The Right Hand of Evil Page 2

  Not that Cora kept track of the days anymore, for each day was just like the day that had gone before, and would be just like the day that was to come. She would awaken in her bed, here in the room that was so familiar to her that if one morning she woke up blind, the image of her surroundings would be so vivid that the loss of her sight would make no difference.

  The nightstand was on the left.

  The table with the reading lamp and the music box was on the right.

  If she got up from her bed and moved toward the door to the hallway outside her room—a door at the end of a short corridor that pierced the exact center of the north wall of her room—she would pass two other doors.

  The one to the left led to the closet that contained her clothing.

  The one on the right led to the bathroom she shared with the person in the room next to hers.

  She had never seen the person in the room next to hers, had no idea if it was a man or a woman.

  Nor did she care.

  There was a window in the south wall of her room, but Cora had no need to look out of it: it faced another window a few feet away, beyond which was a room that she was quite certain was a mirror image of her own.

  Once, long ago, she'd wondered if that room contained a woman who was a mirror image of herself, and the next time she'd looked in the mirror above the dresser that sat against the wall opposite the foot of her bed, she'd wondered if she might really be looking through a window into another apartment. She'd watched the woman in the mirror grow old, watched the face lose the beauty it had once had. She'd stopped touching her own face at all, clinging to the belief that the image in the mirror couldn't be hers.

  That was why she never looked at her hands, or her feet, or any other part of herself.

  That was why, day after day, she lay on her back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  And waited as the days passed.

  After Cora woke up, the woman with the breakfast tray would come, and then she would sit up, lean against the pillows, and eat her breakfast, careful not to glance at the woman in the mirror.

  She would lie on her back until the boy brought lunch.

  She would lie on her back until another woman brought dinner.

  She spoke to no one; if she spoke, she would have to hear her own voice, which she had no desire to do.

  She would go to sleep, and then wake up, and one day was exactly like the one that had passed, and the one to come.

  She had no idea when the fog had begun to gather. She had merely become aware of it one day, a grayish mist at the far reaches of her consciousness. She hadn't thought much about it, but every now and then she'd noticed that the fog was creeping closer. Its gray was darkening, and it was beginning to blur the images of her world.

  The fog, she thought, was death edging close, and so she began to prepare herself, begging forgiveness for sins grown so remote and indistinct that she had forgotten what those sins might have been. As the fog grew denser, she began to look for death, began to seek it out, searching the gray mists for the dark spirit she knew would soon emerge.

  This morning she had finally seen it.

  She'd caught her first glimpse of it by accident, for as she'd risen from her bed to make her way to the bathroom, she'd let her eyes stray toward the mirror over the dresser. Though she'd turned sharply away, something in the mirror had seeped into her memory, and when she came out of the bathroom a little while later, she went to the mirror and peered into it.

  The woman she saw in the glass bore no resemblance to herself: the clouded eyes were sunk deep in a mass of wrinkled skin, and only a few wisps of whitish hair covered the blotchy scalp. But it wasn't the image of the dying woman that had caught Cora's attention; it was something that loomed behind her.

  Though she'd never seen it before, she recognized it right away.

  Death was finally emerging from the mist, coming for her.

  In her mind, Cora had always seen the figure of Death clad in black, its eyes glowering coldly out from a skeletal face all but lost in the folds of its hood. But the angel who now approached her was nothing like the image she'd conjured in her imagination. This spirit wore no hood. The folds of its shroud flowed gracefully around it in shimmering waves of silver, and a radiant smile bathed its face in a golden glow. Its arms were spread wide as if to enfold her in a comforting embrace. The horror Cora had always felt toward death—the certain knowledge that whatever eternity might await her would be far worse than the years she'd already endured—began to crumble as the luminous figure approached.

  Instinctively, her fingers moved to the tiny golden cross that hung from a thin chain around her neck, and she traced its delicate shape as she recalled for the first time in countless years the words of the person who had placed it upon her: "This will protect you. Never let it go until the angel comes for you."

