The Right Hand of Evil

CHAPTER 31

But what will Father MacNeill say?" Marge Engstrom waited for her words to have their expected effect on her daughter. But when Sandy announced that she didn't care what Father MacNeill said, she was too tired to go to church that morning, Marge's brow creased in frustration. "I don't know what's gotten into you, Sandra Anne," she declared, using her daughter's full name, which she only did when seriously annoyed. "You know perfectly well that after last night-"

"After last night, why would it matter if any of us go?" Sandy protested. "Father MacNeill's already mad at us, isn't he? I don't see how me going to church is going to make any difference!"

"He's not angry at us," Marge explained with a note of exaggerated patience that only made Sandy want to dig her heels in and stick to her position. "It wasn't your father who swayed the meeting last night-it was Ted Conway. But if we don't go to church this morning, Father MacNeill might very well assume that we've taken a position against him."

"Well, haven't we?" Sandy demanded.

Marge pursed her lips. "As mayor, your father didn't vote last night, and though you may not have noticed, neither did I. Your father wants to maintain a position of neutrality, for the good of the entire community."

"You mean he wants to be reelected," Sandy said, and saw by her mother's wince that she was right.

Marge Engstrom recovered quickly. "Your father is a very good mayor, and part of the reason he's a good mayor is that he maintains bridges to every part of our community. If you look at the votes two years ago-"

Sandy rolled her eyes. "I read Dad's campaign brochure, Mom. I even wrote part of it, remember? And I'm still not going to church!"

Marge eyed Sandy carefully, wondering yet again if perhaps it had been a mistake to let her spend the night at the Conways'. It was a thought that had occurred to her when Sandy came home looking like death warmed over. Her face had been sallow, and her eyes so dark that Marge didn't think she could have slept at all. What on earth had she and Kim Conway been up to?

"Nothing," Sandy had insisted. "All we did was watch a couple of horror movies and go to bed."

"Well, no wonder you look so terrible," Marge had replied. "I swear, I don't know why they let them make those terrible movies. All that blood and violence! Why can't you and your friends watch nice movies? I'll bet you didn't sleep a wink. Not a single wink."

By yesterday afternoon, after Sandy had a long nap, she'd seemed fine. But this morning she looked pale again.

The argument over church had been going on for half an hour. Now, with only fifteen minutes left before mass, Marge gave up. "Well, I guess I can't force you," she told Sandy, making one last effort, "but you're the one who'll have to answer to your father. He'll be very disappointed in you. It's very important to him that the family be together on Sunday morning."

It's important for us to be seen together, Sandy silently corrected, certain her mother knew as well as she did that if her father really wanted them all to be together, he wouldn't go off to play golf every Sunday morning, and meet them at church just in time for them to walk down the aisle together. Did he really think he was fooling anybody? "Maybe I'll go later," she offered, but knew she wouldn't.

The moment she woke up that morning, she knew she couldn't sit through one of Father MacNeill's masses today. Just the thought of it made her feel almost as sick as she'd been yesterday morning at Kim's. But now that she'd gotten out of church, she was starting to feel better. Maybe, after her mother left, she'd just go back to bed for another hour.

When Marge Engstrom stepped out into the bright fall morning a few minutes later, she decided that if Sandy didn't want to go to church, it was her daughter's loss, not her own. Besides, Sandy didn't look well, and perhaps just this once it really would be better for her to lie down for a while. Surely Phil-and God-would forgive her this once!

Marge set out toward St. Ignatius briskly, nodding to everyone she met. Birds were chirping, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and by the time she was across the street from St. Ignatius, even her concern about Sandy had all but vanished. Then she saw the activity in the graveyard, and stopped short.

Had someone died?

But no-surely she would have heard about it!

Marge hurried her step. "What's happened?" she asked Corinne Beckwith, who was standing just inside the cemetery gate, whispering to Sister Clarence.

