The Right Hand of Evil

by John Saul

  Kim's gaze shifted uncertainly back to her father. It had been so long since he'd wanted to talk to either her or Jared that she still wasn't used to it. "Well, Sandy thought they were being jerks, too."

  "Sounds like teenage boy stuff," Ted said.

  The clouds in Kim's face turned stormy. "Why do you always defend him?" she demanded, glaring at her father. "What's going on around here? It seems like anything Jared wants to do is just fine with you, even when he's acting like an—"

  "Hey, I'm sorry," he said with no trace of anger, holding up his hands as if to ward off Kim's attack. "I guess sometimes your old dad can still be a chauvinist pig. So what exactly did he do?" Kim hesitated, and Ted thought he knew what she was thinking. "Come on," he urged her gently. "I'm not going to bite your head off. And I promise I'll listen. Okay?"

  Kim, mollified, first told them what had happened at the pizza parlor, then the aftermath in Sister Clarence's classroom. "I don't know what's going on with him," she finished. "But something's wrong. He's just not like himself. He—"

  "He's growing up, honey," Ted told her. "Just like you are. Neither one of you is like you used to be. But that's not a bad thing. It's just—"

  The phone rang, and he stopped as Janet picked it up. A moment later she mouthed Father Bernard at him. The conversation was brief.

  "Father Bernard wants to see us," she said as she put the phone down. "Jared won't be home for a while."

  Ted's brows rose. "What's he doing?"

  "Cleaning the church," Janet said. "Father Bernard decided that if they didn't see fit to get to class on time, they might as well find out how they would enjoy being janitors, since, as he put it, 'that's about all either of them will be fit for if they don't straighten up.'"

  Ted's eyes flashed with the sudden fury of his drinking days. They cleared quickly, but when he spoke, his voice was harsh. "Well," he said, "I suppose Father knows best, doesn't he?"

  Clean the church.

  Clean the freakin' church!

  What kind of crap was that? Jared wondered, though he was careful to say nothing out loud until he and Luke were safely out of the school building. So they'd been a few minutes late getting back from lunch. What was the big deal? It wasn't like they were going to miss out on learning the secret of life, for Christ's sake. So they didn't get to hear Sister Clarence discuss the proper use of the subjunctive tense, or whatever the hell she'd been talking about. Who cared? But the thing that had pissed Jared off most was that Father Bernard left them waiting outside his office all afternoon. It wasn't like he'd been doing anything important—Jared was sure that most of the time he'd just been sitting there, inside. But they'd had to stand and wait, with everyone else in the school staring at them during the breaks.

  No one had spoken to them, as if they were afraid they might catch some dread disease.

  Bunch of kiss-ups, that's all they were, he thought.

  Then, when they'd finally been called into Father Bernard's office, the priest made them stand at attention, like they were in some kind of military academy or something! And he'd even given them the "this hurts me as much as it hurts you" line of crap, like he really cared what happened to either one of them.

  The way the priest had spoken, Jared assumed they would be suspended, but in the end he told them they were going to have to clean the church. "Perhaps if you see what it's like to work as a janitor, you might appreciate your classes a bit more."

  More likely it was free labor that Father Bernard wanted, Jared decided.

  "I bet he finds some reason to make a kid clean the church every single week," he said when he and Luke left the school. Sometime during the afternoon the weather had shifted, and the heavy mugginess in the air made Jared wish he could just go home and maybe sprawl out and take a nap. "What do you 'spose he'd do if we ditch it?" he asked.

  Luke scuffed at the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. "You can do whatever you want. But if I don't show, my mom'll find out, and she'll kill me."

  Jared eyed the church that loomed across the street. The last time he'd been inside was for his aunt Cora's funeral. He remembered thinking it had been kind of pretty, with the light coming through the stained-glass windows. But now it seemed forbidding, and as he came to the steps, he suddenly didn't want to go inside.

