millard deferred to her boss.

"Well, now, that would be a breach of confidentiality, now wouldn't it?" Jefferson Davis Houlihan drawled.

Ted's first impulse was to ask Houlihan how many lawyer shows he'd been watching on television lately, but he checked the impulse; it would only anger the man. Studying the document in his hands again, he returned his attention to Amber Millard. "I'm going to need an application for a variance."

This time Houlihan didn't wait for his assistant to defer to him. "Not sure we have any. Haven't had any call for one in maybe twenty years."

Ted felt his temper rise. "Would you mind looking?" he asked, making no attempt to soften the edge in his voice.

"Don't mind looking," Houlihan drawled, lazily getting to his feet. "Just not sure where to start." His eyes fixed on Ted. "Maybe if you came back in a week or two…" he suggested, letting his voice trail off in an unmistakably deliberate way.

As he was leaving Town Hall a few minutes later, the first urge for a drink came over Ted, an urge that only grew stronger as the day went on. Everywhere he went, it was the same as at the Town Clerk's office.

No one was rude to him.

No one turned away as he approached.

Most people even smiled at him.

At first he tried to pretend it was just the way small towns worked: everybody here had known everybody else all their lives, and nobody knew him. It would take a while, but once they got to know him, they'd accept him. Especially once he got the inn open and his guests started spending money in the restaurants and shops strung neatly along the south side of the square. It's money that talks, he reminded himself, and mine's as good as anyone else's.

Nobody refused to sell him anything.

By lunchtime, when he'd hauled the first load of supplies back to the house, he'd already spent close to five hundred dollars, and in the afternoon-after Janet told him about Corinne Beckwith's visit-he made sure he spent a lot more.

He ordered paint and wallpaper, new slate for the roof, and new fixtures for every bathroom in the house. He spent an hour at the one furniture store in St. Albans, searching through catalog after catalog, finally putting half a dozen of the best-and most expensive-into the car to take home to Janet.

He talked to the plumbers and electricians and roofers, and anyone else he could think of who might be able to help him on the restoration. "I'm not worried about money," he assured every one of them-and made certain they all had Bruce Wilcox's phone number so the lawyer could confirm that the money was, indeed, there. "I'm interested in getting the job done right."

All of them listened politely.

All of them sold him whatever he wanted.

But all of them-the plumbers, the electricians, the roofers, and everyone else-told him the same thing: "I don't know. It's pretty busy right now. Don't see how I can fit you in. And that house is in pretty bad shape. Be better just to tear it down."

By the end of the afternoon, Ted was sick of hearing it. His last stop was at the market, where he picked up everything on the list Janet had given him. Then, he decided to make another stop to add a few things of his own.

Some bourbon. Some gin. A lot of vodka.

He'd had a rough day. He deserved a drink.

The girl at the cash register passed the bottles across the scanner without saying anything, but he'd seen the look in her eye, and had no trouble reading its meaning: Go away. We don't want you here.

Now, sitting in the bar, he met his own gaze in the mirror. To hell with you, he said silently. To hell with all of you. I'm here, and I'm not leaving. Draining the second drink in a single gulp, Ted dropped enough money on the bar to cover the bill and a tip and walked out.

After he was gone, the bartender scooped up the money, dropped part of it in the cash register and the rest of it in his tip jar, then picked up the phone.

"He was here," he said. "And he's drinking."

There was a short silence, and then the recipient of the call spoke. "That's good," Father MacNeill said softly. "Maybe he'll drink himself to death."

Evening lay like a shroud over the house. Janet tried to tell herself that her dark mood was just a result of the weather-the heat and humidity, unseasonable even for mid-September, that wrapped St. Albans like a sodden blanket. The iron determination that Corinne Beckwith's visit instilled in her that morning had begun to erode as soon as Kim and Jared came home from school. Jared tried to put a good face on it, but Kim made no effort to hide her feelings. Her unhappiness, Janet was certain, was heightened by the fact that there hadn't been any sign of Muffin all day.

"Something's happened to her," Kim said as she finally gave up trying to call the missing cat. "She wouldn't just run away."

"Cats can be pretty independent," Janet told her, trying to offer Kim hope for her pet, but at the same time wanting to prepare her for the possibility that the cat might never come back. "Maybe she just didn't like it here, and has found somewhere else to live."

"But she wouldn't do that," Kim protested. "Not Muffin!"

