Right Hand of Evil by John Saul Page A

thick, creeping kudzu that snaked out of the forest to slowly engulf the property, banking up against the carriage house, swallowing up the shrubs that had once had their own distinctive shapes and colors but were now slowly being strangled under the thick tentacles of twisted vines. Even the enormous oaks, willows, and magnolias were on the verge of succumbing to the tendrils, which had reached all but their highest branches; soon they, too, would be choked by the invader.
    Yet even the devastation brought by the kudzu couldn't completely erase the vision in Janet's mind. Despite the decades of grime that still fogged the lower portion of the windows, she could see the possibilities. Tomorrow-maybe even this afternoon-she would start hacking away at the encroaching foliage. She'd start with the trees; once she cut through the thick stems of the vines, cutting off their connections to their roots, they would quickly die off, and pulling them down would be much easier. She would cut those that were climbing over the house, too. And this weekend Jared could begin clearing off the rest of the property, stripping the kudzu away. The lawn, of course, had been ruined years ago, but some of the larger shrubs might yet be saved. And halfway between the conservatory and the woods, she could just make out the shape of what looked like a fountain. In her mind's eye she stripped away the tangle of vines to reveal…
    What?
    Marble! Yes, of course. It would be made of marble-though limestone would be almost as good-carved into some wonderful pattern over which the water would shimmer and ripple as it flowed. She could almost see the plumes of water that would rise from the restored fountain, nearly hear the gentle sound of its spray splashing back into the catchment basin. Perhaps they could even put some goldfish in it.
    The vision took on more details, and Janet could see the beginnings of a painting. Or better yet, a trompe l'oeil mural big enough to cover an entire wall of one of the house's huge rooms. It would depict the grounds as they would have looked when the house was new, when Ted's ancestors had first built it. The gardens would have been formal, she was sure, with perfectly manicured box hedges bordering beds of azaleas and roses. A profusion of flowers, in every color of the rainbow. There would have been furniture, too-white-painted wrought iron, upon which graceful women holding parasols would lounge.
    Pointillism. That was it. And perhaps she would give it a French cast, to fit with the New Orleans influences of the town. She would do it in the style of Georges Seurat, filling it with light and texture and-
    A sudden sharp rap on one of the French doors leading to the terrace outside the conservatory jerked her out of her reverie, startling her so badly she almost knocked over the ladder upon which she'd been so precariously perched only a few minutes before. "Hello?" a voice called from outside. "Is anybody here?"
    Steadying the ladder, Janet went to the French doors, fumbled with the lock, then pushed the handle down. When she pulled on the door, the upper corner stuck fast, the frame warped so badly that the glass threatened to break.
    "Stop!" the voice from outside called. "Let me push from out here!"
    Janet let the door go fully shut. Then, as she tried to ease it open again, the person outside struck the upper corner sharply and the door came free.
    "I hate these old French doors," Corinne Beckwith announced as she stepped into the conservatory. "The frames always stick. This fancy stuff might have been okay a hundred and fifty years ago, but give me something nice and modern, preferably in anodized aluminum. No paint, no rust, no upkeep." She gazed around at the interior of the conservatory, and Janet could practically see her adding up the hours it would take just to clean this one room.
    "The others are just as bad," Janet said.
    The other woman shook her head slowly. "I don't know." She sighed. "I guess it's