Evil in All Its Disguises

by Hilary Davidson

  EVIL IN ALL ITS DISGUISES

  HILARY DAVIDSON

  EVIL IN ALL ITS DISGUISES

  Copyright © 2013, 2020 Hilary Davidson

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, incidents, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-0989726368 (paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-0989726375 (eBook)

  Cover design by Damonza.com

  Third edition

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BOOKS BY HILARY DAVIDSON

  PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

  For my parents, John and Sheila Davidson.

  With love, affection, and admiration.

  Every year, I appreciate you more

  CHAPTER 1

  The snake had coiled itself halfway around my ankle by the time I spotted it. Cool and smooth against my skin, it inched across my sandaled foot, turning its head back and upwards to meet my gaze. Its slender body was striped with red and yellow and blackish brown. Even though its eyes were all but invisible in its glossy dark head, I was sure it was regarding me with pure defiance.

  “Welcome to Acapulco, Miss Moore.” The hotel clerk’s voice echoed from far, far away. “Is this your first time here?”

  I wanted to answer him—it was my first time in Acapulco, not Mexico—but my tongue had gone sandpaper-dry and my teeth were grinding together. A soft noise escaped from the back of my throat.

  The clerk didn’t notice. “You will enjoy your stay at the Hotel Cerón very much, I promise you.”

  The snake gave an excited shiver, and then abandoned its perch atop my foot, slithering toward the shadows under the reception desk.

  Stepping back several paces, I took a deep breath that didn’t quite fill the pit in my chest. “That snake isn’t poisonous, right?”

  “What snake?” The clerk’s buoyant mood instantly deflated. “Where?”

  “Under your desk.”

  The clerk took a couple of steps back and looked down. The whites of his eyes were startling against his deep tan. The reception desk was a tall wooden counter carved into a series of archways that wouldn’t have been out of place in a church; the openings were fitted with wrought-iron grates. The snake was weaving its way through the slits in the metal, as if on an obstacle course. Briefly, it lifted its head and flicked its tongue, seemingly pleased at being the center of attention. When the clerk screamed, a bellman came running in, and I backed away some more. When I looked at the floor again, the snake was gone.

  I stared at the tiles, holding my breath and waiting for it to reappear. The clerk and the bellman were on the floor, hunting under the desk and cursing in rapid-fire Spanish. The only word I caught was venonoso—poisonous—which wasn’t reassuring. I looked around the lobby. The Hotel Cerón had seemed so charming as I’d strolled in five minutes earlier. There were antique wooden tables with clawed feet and chairs with elaborately carved backs fitted between plush white sofas. The room was dolled up like a Technicolor film set from the 1950s, with its pink tile floor, turquoise pillows, and silver vases holding long-stemmed fragrant pink flowers. Scattered around the walls and on the squared-off columns was a series of black-and-white photographs of Hollywood stars who’d famously made this Mexican resort town their playground. There was a print of my idol, Ava Gardner, who’d brought Frank Sinatra to Acapulco on vacation. I also noticed a shot of Elizabeth Taylor and Mike Todd, who’d gotten married at a local villa. The retro atmosphere had immediately made me feel at home, until the snake decided to give me a personal welcome.

  “Do not worry, Miss Moore. We will find the snake,” the clerk said. The bellman was stretched on the floor, peering under the reception desk.

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “It is very common to see snakes and lizards here, you understand. Even in the water, there are snakes.”

  “Lovely.” I wasn’t phobic about snakes, but I preferred them behind glass, as they were at the Bronx Zoo’s Reptile House. “I guess it’s too late for me to get back on the plane?”

  Behind me, someone said, “Lily?”

  I turned and saw Skye McDermott standing by a pillar. She was blonder and thinner than she’d been when I’d last met up with her, but her heart-shaped face and wide-set gray-blue eyes were instantly recognizable. Now that her hair was platinum, she looked more like Jean Harlow than ever, though her features—eyebrows full, not tweezed into a thin 1930s line, and lips glossy, not painted into a bow—were modern. If Harlow were making movies today, she’d be a dead ringer for Skye.

  “I had no idea you were on this trip!” I was thrilled to see her. We’d traveled together countless times over the years, and even though I rarely saw her outside of press junkets, she was the best travel companion I could ask for.

  “It’s good to see you, Lily.” Her voice was thin, and it quavered on my name. As I went toward her, I noticed her skin was red and blotchy, as if she’d just been running. Up close, her eyes were swollen. Still, she gave me a smile and pulled me into a hug. Skye’s shoulder blades cut through the delicate black silk of her dress, making her seem terribly fragile. Barely five foot two, she was wearing four-inch heels that made her almost the same height as me in my low-heeled sandals.