"Well, perhaps she'll come back," Janet told her, and changed the subject. "How was the first day at school?" she asked, and immediately wished she hadn't.

Kim moaned. "It was awful," she said. Opening the refrigerator, she rummaged around for a couple of Cokes, one of which she tossed to her brother. For the next twenty minutes Janet listened to her oldest daughter's account of the twins' humiliation in the first ten minutes they'd been in class at St. Ignatius. "And it wasn't even Jared's fault," she finished. "Sister Clarence never even asked if he wrote the note, and of course he wouldn't tell her he didn't."

"Look how she treated us," Jared said. "And it was our first day in school. If I'd told her Luke Roberts wrote the note, she'd have probably had him expelled, or made him stay after school and say two thousand Hail Marys or something."

Kim rolled her eyes, wondering once again how it was that Jared never seemed to get mad about anything-even someone else getting him in trouble-and always managed to make it sound like he hadn't done anything special. He didn't even seem to be angry at Sister Clarence. "Will you at least admit Sister Clarence is a total creep?"

"Kim!" Janet did her best to glare at her daughter, but as she'd listened to Kim recounting their day at school, a dark suspicion had been growing in her mind that there was more to it than Kim knew.

Father MacNeill.

But surely he wouldn't go so far as to turn a teacher against her own students? Or would he? For the rest of the afternoon the problem gnawed at her, nibbling away at the resolve that had come to her only a few hours earlier.

Then Ted came home, and even before they saw him, they knew what he'd been doing. It was nothing visible; nothing they could hear or smell, taste or touch. But all of them had been living with it for so long that they recognized it the instant he entered the house.

It was the aura of alcohol.

Janet, testing the roast she'd fixed for dinner, caught the look that passed between Kim and Jared. Though neither said a word, she could read their common thought as clearly as if they'd spoken: He's drunk!

Molly began to cry, as if she, too, had picked up the thought-or perhaps detected her father's condition with some internal radar of her own.

Then he came into the kitchen, confirming their unspoken thoughts.

His step was a little too careful, his speech a little too precise.

"Why are you all looking at me that way?" he asked, and the tension in the house notched up as they heard the paranoia in his voice. Neither Kim nor Jared replied, and did their best to neither look at their father nor appear to be trying not to look at him.

Molly's wail rose to a scream.

"Does that child have to howl every time I come into the room?" Ted demanded.

As Janet scooped Molly up from the floor and tried to comfort her, she had to repress the angry words that threatened to spill from her lips: She only does it when you've been drinking! "Dinner will be on in a few more minutes," she made herself say instead.

"Then Jared can unload the car," Ted said, his eyes fixing on his son. "If it's not too much to ask." The last words were spoken with biting sarcasm, warning Janet that an explosion wasn't far away.

"Not a problem," Jared said, already on his feet. Kim, grabbing at the opportunity to escape the ugliness in the kitchen, quickly followed her brother.

"What's wrong with her?" Ted asked. "Do I look like I have some kind of disease or something?"

Once again Janet forced herself to hold her tongue, but when Jared carried inside a large box filled with bottles of liquor, she turned furiously on Ted.

"You said you were going to stop drinking." She struggled to keep her voice under control, and wished she'd found the strength to hold her anger in check until later, when she and Ted would be alone. But it was too late. Ted was already glowering at her.

"Just because it's here doesn't mean I'm going to drink it."

This time Janet did stifle the words that came to mind. But it didn't matter. She'd already set Ted off.

"You all make me sick," he rasped. "Can you blame me for having a drink every now and then, the way you all act?" He picked up the box of bottles, nearly lost his balance, then managed to recover himself. "You want dinner, go ahead and eat it. I'll take care of myself." He disappeared through a doorway that led to a butler's pantry and the big dining room beyond. Jared made a move to follow, but Janet stopped him.

"Don't. Just leave him alone. Maybe at least the rest of us can enjoy our dinner."

But of course they couldn't. The pall over the house grew heavier, and though Janet kept telling herself it was just the dank heat of the evening, all of them knew its real cause.

Somewhere in the house, Ted was drinking.

When dinner was finished and the dishes cleared and washed, Kim and Jared retreated to the second floor, pleading homework to be done and a few more boxes still to be unpacked. But when Jared lifted Molly into his arms-"Come on, small fry, if we have to work, so do you!"-Janet got the message loud and clear.