"It's terrible." Corinne glanced around to be certain no one else was listening, though Marge suspected that whatever Corinne was about to reveal had already been repeated-in strictest confidence-to everyone Corinne had talked to already. "Ray told me this in the strictest confidence, so you have to promise not to breathe a word to anyone. Not anyone!" Then, without waiting for the demanded promise to be tendered, she plunged on. "Someone opened up George Conway's coffin last night, and cut off his right hand. Can you imagine such a thing? Just cut it off! What kind of person would do such a thing! Well, of course it's the fault of those Conways. Everything was fine until they came to town. Now the church has been vandalized, and people's pets are being slaughtered, and…"

But Marge had stopped listening, her attention drawn to the cat that was pinned to the tree with the broken crucifix. For some reason, what kept running through her mind over and over like a stuck record were the words Jake Cumberland had spoken at the meeting last night: "The work of the Devil! I'm tellin' you, this is the work of the Devil!"

For the first time in years, Marge Engstrom didn't wait for Phil to arrive before going into the church. With all the tales she'd heard since she was a little girl, all the whisperings about the things that had supposedly gone on in the Conway house spinning anew through her head, she dipped her fingers in the font, made her genuflection, and slipped into her regular pew. When her husband sat down at her side a few minutes later, she slid her hand into his. "There's going to be trouble," she whispered. "I can feel it."

Then she began to pray. But this morning, her prayers went far beyond her regular pleadings for her husband and daughter.

This morning she prayed for the souls of every single person in St. Albans.

Father MacNeill dressed for mass with deliberation. Slipping first into the finely woven linen alb-pressed perfectly wrinkle-free by his housekeeper, Sister Margaret Michael-he fastened the cincture around his waist, then added a stole. Finally he put on the chasuble, then gazed at himself in the mirror. Beyond the closed door of the vestry he could hear the murmuring of the crowd gathering in the sanctuary, but instead of the usual soft, almost chanting rhythms of prayer, this morning he heard the excited buzz of gossip winging through the church.

Of course, he had no one to blame but himself-he should never have called the police, at least not until he'd investigated the vandalism in the cemetery himself. It might even have been all right if they'd sent someone other than Ray Beckwith; he should have realized that Ray would be unable to hold anything back from Corinne, and everyone in St. Albans knew that if you wanted a piece of news spread as rapidly as possible, you simply told Corinne Beckwith, first swearing her to absolute secrecy and making her promise not to mention it in the newspaper.

And he was certain where they would place the blame: after Ted Conway's performance last night, he had gained the support of much of the town-even of the St. Ignatius congregation. So it was hardly likely blame would fall where Father MacNeill was already certain it belonged. No, much more likely they would turn their wrath on Jake Cumberland. Poor, ignorant Jake, who had stood at the back of Town Hall last night, denouncing Ted Conway as a tool of the Devil.

And why wouldn't they turn on him? After the accusation he'd made, wouldn't it be logical to assume he'd also desecrated the corpse of the man he'd always held responsible for the death of his own mother?

"Best them Conways don't come back here ever again," Jake had told him not too many weeks ago, when Cora Conway lay dying at the Willows. "They come here, they'll have me to deal with. And I know what to do, too. Don't think I don't!"

Father MacNeill had known Jake was speaking of the voodoo crafts he'd learned from his mother so many years ago. He hadn't bothered to argue-the priest had always understood that one man's faith is another man's superstition, and that trying to destroy Jake's belief in his mother's religion would be as useless as trying to destroy his own faith in the living Christ.

As the church bell tolled the hour, Father MacNeill smoothed the chasuble one last time, picked up his breviary, opened the vestry door, and stepped into the sanctuary. For a moment the murmuring went on uninterrupted, but as first one person and then another realized their priest now stood before them, the tenor of the buzzing changed, and finally died away.

Father MacNeill scanned the congregation. The church was crowded this morning, though he suspected that had more to do with the news of the desecration in the cemetery than it did with his own powers to preach.

Even Corinne Beckwith, whom he was certain accompanied her husband to church only to keep Ray happy, was paying attention this morning. Father MacNeill wondered if she had her tape recorder going, or would be content taking notes with a pen and paper. But like nearly everyone else in the sanctuary, she obviously was expecting him to say something, to explain to them what had happened last night. How, though, could he point an accusing finger until he was certain he knew the culprit's identity?

