Right Hand of Evil (32 page)

"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.

Janet stood back and eyed the mural critically. Maybe she shouldn't have tried to work tonight, but always before-back in the days when Ted was drinking-her painting had provided her with a refuge from the reality of her life. This evening, the magic hadn't worked, and she knew her lack of concentration showed in the results on the dining room wall. It was almost done-indeed, it might have been done tonight if she'd been able to stop thinking about Jared through the long afternoon and evening.

"Don't worry about him," Ted had advised her when she'd looked for Jared after the priests had left, and discovered he wasn't in the house. "He's pretty angry, and frankly, I don't blame him. If Father MacNeill had been accusing
me,
I think I might actually have thrown a punch at that sanctimonious bastard."

"Ted!"

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you think MacNeill had a right to come around here acting like-"

"It's irrelevant what I think about Father MacNeill-I'm not his mother. But I
am
Jared's mother, and it doesn't matter how angry he was. I won't have him talking like that to anyone! And I won't have him simply walking in and out of the house anytime he feels like it, either! Especially not tonight. I don't want him out on Halloween! If there's any trouble-any trouble at all-everyone will blame Jared. I know it!"

"But there's not going to be any trouble," Ted had argued.

So far, he'd been right. As dusk came on, Janet readied a bowl of candy for the trick-or-treaters, but even as she placed it on a table near the front door, she wondered how many of the town's children would come to their house.

And how many would throw eggs, or leave burning bags of dog dung on the porch?

When there'd been no knocks at the door by eight-thirty, she understood that none of the children would come, but she still kept going to the window and peering out into the darkness, her nerves on edge.

Between trips to the window, she tried to concentrate on the mural, but failed. And now, as she gazed at the trompe l'oeil she'd created on the wall, she knew she shouldn't have tried to work at all, for the scene depicted beyond the faux French doors no longer seemed quite as real as it had this morning. Yet she couldn't put her finger on what was wrong-the perspective was right, and so was the lighting from the not-quite-visible moon. Maybe something in the shadowy areas at the far side of the garden? The clock in the living room struck eleven, and realizing how late it was, Janet abandoned her paints and went into the library. Ted was working at his desk, studying the bids for the construction of a reception desk in the foyer. He looked up when she came in, his smile fading as he read the worry in her eyes.

"It's eleven o'clock," she said. "And Jared still isn't home." Ted stood up and came around the desk, slipping his arms around her.

"How about if I go have a look around and see if I can spot him?"

Janet looked anxiously into his eyes. "Will you? I keep thinking I ought to call the police, or the hospital."

"Not yet," Ted counseled. "It's Halloween, and I'll bet whatever he's doing, he's not planning to be back until midnight."

"Which is exactly why I want him home," Janet said. "Of all the nights for him to-"

"Tell you what," Ted broke in. "I'll go out and check the pizza parlor and the drive-in, and swing by Luke Roberts's house. If I don't find him, we'll call the hospital. In fact, I'll stop by there before I come home. But I'm sure he's okay. Try to take it easy, at least until I get back, okay?"

Janet slipped her arms around his neck and pressed herself close to him, but even the strength of his body did nothing to calm her edgy nerves. "I'll try," she agreed. "I don't think I'll be able to, but I'll try."

"And go to bed," Ted told her. "You've been working all afternoon and all evening, and you're exhausted. Just relax. I'll find him."

After Ted was gone, Janet returned to the dining room, looked once more at the mural, then cleaned her brushes, put away her palette, and started upstairs. She'd just come to the landing where the great staircase split when a wave of apprehension broke over her.

Something was wrong.

She held still, listening.

Silence.

Yet she still felt… what?

Stop it!
she commanded herself.
It's nothing but nerves because it's Halloween, and Jared's not here, and suddenly everything seems to be going wrong again.
Yet before she continued up the stairs, she turned to gaze down into the great empty expanse of the entry hall. She'd turned most of the lights down, but now, as she peered down into the gloom below, she wished she hadn't. Somehow the cavernous room seemed to have grown even larger, its corners lost in shadowed darkness.