  Cora had not understood then, had never thought of Death as an angel who would deliver her from the weight of her years, but only as a harbinger of the punishment yet to come.

  Now, as the figure moved closer, the swirling dark fog seemed to lift.

  Returning to her bed, she sat on its edge and pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand. It was filled almost to overflowing with the detritus of a nearly forgotten life—scraps of paper with meaningless words scrawled on them, coupons torn from newspapers and magazines, small gifts brought by people whose names and faces had long since fallen from her memory. The drawer jammed halfway out, then crashed to the floor when Cora jerked it free. Falling to her knees, she rummaged through the litter on the carpet, her fingers searching for the single object that she knew—with sudden, piercing clarity—she must find.

  When the nurse found her, Cora was still on the floor.

  She tried to explain what she was looking for, but the words wouldn't come, and when the nurse lifted her back onto the bed, Cora was unable to resist. She struggled against the straps the nurse bound her with, but they were too strong for her.

  As she wrestled against the constricting bands, she caught another glimpse of Death in the mirror, and let herself sink into the familiar contours of the mattress, let the pillow cradle her head, and watched as the spirit drew closer.

  The afternoon light faded as the spirit emerged from the glass, and Cora felt the comforting presence of Death so close by that had it not been for the straps restraining her arms, she might have reached out and drawn it to her.

  Darkness closed around her. She thought she heard the spirit's voice, whispering that it was time for her to go.

  Cora's lips worked, struggling to form words she hadn't spoken for years. "Ted," she whispered at last. "I want ... please ... Ted."

  Drained by the effort it took to speak, a great sigh escaped Cora Conway's lungs, and she lay still.

  For a moment the nurse thought Cora Conway had died, but then she saw that the old woman was still breathing, though shallowly. She seemed to have lapsed once more into the semicoma in which she'd lain for months; the nurse loosened the restraints. She would look in on her later, before her shift was over, to see how she was doing. Only then, if the patient seemed to be weakening, would she call the old woman's only relative.

  Her nephew, Ted Conway, who hadn't visited his aunt in years. No reason to call, the nurse thought, unless some further change indicated that his aunt was dying.

  Then, perhaps, he would come, if only to say goodbye.

  Ted Conway glanced up as the five o'clock news came on the television behind the bar, and signaled Tony for one last vodka tonic before calling it a day. He was tired—despite what Janet had said, he hadn't just been "drinking up his paycheck" in the bar all afternoon. He'd been working, reviewing the file that lay open in front of him, but mostly keeping an eye on the bartender, whom he was all but certain was ripping off the Majestic. Ted still wasn't sure how Tony was doing it—he'd kept a careful eye on the way Tony poured the drinks, and even asked for a couple of straight shots, just to make sure the liquor wasn't bei
ng watered. Nor had he been able to catch Tony palming money, though he hadn't been able to rule it out, either. One thing he'd discovered in his twenty years in the hotel business was that bartenders learned lots of tricks, and sleight of hand wasn't the rarest of them. The trouble was, Frank Gilman, the general manager, wouldn't spring for the equipment they needed to keep their bartenders honest. All it required was a liquor meter, and a computerized cash register that wouldn't let the meter pour any booze that wasn't on a bill.

  "We're not the Sheraton," Gilman had groused when Ted brought up the problem the previous week. "We can't afford that kind of stuff, and even if we could, I wouldn't put it in. A bartender should have the right to buy a customer a drink now and then. It keeps them coming back."

  Well, at least Gilman was right about one thing: the Majestic was no Sheraton. Ted had worked in a Sheraton for a while, and it was a hell of a lot nicer than this dump. In fact, he thought, he'd still be there if the general manager hadn't been such an asshole. He still didn't understand what the big deal had been about his keeping a bottle of Smirnoff in his desk. After all, wasn't the hotel business based on hospitality? So he had a few drinks with the vendors who came in trying to sell him everything from linens to bar snacks. What was the big deal? That's how business worked. At least Frank Gilman understood that.