As he was still trying to decide what, if anything, to say, the door at the back of the church opened and he saw three figures silhouetted against the brilliant morning light. They stepped forward, the door closed, and for a moment they were lost in the shadows of the vestibule.

Then Janet Conway, holding the hand of her little daughter, Molly, stepped forward, dipped her fingers in the font, and dropped into a quick genuflection. Straightening, she searched the church for an empty pew.

A moment later Kim repeated the ritual her mother had just performed.

Then Ted Conway stepped forward, slipping his arms almost protectively around his wife and older daughter.

Father MacNeill found himself holding his breath as he waited to see if Jared Conway would also appear in the church. The seconds crept by, as heads turned to see at whom their priest was staring. When Jared didn't appear, Father MacNeill finally let out his breath and waited to see what the Conways would do.

Phil Engstrom rose from his seat in the first pew, as if to leave. His wife was beside him, though Father MacNeill didn't see Sandy. The mayor's gaze locked on Father MacNeill's, and the priest saw that even the mayor had finally rejoined the ranks of the righteous, abandoning his support of the Conways. Then Phil turned and looked directly at Ted Conway, and as the two men's eyes met, the priest saw something change. Phil Engstrom appeared uncertain for a moment, and then his face cleared and he smiled at Conway. "There's plenty of room here, Ted," he declared. "Come and sit with us."

Stunned by the change in the town's mayor, Father MacNeill watched as the Conways made their way down the aisle, every eye in the church tracking them. Only as they edged into the Engstroms' pew did anyone speak.

"If there's room in this church for them, then there isn't for me," Ellie Roberts declared. Rising from her seat, her right arm in a sling, she stepped out into the aisle and, limping heavily, left the church.

Father MacNeill waited. No one else left.

Then he turned his back to the congregation and began celebrating the mass in the old tradition: facing the altar and intoning the words in the ancient language of the Church. The Latin phrases rolled from his tongue in fulsome cadences, and when he finally turned to face the congregation, every one of them had closed their eyes as he recited the final benediction.

Every one of them, except for one.

Ted Conway's eyes were wide open.

And they were blazing with undisguised hatred.

Janet glanced at the clock on the wall of the big reception room in the parish hall. Its hands seemed not to have moved since the last time she'd looked. The mass had ended an hour ago, but Ted insisted they stay for the hospitality hour. Every minute had seemed like an hour as she stood with Marge Engstrom, pretending she didn't notice how few people approached them, or see the hostile clutches of parishioners whispering to each other while pretending not to glance her way. Worst of all were those who spoke to Marge but ignored Janet and her family completely, acting as if they simply weren't there. And everywhere she looked, Ellie Roberts was there, whispering to one group after another. All the goodwill Janet had felt after the town meeting had evaporated; if the meeting were to be held again tonight, she was sure there wouldn't be a single person in the room who would vote with them. "It's like they think we had something to do with what happened last night," she said as Ted and Phil finally came over to join them.

Shortly after mass was over, the Conways heard about the desecration of their uncle's tomb, and the grisly object pinned to the tree. Though Kim refused even to look at the cat's hide, Janet and Ted identified it as Muffin's. Tears had streaked Kim's face when she learned the fate of her pet, but she wiped them away, refusing to expose her pain to a town that had suddenly turned so hostile.

Ted shook his head. "It's not that so much as Ellie Roberts-she's telling everyone that Jared made her walk in front of that car."

"But that's stupid!" Kim burst out, breaking out of her grief over her pet to defend her brother. "I saw Jared, and he wasn't anywhere near Mrs. Roberts!" As almost everyone in the room turned to stare at her, she flushed with embarrassment. "Can't we go home, Daddy?" she begged. "Please?"

For a moment Janet thought Ted was going to argue with Kim, but instead he nodded. "Sure. I don't think we're going to be able to bring any of these people around right now, anyway." Saying goodbye to Phil and Marge Engstrom, they stepped out into the bright sunlight.

Just being outside of the parish hall-and away from the hostility she'd felt radiating from nearly everyone in it-Janet began to relax. But when Ray Beckwith stopped them before they'd even reached the sidewalk, her anxiety came rolling back.