Unbidden, the memory of the night Kim had sworn she'd seen rats in the bathroom came to her, and Janet shuddered as she thought of what might be lurking in the dark corners of the house.
There's nothing,
she silently repeated.
Nothing.
But she hurried her step as she went up the short flight to the mezzanine.

As she came to Molly's door, she felt it.

It was as if a cold hand had been laid on her back, stopping her short. The chill intensified, wrapping around her like a shawl knitted of ice.

It had to be nothing more than a draft. But the door was shut tight, and even the crack beneath it wasn't wide enough to permit the kind of cold she was feeling to seep through.

Janet reached out, her hand closing on the glass knob of the nursery door. It was like holding an ice crystal in her hand.

She turned the knob and pushed the door open. It creaked softly, and she heard Molly stir.

She stepped inside the room, and the chill lost its edge. Hurrying to the crib, she bent over and peered down at her sleeping child. Molly's eyes opened a crack, glinting in the soft moonlight that filled the room, then she went back to sleep. Tucking the child's blanket close around her, Janet bent lower, her lips brushing Molly's forehead.

Molly sighed contentedly, then curled on her side, her right thumb sliding into her mouth.

Satisfied that her youngest child was sleeping peacefully, Janet tiptoed out of the room.

The chill had vanished as quickly as it came.

In the master bedroom she undressed, put on a nightgown and robe, and slid into bed. Switching on the lamp on the bedside table, she picked up a magazine. Maybe reading would keep her worries about Jared at bay, she thought, at least until Ted came home.

And then she heard it.

A sobbing sound, muffled and indistinct.

At first she thought she'd imagined it, but then she heard it again.

Molly?

Throwing the light cover aside, Janet got out of bed and went to the door that joined the master bedroom to Molly's room. She listened, heard nothing, and opened the door a crack.

Silence.

She closed the door again, and went to the other door-the one that led to the mezzanine-and listened.

There it was again, but louder now.

Janet's pulse quickened, but she steeled herself and pulled the door open.

The sobbing increased, swelling into an anguished moan.

A knot of fear formed in her stomach, but she pulled the robe tight around her, tied the belt, and stepped out onto the mezzanine.

Then she heard the cry: "No!"

The single word died away as quickly as it had come, but in the instant it hung in the air, Janet recognized Kim's voice. Racing to the far end of the hall, she twisted the knob of Kim's door, threw it open, and flicked on the lights. She was blinded by the sudden glare for a second, then saw Kim huddled on her bed, sobbing. Her arms went around her daughter, pulling her close.

"It's all right, Kimmie," she whispered, using the nickname her older daughter had shed five years ago, on her tenth birthday. "It was only a bad dream. I'm here."

"It was Jared," Kim cried. "Mom, it was awful! He-He killed Scout!"

"No," Janet soothed. "It was just a dream, Kim. It didn't really happen."

"What's doing it, Mom?" Kim sobbed. "What's making me have these terrible dreams about Jared?"

"What dreams?'' Janet asked. Settling herself onto the bed next to Kim, she gently eased her daughter's head onto her lap. "Honey, what have you been dreaming?"

Kim hesitated, recalling images from her nightmares. Then, slowly, she began talking, telling her mother about the strange things she'd seen in her dreams, the terrible things she'd witnessed Jared doing. "But they weren't like real dreams at all, Mom," she finished. "They were so real, it seemed like it was all really happening! But it couldn't have happened, could it?"

"No, of course not," Janet soothed, stroking Kim's hair. "I know dreams can seem real, but they aren't. And you mustn't let them frighten you."

Sniffling, Kim sat up and wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown. "It's just that Jared's changed," she said. "He isn't anything like he used to be." She looked bleakly at her mother. "You know how I used to know what Jared was thinking? What he was feeling?"

Janet smiled. "The Twin Thing."

Kim nodded. "It was like that tonight. It was like I knew exactly what he was doing. I could see it as clearly as if I were standing right next to him. He-He had a knife, and Scout was lying on a table, and-" Her voice broke into a choking sob.