  Tony put the fresh drink in front of him, and Ted was about to pick it up when he stiffened, knowing, even before he glanced up into the mirror behind the bar, that Frank Gilman was standing behind him. In the brief moment before he put on his best assistant manager's smile—the one that rarely failed to disarm even the angriest of hotel guests—he wondered why he could always sense the general manager's presence. And it wasn't just Gilman—it was every damn manager he'd ever worked for. It wasn't anything tangible; just a sixth sense he'd always had. But what was Gilman doing here? It was Friday—Gilman's golf day—and he'd left right after lunch, just like he always did. So what brought him back? If there'd been a problem in the hotel, someone would have called him. But the afternoon had been dead quiet, except for Janet coming in and hassling him about the credit card. Other than that, nothing had been going on. Nada. Then, as Gilman slid into the space next to him, he understood: his boss was finally taking his concerns about Tony seriously, and had dropped in to check up on him.

  "I still don't get it, Frank," Ted said, keeping his voice low enough so Tony wouldn't be able to hear him. "I know he's doing it, but I don't know how."

  Gilman's eyes narrowed. "Maybe we should talk in my office," he suggested.

  Draining the vodka tonic Tony had set in front of him less than five minutes earlier, Ted stood up, steadied himself against the bat, then started after Gilman, who was already pushing through the door to the lobby.

  "Don't forget your file, Ted," Tony said.

  Turning back, Ted swept the file off the bar, swearing under his breath as half the papers fluttered to the floor. He knelt quickly, stuffed them back in the folder, then hurried after Gilman.

  The bartender watched him go. As the door swung shut behind Conway, he turned back to his halfhearted polishing of the bar glasses, and the conversation he'd been having with the hooker perched two stools away from Ted all afternoon. "Don't think we'll be seeing him around much longer," he observed.

  The hooker shrugged. "Too bad. At least he never hassled me like the last one."

  Tony chuckled. "Think he was ever sober enough to notice you?"

  The prostitute's laugh was just enough to carry through the door into the lobby, where Ted was about to step into Frank Gilman's office. Maybe when he was done with Frank, Ted thought, he'd go back to the bar and run the hooker out of the place. People like her could give the hotel a worse name than it already had. He moved through the door to the general manager's office, closing it behind him to shut out the whore's laughter. It wasn't until he was about to lower himself into the deep comfort of the worn leather easy chair in front of Gilman's desk that he realized that Gilman was still on his feet, leaning against his desk, his arms folded over his chest. Ted, his reflexes too slow to recover his feet, dropped gracelessly into the chair.

  "You're drunk again, Ted."

  Though Gilman hadn't stated it as a question, Ted shook his head vigorously. "I had a couple of drinks, sure," he admitted. "But how else am I going to nail that son of a—"

  "Don't bother," Gilman cut in. "You've been sitting at the bar all afternoon, and by the last count, you'd had ten drinks."

  Ted rose to his feet, his face reddening as his temper pounded at his temples. "Who said that? I had two drinks, and even those hardly had anything in them!"

  Gilman's lips tightened and he shook his head. "It's too late, Ted. Tony doesn't short the drinks, and he isn't stealing from us."

  Ted's eyes squinted into angry slits. "I can prove he is."

  "You can't, because he isn't. Anyway, not what I call stealing. But looking at your expenses, I can't say the same for you."

  Caught off guard, Ted hesitated. "Expenses?"

  Gilman picked up a thin sheaf of papers from his desk. "You turned in a three-hundred-dollar bar tab last month, Ted. Three hundred dollars. I'd ask you how you did it, but I'm not sure I really want to know." As Ted started to speak, Gilman held up a hand to silence him. "I really don't want to know, Ted." Now he picked up an envelope and handed it to Ted. "This is your last paycheck. I put in a month's severance, and you can keep your medical for three months. Pretty generous, I'd say." His brows arched. "Frankly, if I were you, I'd use it to get some help with your drinking problem."