"Do you know where your son was last night, Mr. Conway?" Beckwith asked.

Ted's eyes fixed angrily on the officer. "He was at home. Why?"

"Now, don't get all het up," Beckwith said quickly. "I have a job to do here, and all I'm trying to do is-"

"All you're trying to do is blame my son for vandalizing my uncle's mausoleum?" Ted demanded. "Why shouldn't I get 'het up,' as you so picturesquely put it?"

"I'm not saying he did it-" Beckwith began again, but once more Ted didn't let him finish.

"You're damned right you're not! And if you do, I'll slap a lawsuit on your ass so fast it will make your head spin!"

Ray Beckwith's face reddened. "Now you just hold your horses, here, Conway-"

"Hold your own damned horses," Ted shot back. His voice dropped to a menacing growl. "I'm fed up with what's going on in this town. Since the moment we arrived, it seems like a lot of people have been trying to get us to go away. For starters, there's Jake Cumberland, right? Where was he last night? The last time I saw him was at the town meeting, where he was pointing at me and ranting about the Devil! So before you go accusing my son, why don't you check out Cumberland?" His gaze shifted toward the church. "And speaking of the Devil, why don't we talk about the church, too! It was Father MacNeill who was talking against me at that meeting, wasn't it? In fact, the last few weeks he's talked to practically everyone in town, trying to get them to vote against letting me open a business. And now there's been vandalism in the cemetery next to his church, but it was my uncle's crypt that was vandalized. So if I were you, Sheriff, I wouldn't be talking to me about this. I'd get my ass in there and start asking Father MacNeill and everyone else who's been whispering about us all morning what they know about this!"

Ray Beckwith, his ruddy face paling in the wake of Ted's torrent of words, stepped back. "Yes, sir, Mr. Conway," he said, his voice suddenly drained of the anger he'd shown a moment before. "I can certainly understand your feelings. And I'll certainly look into every possibility."

Again Ted fixed his gaze on the policeman. "You see that you do." He turned to Janet. "Let's go home."

Father MacNeill fairly trembled with rage. "He actually suggested you investigate me? And you took him seriously?"

Ray Beckwith quailed before the priest's anger, wondering what he'd done to deserve the bad luck to catch the call that morning when the vandalism had been discovered. They were seated in the priest's small office, where Father Bernard had joined them as Beckwith attempted to piece together the sequence of events. It had been discovered that the cross used to pin the cat's hide to the tree came from the side chapel in St. Ignatius. But the church had been locked last night-Father MacNeill had unlocked it himself before mass that morning. A few other people had keys, but none of them would have given a key to Jared Conway, or Jake Cumberland, for that matter.

Jared Conway, Beckwith ascertained, had in fact been inside the church, unsupervised. Hadn't Father Bernard checked on the work the boys had done? And if he had, how had he failed to notice that missing cross right away?

A vein in Father Bernard's forehead throbbed as he admitted he hadn't actually examined the boys' work that afternoon. Beckwith turned to Father MacNeill. "Seems to me at least one of you might've noticed if that cross had been missing since the boys cleaned the church."

That was when Father MacNeill started getting angry. "I'm in and out of the church a hundred times a week. I can't possibly notice everything that's wrong."

"But you noticed the crypt in the Conway mausoleum was open," Ray reminded him. "It wasn't open more than an inch. But you noticed."

That tore it. Father MacNeill's face hardened into an angry mask. "Are you suggesting I might have vandalized the cemetery myself?" he said in a tone calculated to make Ray back down.

But Ray stuck to his guns. "I'm just doing my job. I talked to Mr. Conway, just like you wanted me to, and now I'm talking to you just like he-" He caught himself too late. The priest leaped on it immediately.

"Well?" Father MacNeill demanded when Ray didn't answer his question right away. "Did Ted Conway tell you to investigate me or not? It's a simple enough question."

"I told you, Father MacNeill. I'm doing my job, and my job is to investigate what happened last night. It's not to decide who did it, then go about making everything fit."