  But why should I want to? he wondered. Going inside meant spending the next three hours scrubbing the floors, polishing the brass railing in front of the altar, and cleaning all the statues. But even as he silently ticked off the list of chores Father Bernard had assigned them, he knew there was more to his reluctance to enter than just that.

  As he stared at the high limestone facade of St. Ignatius, a deep anger took hold inside him.

  "Come on," he growled. "Let's get it over with."

  They walked into the vestibule, and Luke automatically dipped his fingers into the font of holy water that stood just outside the doors to the sanctuary, and genuflected.

  Jared reached toward the water himself, then stopped. Why should I? he asked himself. I'm not here to pray. I'm here because I'm being punished. "Where do they keep the cleaning stuff?" he asked.

  "Downstairs," Luke told him. "I know where it is."

  He started up the aisle toward the altar, with Jared trailing after him. But halfway up the aisle, Jared felt a strange queasiness in his gut, as though he were getting the flu. He stopped. Now, he felt a cold sweat break out, his whole body feeling clammy, and a shiver passed through him. "Hey, Luke," he said. "Where's the bathroom?"

  Luke spoke without turning around. "You either have to go next door to the parish hall, or use the one downstairs."

  "What do you mean, downstairs? Where're we going?"

  "Will you just come on?" Luke countered. "Jesus, what's wrong with you?"

  "I—I just don't feel so good," Jared replied.

  Luke turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Well, you don't look like anything's wrong," he said. "You trying to stick me with all the work?"

  Jared glared at him. "I just need to use the can. No big deal."

  As he followed Luke down the aisle, his queasiness getting worse, he prayed that he wouldn't puke or have an attack of diarrhea right here in the middle of the church. Luke would never let him forget that. Everything inside him was churning by the time they got to the sacristy, and when he saw the stairs at the back of the small chamber, he hurried down them. At the bottom, there were three storage closets and the rest room.

  "Start getting the stuff," Jared said. "I'll be out in a minute." Going into the rest room, he groped around until he found a light switch, turned it on, then closed and locked the door. As his guts continued to churn, he pulled down his pants and sat down on the toilet.

  A plume of vomit spewed from his mouth, and as he turned to throw up the rest of the contents of his stomach into the toilet, the diarrhea struck.

  Jared was drenched in a cold sweat and thought he was going to pass out. But a moment later the attack began to pass. His vision cleared, the pain in his stomach eased, and the chill that had seized his body released its grip. Easing himself back onto the toilet, he lowered his head between his knees.

  There was a knock at the door, and Luke said, "Hey, Jared—you okay?"

  "Yeah," Jared grunted. "I'll be out in a minute."

  He sat up straight. The last of the queasiness had faded, and he didn't feel any different than he had before the attack had hit him. Using most of the roll of toilet paper that hung from the wall of the one stall, he cleaned himself up, then pulled up his pants. As he was washing his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror, and for a moment he didn't recognize his own face.

  His complexion was chalk white, and his eyes were bloodshot and looked as if they'd sunk deeper into their sockets.

  Dead, he thought. I look dead!

  But then the color began to creep back into his face and his eyes cleared.

  Still, he didn't look quite right. In some weird way he c
ouldn't describe, he looked different.

  On the other hand, why wouldn't he? Hadn't he just puked and shit his brains out? It was a wonder he could stand up at all!

  Turning away from the mirror, he set to work with the paper towels he found on a shelf over the sink, cleaning up the mess on the floor. When he was done, he looked at himself in the mirror. He was still pale, but he thought he looked better.

  "Jeez, Jared, what took you so long?" Luke asked when he finally came upstairs ten minutes later.

  "The runs," Jared said. "Never had anything like that happen before."

  "You still trying to get out of this?" Luke asked suspiciously.

  Jared glowered at Luke. "Let's just get it done and get out of here, okay?" His eyes wandered over the church, and again he felt the sickness building inside him. "I think I'm starting to hate this place."

  They worked steadily for the next two hours, alternately scrubbing, polishing, and dusting until at last there was nothing left to be done.

  The brass gleamed; the statues shone.

  Luke shook his head. "I never want to see another can of Brasso in my life."