  A vein in Ted Conway's forehead began to throb. "I don't have a problem," he began. "So I have a drink or two now and then. Who doesn't?" He gestured vaguely toward the expense report. "And most of that stuff's business." His voice took on a wheedling note. "C'mon, Frank, you know how it is! You used to do my job."

  "And I was sober when I did it, Ted." He moved toward the door. "I'm going to need your keys."

  Ted stared at his boss, reality finally sinking in. "You know what?" he said, fishing the heavy ring of keys out of his pocket and flinging them on the manager's desk. "You can't fire me, Frank. I quit! You run a crappy hotel here, and I can't believe how long I've hung around trying to clean it up. Well, the hell with it, Frank. The hell with it, and the hell with you! You can take this whole place and shove it." Snatching the envelope containing his last paycheck from Gilman's hand, Ted wheeled around and jerked the door open.

  "On my report to the state, I'll say I laid you off, Ted," Gilman said. "That way you can collect your unemployment right away, and you won't have it on your record that you got fired. It's the best I can do for you."

  Ted Conway ignored Gilman's words. Slamming the door shut behind him, he started across the lobby toward the bar, then remembered what Gilman had said about how many drinks he'd had that afternoon. Goddamn bartender must have been spying on him! Well, there were plenty of other places where he could get a drink.

  And plenty of other hotels that needed a good assistant manager, too.

  Who the hell needed the Majestic?

  Goddamn dive!

  It wasn't until he was a block away from the hotel, with the dank heat of the late afternoon sapping his anger, that he thought of Janet, and what she'd say when he told her he'd quit his job.

  Automatically, Ted Conway turned into the first bar he came to.

  CHAPTER 3

  How much longer? Janet wondered. The unspoken question had seemed utterly innocuous when it first popped into her mind, relating to nothing more earthshaking than how much longer the reheated casserole in the oven might hold out before it would need the addition of a little milk to keep it palatable. But as she cracked the oven open to test the tuna and noodle concoction, the question that had posed itself in her mind kept coming back, each time attaching itself to another aspect of her life.

  How much longer before Ted comes home?

  How much longer until he gets fired again?

  How much
longer do the kids have to put up with the fights?

  How much longer can I put up with it?

  "Will you stop worrying, Mom?" she heard her son say, and for a moment she thought she must have spoken aloud. Then she saw the mischievous glint in Jared's eyes. "We'll just tell Kim and Molly that the mold is parsley, or blue cheese or something."

  Janet took a mock swing at Jared with the mixing spoon, and he spun out of range with a grace she would have expected from a dancer rather than a football player. Not that Jared bore the bulk of most football players; at nearly sixteen, with only 160 pounds on his six-foot frame, he was considerably smaller and lighter than most of his teammates. Still, despite Jared's quick reflexes and lean agility, Janet always cringed when she saw those big, lumbering tackles charging toward her son. "I've never served you moldy food yet, Jared Conway, but if you keep that up, I just might start!"

  "Want me to call Pa and see how late he's going to be?" Jared asked, ignoring her threat as he opened the drawer next to the sink and pulled out a handful of silverware. Though he'd tried to make the question sound casual, there was enough tightness in his voice to betray his true question: Shall I see if I can find Pa at all?

  Janet hesitated, then shook her head. "Let's give him another half hour, then we'll go ahead and eat and I'll just save some for him."

  Jared hesitated, too, and Janet thought he was going to say something else, but he picked up a bunch of paper napkins and began setting the Formica-topped table that she'd bought seventeen years ago at a garage sale. At the time, her mother had deemed it "perfectly acceptable for newlyweds." Janet suspected that her mother's words now wouldn't be nearly as charitable. In fact, she suspected her mother would be less than charitable about her whole situation. She glanced around the kitchen, which was even more in need of a coat of paint than the rest of the house, and wondered if there were any possibility of convincing the landlord to repaint the place, and fix the roof as well. Fat chance! She'd begged for new screens all summer, hoping that the kids wouldn't have to make the choice between sweating through the nights in airless bedrooms or opening the windows to clouds of merciless mosquitoes.