We don't want to deal with him.

After they left, Janet lingered in the kitchen. At first she told herself she simply wanted to be alone, wanted to put off dealing with her husband for as long as possible. But it was more than that.

Once again she was hearing her mother's voice, and this time it was saying something it had never said before: Leave him. Take the children, and leave him. He's a liar, he's a drunk, and whatever his problems are have nothing to do with you. Don't let him destroy you. Don't let him destroy the children. Get out now, before it's too late.

The words, so clear it was as if her mother were sitting at the kitchen table, shook Janet. Not because they were unfamiliar words.

She'd said them to herself a hundred times.

But always before, there had been qualifications.

And always before, fear had followed immediately on the heels of the thought. Fear of trying to raise the children alone. Fear of trying to put a roof over their heads, and food on the table, and clothes on their backs. But this evening, in the heavy heat of the Louisiana night, all the fears had fallen away.

Now she was far more afraid of staying. She stepped to the back door and looked out. The sky was a leaden black-a thick cloud blotted out whatever light the stars might have provided-and in the inky darkness she saw all the forces that suddenly seemed to be arrayed against her.

The priest, whose words of warning at the funeral seemed far more menacing in the dark of night than they had in the bright light of morning.

Jake Cumberland, who had stood glowering from the sidewalk as they buried Cora Conway.

All the people whom Ted had told her about over lunch, people who-for whatever reason-didn't want them here, and made no effort to hide their feelings.

Sister Clarence, who had chosen to humiliate her children on their very first day at St. Ignatius.

And what was keeping them here?

A free house, and an income that would allow Ted to drink all he wanted.

Why had she let herself believe that he'd really intended to stop drinking? Stupid! That's what she was-just plain stupid, like all the women she'd seen on those television talk shows who stayed with men who beat them, and cheated on them, and humiliated them every chance they got. So how was she any different from them?

Just because Ted didn't beat her, or cheat on her?

So what?

He lied to her-had lied to her hundreds of times over the years! Why had she believed him this time?

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Well, ho more!

Stepping back into the kitchen, she closed the door, shutting out the darkness. As she started through the lower floor of the house, her mood began to lighten. A flood of relief told her she'd made the right decision far more strongly than the purely intellectual knowledge that she had no other choice.

If she and the children stayed here, something terrible would happen.

To all of them.

She found Ted slouched on the single tired sofa they'd brought with them from Shreveport and installed in the small den behind the living room. He was clutching a glass, and on the floor next to the sofa was a fifth of vodka, half drunk.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she told him. "I'll take the kids and Scout-and Muffin, if she's back-and the car."

Ted lurched to his feet and took a step toward her, lost his balance and grabbed at the mantel over the small fireplace to steady himself. "You're not going anywhere," he growled, this time making no attempt to conceal the slur in his speech.

Janet refused to be drawn into a fight. The decision she'd finally made was giving her a serenity she hadn't felt in years. "It's over, Ted," she said, her voice so quiet it riveted her husband's attention. "All the years of lies, all the years of broken promises. I don't want to deal with it." Her glance took in the room; the reality of the life around her. Now, instead of the possibilities she'd seen through Ted's eyes a few days earlier, all she saw was the peeling wallpaper, the stained plaster, the filthy and broken chandelier that hung from a sagging ceiling. And every room in the house was just like it. "Look at this place," she went on. "It's just like our marriage-everything about it is rotten, and it ought to have been torn down years ago." Ted's fist clenched spasmodically, but Janet didn't so much as flinch. "Don't bother," she said. "It won't work. Don't bother to threaten me, don't hit me, and for God's sake, don't make me any more promises." She turned away, but at the door she looked back at him one more time. "And don't bother coming upstairs tonight, either. The bedroom door will be locked." She left the den and walked through the living room into the foyer, then started up the stairs. She was halfway to the landing where the staircase split when Ted's voice thundered through the house.

"You won't leave me!" he bellowed. "You'll never leave me!"

The calm she'd been feeling was shattered by her husband's fury. Racing up the rest of the stairs, she fled into her room, locking the door behind her. The thick oak slab would keep him away from her for the rest of the night, but it wasn't thick enough to protect her from the sound of his rage.

"Do you understand?" he roared from downstairs, his voice echoing through the ruined rooms. "You'll never leave me!"