Father MacNeill glared furiously at the policeman. What on earth could make Ray Beckwith, who until this very afternoon had never failed to treat him with the respect his position deserved, suddenly speak to him as if he were a common criminal?

Then he remembered glancing out the window of the parish hall just after Ted Conway led his family out. He'd seen Ray talking to Conway, but mostly he'd seen Conway talking to Ray. Talking to him the same way he'd addressed the whole town at the meeting? Of course. And Ray, obviously, had fallen victim to the man's charm as easily as everyone at the meeting had.

It's time for me to talk to that man myself, Father MacNeill decided.

"Very well," the priest said aloud. "I wouldn't want to interfere with you performing your job, Raymond. And I'm sure when you're done, you'll have discovered the truth. But I'm telling you right now-if you think anyone here had anything to do with this terrible criminal act, you're wrong. Perhaps mortally wrong."

Leaving the threat to the future of Ray Beckwith's soul hanging in the air, Father MacNeill turned his back on the policeman and left the room.

Perhaps we ought to wait until tomorrow morning," Father Bernard fretted. The afternoon had turned warm, but not nearly warm enough to warrant the perspiration dripping down his arms and back. No, his sweating wasn't caused by the heat, but by his nerves. And to what purpose? Tomorrow morning he could call Jared Conway and Luke Roberts into his office at school and get the truth out of them very quickly, indeed. In his office, Father Bernard was in charge. Outside his office, it was another matter entirely. From the time he'd first arrived at St. Ignatius, he'd been the leader in the school; in the rectory, however, it was the force of Father MacNeill's personality that held sway. Which was how it happened that he was now walking along Pontchartrain Street toward the Conway house, with sweat trickling down his back, staining the sleeves of his cassock.

"There's no reason to wait until tomorrow," Father MacNeill shot back. "If Ray Beckwith won't do his job, we shall simply do it for him." He paused a moment, gazing down the street at the Conway house. This afternoon, with the sun shining on its new coat of paint, the house had finally lost its look of a crumbling derelict. The missing slate on its roof had been replaced; somehow Ted Conway had even managed to find new trim to replace the fancywork that had rotted and broken over the years the house sat empty and untended. The last of the overgrowth crowding the grounds had been stripped away, and only a few strands of dying kudzu still clung to the great spreading magnolia from which George Conway had hanged himself so many years ago. Indeed, the disrepair that had given the house its darkly foreboding look was gone, so much so that for a moment Father MacNeill wondered if it was possible that everything he'd ever heard about the house-everything Monsignor Devlin had shown him in the Conway Bible-had been untrue.

But an instant later, as he started across the street, he felt it. It was as if an evil force was emanating from the house itself. He tried to ignore it, but even as he neared the door, he felt it.

A chill.

And something else.

It was as if something unseen-unseeable-was waiting for him.

Preparing to attack him.

As he drew closer, every nerve in his body began tingling, and a wave of panic rose inside him. He forced it down, though, and with Father Bernard trailing after him, made himself stride up the walk, mount the steps, and ring the bell. From somewhere deep inside the house a chime sounded, and then a dog began barking.

The priest was about to press the bell a second time when Janet Conway opened the door. She was bent down, clutching at the collar of a large golden retriever. The dog was still barking, but its tail was wagging furiously as it attempted to scramble out. "I'm sorry," Janet blurted, "I'm afraid-" Her words died on her lips as she recognized Father MacNeill. An uncertain frown appeared as she straightened up. "I'm afraid Scout isn't much of a watchdog," she finished. Tightening her grip on the dog's collar, she pulled the door open farther.

A wave of cold rolled through the gap. Father MacNeill took an involuntary step back.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Janet asked, keeping her tone neutral, but with difficulty.

"I wanted to have a few words with you," Father MacNeill began. "And your son, too." As he uttered the words, the priest felt a wave of pure emotion break over him, an emotion he recognized at once.

Hatred.

Something-or someone-in this house hated him with an intensity he'd never felt before. A hatred so strong that once again he lurched back a step. Under his cassock, his body was suddenly slick with sweat, and the panic he'd only barely managed to control a few moments ago was again threatening to overwhelm him.