  Jared, though, said nothing, for while Luke was surveying their work, he'd been staring at something in one of the niches set into the sanctuary's walls. It was a shrine to one of the saints, the altar on which the statue stood constructed of ornately carved marble. Surrounding the statue were more than a dozen crosses of various sizes.

  "What's the big deal with that one?" Jared asked, tipping his head toward the statue.

  Cocking his head, Luke gazed at it. "I don't know. I guess maybe she was someone's favorite saint or something."

  Jared moved closer to the statue, which now seemed to be looking straight at him.

  Looking at him, and accusing him of something. "She looks like she thinks she's better than the rest of us," he said. His eyes swept over the rest of the figures that adorned the church. "They all do."

  "So?" Luke countered. "They're saints. They were better than the rest of us. Whatcha gonna do about it?"

  Jared smirked. "Oh, I've got a couple ideas." Stepping over to the altar on which the figure stood, he reached out and broke off one of the crosses.

  "Jeez, Jared," Luke breathed. "What are you doing?"

  Jared's eyes locked on Luke's. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm taking one of these things. There's so many of them, they'll never miss one. Bet they don't even notice it's gone."

  "But what are you going to do with it?" Luke asked.

  "Just wait," Jared said softly. "You'll see."

  Monsignor Devlin rose slowly to his feet, his joints aching from the hours he'd spent sitting motionless within the confines of the tiny confessional. Although it had been years since he'd last heard any confession but Cora Conway's, the closeness of the partitioned booth still offered him a peace of spirit he found nowhere else. With the shutters to the grille closed against any penitent who might wander into the other side of the stall, he often sat the whole afternoon, following the wanderings of his mind wherever they led, knowing nothing would disturb his peace.

  But today his peace had been disturbed. While he'd tried his best to close his consciousness to the sound of the two boys cleaning the church, their profanities destroyed his contemplation. Momentarily, he'd felt an urge to drive them from the sanctuary, but quickly thought better of it—a sanctuary from which two such obviously troubled souls could be driven was no sanctuary at all. In Monsignor Devlin's mind, the church should be as fully dedicated to the profane as to the devout, so he kept his silence, and quietly prayed for the boys' salvation.

  Once, as he'd been silently repeating his rosary, he'd felt a draft seeping through the confessional's grillwork, and glanced up to see one of the boys passing his retreat.

  Though he'd never seen the boy before, he recognized him at once—he had the features of all the Conways, so that even the tiny glimpse of the nephew reminded him of the great-uncle.

  The great-uncle, and all the Conways who had gone before.

  After Jared Conway passed his way, Monsignor Devlin was unable to concentrate on his devotions any longer, for no matter how hard he tried to keep his mind on his prayers, the words written in the Bible that Cora Conway had entrusted to him kept rising up from his memory, chilling his soul. After finishing Loretta Villiers Conway's last words, he'd put the Bible aside, feeling he'd somehow violated the privacy of the long-dead woman, never intending to open it again. Yet today, after glimpsing Cora Conway's great-nephew, he had come to realize that Cora must have wanted him to read the words her husband's ancestors had written, wanted him to understand something about her family. Why else would she have entrusted the family Bible to him?

  Leaving the boys alone in the church and returning to the rectory, he climbed laboriously to his room on the top floor, opened Cora Conway's Bible, and set to work. The entry after Loretta Villiers Conway's was written in a hand so unsure it was barely legible. He had to decipher the words one at a time, but after an hour he was done. Rubbing his rheumy eyes and stretching against the pain that had settled into his back, the old priest reread the laboriously inscribed message, the text only slightly easier to decipher this second time. A date, almost obliterated by an ink blot, was scrawled at the top of the page....

  August 22, 1912

  Miz Loretta give me this Bible the day she died. I coud not reed or rite then, but I lernd some in the yeers sinst becuz this is the famly Bible and my girl Francy is part of the famly. It dont matter what Mister Frank says. My girl Lucy was part of it to, but she died birthin.

