Angel of Mercy by Andrew Neiderman Page A

his troubled time,” she explained. “Who is this, please?”
    “This i. “Todd Livingston. Where’s my father?”
    “He’s sleeping. My sister gave him something to help him sleep and he’s sleeping soundly, finally,” she said, emphasizing the ‘finally’ so he would make no request to have her wake Tommy.
    “Well, if he should wake up before you leave, will you tell him I called?”
    “Of course, but Faye said he would sleep through the night now.”
    “Oh. Well, do you think I should return?”
    “No, that’s not necessary. I’m staying.”
    “Oh. Well, call me if you need me. No matter what time. My number’s…”
    “I know your number, Todd. My sister put all the important numbers on the bulletin board here in the kitchen.”
    “Okay. Thanks.”
    “No need to thank me,” she said. “Good night, Todd. Try to get some rest.”
    “Right. Good night,” he said.
    After she cradled the receiver, she returned to the bedroom to be sure Tommy hadn’t been disturbed.
    Then she moved quietly through the room, gazing at everything: Sylvia’s cosmetics, combs, and brushes on the vanity table, the pictures on the dressers, the clothing in the armoire and in the closets, and even the clothing in the drawers.
    She did the same thing with the rest of the house: walking into every room, inspecting every closet, every drawer, studying every artifact, every picture.
    She knew where Tommy Livingston kept his rifles and his fishing poles.
    She knew where the supply of toilet paper was stored. By the time she retreated to the sofa in the den, she knew everything there was to know about this house and its contents, just as she had known everything about her parents’ house.
    Satisfied, she made a little bed for herself in the den.
    Then she got down on her knees, clutched her hands, closed her eyes, and recited her usual nighttime prayer.
    “God bless Faye for all the wonderful work she does to help people who are sick, and God bless Mommy and Daddy in Heaven. Amen.”
    She took off her brace, snapped off the lamp and dropped herself into the comfortable warm darkness.
    Nighttime made her snuggle. She whimpered a little like a baby for a moment and then she closed her eyes and envisioned the photographs in the album, only this time the people in them could move and smile and laugh, especially the lovely couple: Tommy and Sylvia. Tommy was so happy, he positively glowed when he had Sylvia in his arms or beside him. And now, look at how unhappy he was.
    But Tommy won’t be unhappy long, she thought.
    No, not for long. Faye had brought her here to help him. And she would.
    Tommy Livingston awoke with a start. It was almost as though Sylvia had nudged him. He half expected to hear her familiar “Wake up, Rip Van Winkle.” He turned and gazed stupidly at the empty place beside him in the king-size brass-framed bed.
    Her place was untouched and cold, her pillow without a crease. None of this had been a bad dream. Sylvia was gone for good.
    He sat up slowly, feeling years older than he was, and scrubbed his face with his dry palms. Funny, he thought, how he hadn’t noticed how quiet the house had been with Sylvia in the hospital. Now that she was definitely gone, that silence was emphatic. In fact, if he concentrated, he could hear the whir of the refrigerator motor.
    For the moment he couldn’t remember how he had gotten into bed or when he had undressed. His mind was so cloudy. He recalled greeting people after the funeral and then… when did he go to bed? He hated this confusion. Damn it, he thought, shaking his head as if he expected to shake his thoughts and memories loose. Instead he felt nauseous and dizzy and had to lie back again. After he got his breath, he sat up and gazed around the room.
    Everything was neatly put away, no garments hanging over chairs, the closet doors and dresser drawers closed, the curtains drawn. When did he do all that?
    His gaze went to the telephone and clock on his night table.