Janet's frown deepened as the priest staggered backward. "Are you all right?" she asked anxiously, opening the door still farther. "Would you like to come in for a moment?"

Father MacNeill struggled to control the panic that had seized him. He tried to take a step forward, but could not. It was as if a wall-a physical wall-blocked him. When he tried to speak, his voice was constricted, as though a rope was tightening around his throat. "I-wanted a word with-" His breath caught for a moment, then he managed to finish his sentence: "-with Jared," he stammered.

Once again he tried to take a step toward the open front door, but it was no use.

He couldn't enter the house, couldn't so much as set foot across the threshold.

"Jared?" Janet repeated. Her eyes flicked from Father MacNeill to Father Bernard. Both priests were sweating, and their faces were ashen. Before she could say anything else, Ted appeared behind her.

"Is there something we can do for you?" he asked coldly, his eyes fixed on Father MacNeill.

Once again the priest took an involuntary step backward. "If we could just have a few words with Jared," he repeated.

Ted Conway's eyes bored into the priest's. "About?" he demanded.

"Is he here?" the priest countered, his voice trembling despite his efforts to control it.

Janet, still struggling with Scout, looked uncertainly to her husband. "Should I call him?"

Molly peeped around the edge of the door. She gazed out at the two priests, then suddenly began crying and reached for her father. Ted swung the little girl up into his arms. "We might do better to call the police," Ted said as he jiggled Molly and she calmed down.

Janet glanced from her husband to the priest, then back to her husband. "I-I'll just call Jared," she stammered. If she didn't do something to break the tension between Ted and the priest, one of them very well might call the police. "He didn't have anything to do with what happened last night, so what can it possibly hurt?"

Without waiting for a reply from Ted, she hurried through the dining room and opened the door to the basement. "Jared?" she called. "Jared!" When there was no response, she went down the steep flight of stairs and rapped on the closed door to his room. A moment later the door opened a crack, and she could smell the musty odor of the fumes that constantly drifted up from the sump in the middle of the room. "Father MacNeill and Father Bernard are here. They want to talk to you."

Jared's expression clouded. "What about?"

"Something happened at the cemetery last night, and for some reason Father MacNeill thinks you might have something to do with it. All you have to do is tell him you didn't, and that will be the end of it."

When Jared said nothing, Janet felt her stomach tighten. If Jared refused to talk to the priest, MacNeill would assume the worst. But then Jared shrugged. "Sure," he said. "I'll be up in a minute."

By the time Janet got back to the front door, Kim was standing at the bottom of the stairs. "What do they want?" she asked, anxiously eyeing the two priests who waited on the porch.

"It's all right," Janet assured her. "They just want to talk to Jared. They'll be gone in a minute."

Then Jared appeared, and as Father MacNeill looked at the boy, a single thought-a single concept-came into his mind.

Death.

Then, for just the barest fraction of an instant, he saw a change in Jared Conway's face.

The boy's eyes seemed to turn to slits, and his nostrils flared. It was more than an expression of anger; it was as if the boy's physiognomy had begun to transform itself into something inhuman.

But as quickly as it appeared, the vision was gone. It happened so fast that a second later the priest was no longer sure of what he'd seen.

But he could no longer look at Jared.

He shivered, trying to shake off the horrible chill that had seized him, then steeled himself and once more forced his gaze to meet the boy's. He spoke deliberately. "You took a cross from the church," he said. "You vandalized your uncle's tomb, and you pinned the skin of a dead cat to a tree with the cross."

"No!" Kim cried out, her voice breaking. "Don't you dare say that! Jared would never have hurt-"

Before she could finish, though, Jared himself spoke. "Go to hell," he said softly. His eyes remained on the priest, and Father MacNeill felt an outpouring of hatred wash over him. He felt as if he couldn't breathe, and his heart began to pound. "You don't know anything about what I did last night," Jared went on. "Stay away from here. Stay away, or maybe you'll wind up with one of your precious crosses shoved right up your-"

"Jared!" Janet cut in. "Don't you dare talk to Father MacNeill like that!"