  Anyways, that’s what Mister Frank said but I don’t beleeve him. I think maybe he kilt her. ifn he did, I hope he dies like Miz Loretta did! Anyway, I did not tell him about this like Miz Loretta said I should not. I guess this is just for the women folk.

  BESSIE DELACOURT STARED AT THE WRITING SHE'D PUT IN THE BIBLE FOR SEVERAL LONG MINUTES. MAYBE SHE SHOULDN'T HAVE SAID WHAT SHE DID ABOUT MISTER FRANK KILLING LUCY THE DAY SHE WAS BORN, BUT IN HER HEART, SHE KNEW IT WAS TRUE. BUT IF MISTER FRANK EVER SAW WHAT SHE'D WRITTEN, HE'D PROBABLY KILL HER, AND MAYBE FRANCY, TOO.

  EVERY YEAR SINCE FRANCY WAS BORN, BESSIE HAD SWORN SHE WOULD TAKE HER LITTLE GIRL AND MOVE NORTH, BUT SHE NEVER HAD. SHE DIDN'T KNOW ANYONE OUTSIDE OF ST. ALBANS, AND WHEN IT CAME RIGHT DOWN TO IT, SHE WAS EVEN MORE SCARED OF GOING THAN SHE WAS OF STAYING. SO ALTHOUGH THE FLAME OF HOPE FOR A BETTER FUTURE BURNED LOWER WITH EVERY PASSING YEAR, IT STILL FLICKERED—MAYBE THEY'D LEAVE NEXT YEAR, WHEN FRANCY WAS FOURTEEN AND DIDN'T NEED SO MUCH TAKING CARE OF....

  FOR NOW, THOUGH, THERE WAS TOO MUCH TO DO TO WASTE TIME ON SOMETHING SO FLEETING AS HOPE. WITH MISTER FRANK GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW, THE HOUSE HAD TO BE CLEANED AND THE FEAST PREPARED. THE UPSTAIRS WAS ALREADY SWELTERING IN THE AUGUST HEAT, AND BESSIE WOULDN'T EVEN LET HERSELF THINK ABOUT WHAT IT WOULD BE LIKE IN THE KITCHEN. AND OLD MONSIGNOR MELCHIOR—WHO DIDN'T LOOK ANY OLDER THAN MISTER FRANK, EVEN THOUGH HE WAS SEVENTY-EIGHT—HAD ORDERED ALL THE SILVER AND ALL THE CRYSTAL TO BE POLISHED FOR THE WEDDING, WHICH MEANT BESSIE AND FRANCY WOULD BE UP ALL NIGHT. BUT EVEN BEFORE SHE STARTED ALL THE WORK, THERE WAS ONE THING SHE HAD TO DO. CLOSING THE BIBLE—EVERY PAGE OF WHICH SHE'D FINALLY MANAGED TO READ IN THE YEARS SINCE MISS LORETTA HAD ENTRUSTED IT TO HER—BESSIE WRAPPED IT IN A TOWEL, THEN LISTENED FOR ANY SOUND OUTSIDE THE DOOR OF HER ROOM IN THE ATTIC'S EAVES.

  SILENCE.

  SHE STOLE OUT INTO THE NARROW CORRIDOR THAT LED TO THE BACK STAIRS, THEN MOVED ALONG THE MEZZANINE UNTIL SHE CAME TO THE ROOM IN WHICH MISTER FRANK'S BRIDE WAS STAYING. GLANCING AROUND ONCE MORE TO BE CERTAIN SHE WASN'T BEING WATCHED, BESSIE OPENED THE DOOR AND SLIPPED INSIDE.

  THE ROOM'S OCCUPANT WAS LYING ON A CHAISE NEAR THE OPEN WINDOW, HER EYES CLOSED, A BOOK OPEN ON HER BREAST. BESSIE CROSSED THE ROOM AND BENT DOWN. "MISS ABIGAIL?" SHE ASKED. "MISS ABIGAIL, ARE YOU AWAKE?"

