Free Right Hand of Evil by John Saul

They'd barely arrived in St. Albans, and already he'd made an enemy. "It's just that in a small town, there are always objections to change, aren't there?" Father MacNeill said smoothly. He glanced at his watch, a gesture Janet interpreted as an excuse to cut the conversation short. "Good Heavens, look at the time," he said, betraying himself by putting a little too much surprise into his voice. "I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I'm running late."
    An uncomfortable silence spread over the little group as the priest hurried back into the church. Then Ted said, "Well, I guess I put my foot in it with him, didn't I?"
    I
guess you did,
Janet thought, but bit back the words before she spoke them.
    Corinne Beckwith, though, nodded. "Father MacNeill doesn't like having his toes stepped on. Not about religion, or anything else. But it isn't just what you said. I think it's your house, too."
    "Our house?" Janet repeated. "What could be wrong with fixing up our house? I'd think everyone would be thrilled."
    "Not around here," Corinne Beckwith replied. "That area's zoned residential, and I have a feeling there will be a lot of opposition to giving you a variance."
    "But why?" Janet pressed. "If we're bringing money into the town-"
    Corinne shook her head. "Money has nothing to do with it." She hesitated, then went on. "It's your family. There are a lot of people here who simply don't have much fondness for anyone named Conway." Her lips twisted into an apologetic semblance of a smile. "Welcome to St. Albans."
     
    Father Devlin slowly emerged from his trance of prayer.
    The church was silent; Cora Conway's funeral over.
    Slowly, every joint and muscle protesting, he pulled himself to his feet and haltingly made his way back to the tiny cell he occupied on the top floor of the rectory. The cell was his penance, a penance he had assigned himself forty years ago, on the day he knew he'd failed. He'd resigned his ministry that day, turning over his church and his authority to young Father MacNeill, and retreated to his cell to spend whatever remained of his life contemplating his own sins.
    And offering comfort to the only penitent he would hear.
    Cora Conway.
    The years had slowly ground by, each seeming longer than the one before, and he slowly came to understand that even death was to be withheld from him.
    He even understood why: his failure to find a way to absolve Cora Conway, to release her from the torture that gripped her mind. Even three days ago, when he'd administered the last rites of their faith, he'd still been unable to cast out the demons that haunted her.
    "Take this," she'd breathed, her clawlike fingers stroking the worn leather of her Bible. "It's in here. Everything is in here." Then, just as he was about to leave, she'd spoken one more time.
    "And this," she'd whispered, her shaking fingers grasping the music box that sat on the table by her bed. He'd brought her the music box himself, on the day she'd been brought to the Willows, but he'd never heard it play. "Take it," Cora had whispered. "Listen to its voices."
    He'd slipped the music box into the pocket of his cassock, pronounced a final benediction upon Cora's troubled soul, and then departed, the weight of her Bible-and her troubles-almost more than he could bear.
    Until today he hadn't opened Cora's Bible, but now he carefully lowered himself onto the straight-backed chair and reached for the Bible on the table nearby. Chair, table, and narrow cot comprised the only furnishings of his cell. He pulled the Bible close and, holding it by its cracked spine, allowed it to fall open to whatever page upon which God might place His finger.
    The Bible opened to the division between the two testaments, where lay the history of the generations through which the ancient Bible had passed. The page that lay open in front of Father Devlin was filled with careful, cursive script of a time gone by, but despite the clarity of the letters, Father Devlin still had to strain to