"I'll talk to him any way I want!" Jared shot back.

Molly began to scream, and Janet quickly took her from Ted. "I'm sorry," she blurted to the two priests. "I can't imagine-"

"Don't apologize!" Jared burst out. "You said he wanted to ask me some questions. So, did you hear any questions?" His eyes fixed once more on the priest, and his voice turned venomous. "You think you know what's going on around here? Well, you're wrong! You don't have a clue what's going on!" He moved forward, raising his hand to point a finger at the priest, and Father MacNeill stumbled backward, barely catching himself against one of the columns that supported the roof. "Get away from here!" Jared screamed. "Get out of my house!"

Suddenly, the finger turned into a talon, and the priest jerked away as it slashed out at him. Once again he saw the demon he'd caught a glimpse of only moments ago, but this time it was leering at him, its fangs bared, its tongue flicking toward him like a snake's, its eyes glowing with evil fury. His hands clutched at the crucifix hanging from his waist, and as he raised it, he heard a rasping voice emerge from the throat of the beast before him.

"Next time, I'll drive the cross through your heart, priest!"

Father MacNeill's nostrils filled with the sour stench of vomit, and his own gorge rose. Then, with a howling cackle of harsh laughter, the vision vanished.

"Just get out of our house," he heard Jared say again. The boy turned away and disappeared back inside.

"I-I'm so sorry," Janet stammered. "I don't know what would make him say any of that. Jared isn't like that. He-He's-" She shook her head helplessly as she tried to soothe Molly, who was crying again.

Father MacNeill barely heard her. The cold was finally releasing him from its terrible grip, and his heartbeat was starting to slow. As his breathing returned to normal, he swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat. Finally, he was able to look at Ted. "I think I know what I came to find out," he said softly.

Ted's gaze never wavered. "You didn't come to find out anything. You think you already know. But you're wrong, Father. You don't know anything." Taking Janet's elbow, he gently steered her back into the house and closed the door.

Father MacNeill stared at the closed door, but instead of seeing the great oaken panel, he saw instead the demon face he'd beheld a moment ago. "Did you see it?" he asked Father Bernard. "Did you feel it?"

Father Bernard looked at him uncertainly. "I'm not sure I-"

"Evil," Father MacNeill breathed. "You can see it. You can feel it." He moved unsteadily off the porch and down the path to the sidewalk. Only when they had crossed the street and walked some distance away, did he finally turn back to look again at the house.

"Evil," he whispered. Then, with Father Bernard beside him, he began the long walk back to the rectory.

Ray Beckwith pulled his squad car up in front of Jake's weather-beaten cabin out by the lake. The rowboat was hauled up onto the narrow strip of muddy beach, and Jake's dog was chained outside. As the hound began baying, Jake opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

"Hey there, Jake," Ray called out as he got out of the car. Jake nodded, but said nothing. "How's it going? Nice afternoon, huh?"

Jake's face was an impassive mask. "Don't think you came out here to talk about the weather. What d'you want?"

"Just got a couple of questions, that's all," Ray replied. He nervously eyed the hound, which was straining at the end of its chain. "Okay if I come up on the porch?"

Jake shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He made no move to quiet the dog, so Ray circled carefully around, staying well out of reach of the animal's snapping jaws. "I just wondered what you were doing last night, Jake," he said as he stepped up onto the porch.

"Figured," Jake replied. "You're wantin' to know if I had anything to do with what happened down at the cemetery last night."

"You heard about it?"

Jake shrugged and countered, "Know anybody who didn't?"

"So where were you last night?" Ray asked.

"I was out tendin' my traps. Me and Lucky took off 'bout ten. Didn't get home till near dawn."

Ray nodded as if he were no longer listening, but when he spoke again, he watched Jake's reaction to his question. "Mind if I show you something?"

"Don't mind at all," Jake replied. If he was worried, it didn't show in his face.

Ray went back to the squad car and returned a moment later, carrying a package wrapped in black plastic. As the dog strained at its chain, Ray glanced at the open front door of the cabin. "Maybe we should go inside?"