  STARTLED OUT OF THE DOZE THE SOMNOLENT SUMMER AFTERNOON HAD BROUGHT HER, ABIGAIL SMITHERS SAT UP TOO QUICKLY AND THE VOLUME OF POETRY SHE'D BEEN READING
FELL TO THE FLOOR. IN AN INSTANT, BESSIE SNATCHED IT UP AND RETURNED IT TO ITS OWNER.

  "CAREFUL," THE MAID CAUTIONED. "BOOKS ARE VALUABLE."

  "IT'S ONLY SOME VERSE," ABIGAIL SAID, SMILING AT BESSIE.

  BESSIE'S EYES REMAINED SERIOUS. "ALL BOOKS ARE VALUABLE," SHE SAID. "ESPECIALLY THIS ONE." SHE UNWRAPPED THE BIBLE AND PLACED IT IN ABIGAIL SMITHERS'S HANDS. "I BEEN HOLDING THIS," SHE SAID. "I BEEN HOLDING IT FOR NEAR ON TO FOURTEEN YEARS. IT BE YOURS NOW."

  HER BROW KNITTING IN PUZZLEMENT, ABIGAIL STARTED TO OPEN THE THICK VOLUME, BUT BESSIE LAID HER HAND GENTLY ON THE OTHER WOMAN'S, STAYING IT.

  "IT'S FOR LATER," BESSIE SAID SOFTLY. "YOU DON'T WANT TO BE READING IT NOW, NOT THE DAY BEFORE YOUR WEDDING."

  ABIGAIL'S EYES FIXED ON THE SERVANT. "THEN WHEN SHOULD I READ IT?" SHE ASKED.

  BESSIE DELACOURT STRAIGHTENED UP. "YOU'LL KNOW," SHE SAID QUIETLY. "YOU'LL KNOW WHEN TO READ WHAT'S WRITTEN IN IT, AND YOU'LL KNOW WHEN TO WRITE IN IT YOURSELF. BUT IT BELONGS TO THE WOMEN OF THIS FAMILY. IT HOLDS ALL THE SECRETS. THE MEN DON'T KNOW ABOUT IT, AND THEY DON'T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT IT!"

  AS BESSIE DELACOURT LEFT THE ROOM, ABIGAIL SMITHERS GAZED APPREHENSIVELY AT THE BIBLE, HER FINGERS STROKING ITS ALREADY WORN LEATHER. SHOULD SHE OPEN IT?

  BUT NO—BESSIE HAD SPECIFICALLY TOLD HER SHE SHOULDN'T READ IT NOW. AND SHE WAS CERTAIN SHE KNEW WHY. UNDOUBTEDLY, THE PAGES CHRONICLED ALL THE INEVITABLE TRAGEDIES THAT HAD BEFALLEN FRANK'S FAMILY OVER THE YEARS, AS WELL AS THE JOYS ALL FAMILIES SHARED, AND THE SERVANT DIDN'T WANT HER TO CLOUD THE HAPPINESS OF TOMORROW BY READING THE SAD PARTS TODAY.

  CARRYING THE BIBLE TO THE TRUNK SHE'D BROUGHT WITH HER LAST WEEK FROM BATON ROUGE, SHE BURIED IT DEEP BENEATH THE LINENS AND LINGERIE THAT WERE HER TROUSSEAU.

  THE SERVANT WAS PROBABLY RIGHT—SHE WOULD KNOW WHEN TO READ THE ENTRIES IN THE BIBLE, BUT IT CERTAINLY WAS NOT TODAY.

  OR TOMORROW, EITHER.

  BESSIE DELACOURT POLISHED THE LAST SMUDGE OFF THE LAST PENDANT OF THE IMMENSE CHANDELIER THAT HUNG OVER THE GREAT MAHOGANY TABLE IN THE DINING ROOM. THE CLOCK IN THE LIBRARY WAS TOLLING THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT, AND EVERY MUSCLE IN HER BODY PROTESTED AS SHE CLIMBED DOWN OFF THE LADDER.