"But it wasn't real," Janet assured her once again. She got off the bed and gently pulled Kim to her feet. "Come on. "I'll show you. We'll go down to the kitchen and get Scout, and he can come up and sleep with you tonight. Okay?"

Nodding, Kim let Janet lead her out of her room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

"Scout?" Janet called out softly.

There was no welcoming thump of the big dog's tail banging against the wall as he wagged it. There was only silence.

Janet switched on the light.

Scout's bed was empty.

She frowned, trying to remember when she'd last seen the dog.

She wasn't sure. "He has to be here somewhere," she said. "Come on."

But fifteen minutes later, Janet and Kim both knew that Scout was gone. Nor did he come when they opened the back door and called him.

"It doesn't mean anything," Janet insisted as she and Kim climbed the stairs back up to the second floor. "He might have gone off with Jared this afternoon."

"He doesn't even like Jared anymore," Kim said, her voice wavering. "That's why he sleeps in the kitchen now!"

"Then maybe he went with your father," Janet said. But she'd watched Ted leave, and hadn't seen the dog go with him.

But there was something else that could have happened, something that she could see had already occurred to Kim: If Scout had vanished into the woods the same way Muffin had on the night they'd moved into the house, would he be found the same way the cat had?

Just the thought of it made Janet shudder, and as if by mutual consent, neither she nor Kim even mentioned that possibility.

The cabin lay dark and hushed beneath the pale silvery light of the moon. Jake Cumberland's hound was perfectly still, flattened against the ground beneath the cabin's floor. He'd neither moved nor made a single sound since he'd first scented the two figures stealing through the darkness toward the house. Had the chain not restrained him, he would have fled away through the covering darkness rather than slunk into the meager shelter provided by his master's house.

The night prowlers had gone silent; neither owls nor bats swooped and flitted in search of prey, for every creature they might have sought had vanished into burrows beneath the ground or hollows inside the trees.

No fish jumped in the lake, no frogs croaked along its bank; even the insects they hunted had ceased their nightly feeding and mating.

The quiet of death had fallen over the night. A dark cloud scudded over the moon as if to protect even it from bearing witness to the ceremony taking place within the cabin's walls, where five flickering candles on the table struggled to hold back the descending darkness.

Luke Roberts stood next to Jared Conway, his unblinking eyes fixed on the object that lay on the table in the center of the pentagram formed by the candles.

In his right hand, Jared held a knife-its cutting edge honed to razor sharpness by Jake Cumberland's own whetstone and strop. As he clutched its leather-bound haft, the instrument itself seemed to speak to him, whispering of the creatures it had disemboweled, the hides it had slit, the flesh it had slashed. Jared lowered the knife toward the offering on the table, but just before he drove the blade into the creature's breast, he gazed one last time into its eyes.

"Don't," he heard his sister's voice whisper inside his head. "Oh, God, Jared, please don't."

Jared hesitated as Kim's voice, only dimly heard, tugged at him, tried to restrain him. It was as if he stood on the edge of a dark and fathomless abyss, feeling inexorably drawn to it. Every fiber of his being wanted to step over the edge, to drop into the darkness below, plunge deep into whatever lay within the blackness that beckoned to him.

And only Kim's dimly heard voice held him back.

"Don't," her voice whispered again. "Please, Jared. Don't."

Jared's eyes moved from the body of the creature to its head.

Scout lay on his back, his legs splayed wide as if to expose his belly in submission to some far stronger creature than he. His head lolled to one side. His mouth lay open, his tongue hung out.

And one of his eyes-his soft, trusting brown eyes-seemed to gaze up at Jared, as if joining in Kim's whispered plea.

But it was already too late. He plunged the knife into the dog's heart and Scout's life ended with a silent spasm.

Now all that remained was to carry out the ceremony, to offer his pet to his new master.

Pulling the knife from the dog's corpse, he lowered its point until it just grazed the skin of Scout's belly.

Yet still he hesitated, looking one last time into Scout's eyes, hesitating as, fleetingly, a brief, flickering doubt entered his mind, as though something within was telling him to step back-step back from the edge of the abyss.