Jake shrugged and led Ray into the tiny cabin. The officer laid the package on the table and opened it, exposing the cat's hide that had been found pinned to the tree over Cora Conway's grave. As he pulled away the last piece of plastic, Ray kept his eyes on Jake Cumberland.

The trapper winced as he saw the skin.

"You've seen it before," Ray said.

Jake Cumberland's mind felt numb as he stared at the skin of the cat. He could still remember snatching the cat up the night the Conways moved into the house, skinning it on this very table, then taking the hide back to the Conways. The last time he'd seen the cat skin was when he'd left it nailed to the back of the carriage house as a warning to the Conways to go away.

They hadn't heeded his warning, but they hadn't gone to the police, either. If they had, Ray Beckwith would have been out here long ago. What'll I do, Mama? he silently asked. What should I say? And as clearly as if she'd been standing right there next to him, Jake heard his mama's voice: He don't know nothin', Jake. He don't know nothin' at all.

"Don't reckon I have seen it before," Jake said, his gaze shifting from the cat skin back to Ray Beckwith. "Don't reckon I've ever seen that before in my life."

The two men eyed each other, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air.

"Then you won't mind if I have a look around, will you?" Ray said softly.

Again Jake shrugged. "Don't make no never mind," he said softly. "Take a look, if you want."

As Jake watched, Ray Beckwith searched the cabin. He checked the garbage first, poking through a bucket of food scraps mixed with the entrails from some animal Jake had caught last night.

Nothing.

He moved on, opening and closing the few drawers and cupboards that hung around Jake's sink. Finally his eyes fell on the trunk.

"That locked?" he asked.

Jake shook his head. "Nothin' much in it 'cept for my mama's stuff."

"Voodoo stuff?" Ray asked.

The muscles in Jake's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, and when Ray knelt down to open the trunk, he made no move to stop him. Lifting the lid, Ray stared down at the collection of oddments that filled the compartments of the tray, then lifted the tray itself out of the trunk. Beneath it he saw a folded tablecloth, and beneath that a jumble of what looked like clothes. He was about to replace the tray when he suddenly changed his mind and plunged his hands into the tangle of material.

His fingers brushed against something.

Something furry.

He closed his fingers on the object and lifted it out of the trunk.

Rising to his feet, Ray turned to face Jake Cumberland. The trapper's eyes were fixed on the cat's head as if he were looking at a ghost.

"I don't know how that got in there," he said, his voice rising. "I swear I don't."

Ray wordlessly laid the cat head on the table next to the hide. The color match was perfect, as was the cut where the head had been separated from the hide. He faced Jake. "You want to tell me about it?" he asked.

But Jake's expression had gone as flat as when he'd first appeared on the porch. "Nothin' to tell," he replied. "I was out tendin' my traps last night. Anybody at all could've snuck in here and put that in Mama's trunk."

Ray pursed his lips, nodding. "I guess that's true," he said. "But I guess you could've put it in there, too, now couldn't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on, "I'm gonna have to take you in, Jake. Folks are pretty upset about what happened last night." But it still didn't quite make sense to Beckwith. If Jake had put the cat's hide on the tree, why had he been so surprised to see it? What else could he have expected to be confronted with? "You knew what had to be in that package the minute I got it out of my car, didn't you, Jake? Didn't you think it had to be the skin from the cemetery?"

Jake nodded. "Figured it was."

"Then why did you look surprised when you saw it?" Ray pressed. "I know you weren't faking it-you recognized that skin, but you weren't expecting to see it." Ray took a deep breath. "What's going on, Jake? Isn't there anything else you want to tell me?"

Jake shook his head. "Don't think so," he said softly. "Besides, who knows? If everyone's as upset as you say they are, maybe I'll be better off in jail."

He followed Beckwith out to the squad car. Then, as Ray was about to drive away, Jake Cumberland turned to take one more look at his cabin and his dog.

The dog stared back at him, sitting down and cocking its head, as if puzzled.

"Goodbye," Jake whispered.

As the car headed down the dirt road, he twisted around for one last glimpse of Lucky.

Jake knew he would never see his pet again.