  “What’s wrong?” I pulled back gingerly, untangling myself from the long, flapperlike strand of reddish orange beads she was wearing. Up close, I could see how heavy her makeup was. She looked gorgeous but exhausted, with purplish half-moons under her eyes that no concealer could cover; I knew, because I’d tried to cover up plenty in my time.

  “Nothing. Just, um, allergies. They’re awful here.” She smiled at me, but I wasn’t convinced. Skye had a definite flair for the dramatic, but she wasn’t someone who walked around weeping. She was usually gregarious and irreverent, and an incorrigible flirt. “What were you saying abou
t a snake?” she asked, swiftly changing the subject.

  “One wanted to get to know me better.” I looked at the tiles again, but they were serpent-free. “I don’t know where it crawled off to, so keep your eyes peeled. I didn’t see its fangs, but the clerk thinks it’s dangerous.”

  “Ugh. There are creepy-crawly things all over the place here,” Skye said. “You’d think the humidity would get rid of them, but the only thing that kills is humans.”

  “Your luggage is already in your suite, Miss Moore.” The clerk slid a small envelope across the counter. I retrieved it, stepping lightly near the desk. The number 527 was scrawled on the front; tucked inside were a pair of electronic key cards.

  “Thank you.”

  “If you will go upstairs, a waiter will bring your dinner to you,” he added. “The kitchen will have everything ready in less than half an hour.”

  “But how do they…?”

  “Steak, medium rare. Grilled root vegetables. Champagne. Crème brûlée,” the clerk recited. If someone had asked me to name a few of my favorite foods, those would all be on the list. “Miss Denny Chiu arranged for everything for you.”

  That cleared up the mystery. Denny was the public relations person who’d organized the trip, and she knew me well. Before I left Barcelona, she’d sent me a travel pillow; when I’d arrived at Jesse’s, I found she’d couriered over a margarita-mixing kit, complete with a pair of cobalt-rimmed glasses from Mexico. Journalists tended to be spoiled on press trips, but this was above and beyond. Before I could say another word, Skye made a gasping, choking sound and burst into tears.

  CHAPTER 2

  I put my hand on her shoulder, and Skye got herself under control quickly. “Sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Don’t apologize.” I rubbed her back, like I used to do for my sister when she was sick, feeling the familiar anxiety welling up inside me.

  “I’ve been…” She shook her head, brushing her fingertips across her cheekbones. “Things have been so awful, Lily.”

  “Do you want to come up to my room to talk?”

  She took a shuddering breath. “Would you… would you mind coming with me to the bar instead?”

  It was close to eight, and the thought of dinner was more appealing than a cocktail. But Skye was distraught and I couldn’t say no. “Sure. We can have a drink and talk.”

  “It’s this way.” Skye put her arm around my shoulders, leading me under an archway and along an empty hallway decked out with bright blue tiles and gilded moldings.

  “Do you want to tell me what made you cry back there?” I asked her once we were out of the clerk’s earshot.

  “It’s just… this is going to take a while to explain.”

  “Should I guess? Either you and Ryan are back together, and you’re trying to figure out how to leave him again, or else you’re dating someone new and he’s making your life hell.”

  “Wow.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “You know me pretty well, don’t you, Lily?”

  Skye had been engaged to a wealthy hedge-fund manager back when I’d been engaged to a man named Martin Sklar, but neither proposal had resulted in a trip down the aisle. Maybe that was part of the reason Skye and I had bonded so well. We both had strange push-pull dynamics in our personal lives that left us perennially uprooted. No wonder we’d become travel writers.

  “So, which is it?”

  “Ryan and I will always be close, but I’m never going to marry him,” Skye said, leading me up a short set of steps. “It’s hard, because he’s such a great guy, and he’d be such an incredible dad.” Her voice was wistful. “But his dream is to get a house in Connecticut and have four kids and a dog and a white picket fence. The thought makes me feel like I’m being smothered. But the worst part is, every other man I meet is such a rat.”

  “They aren’t all rodents,” I said, thinking of a man I knew in New York, a cop named Bruxton. He was part pit bull, but I hadn’t detected any rattiness in him.

  “Well, the ones I meet definitely are. The latest one takes the cake for being a total bastard. Then I end up crying on Ryan’s shoulder, because even though we’re not together anymore, he’s still my best friend. The times we’ve gotten back together never work out. I feel so guilty, because he usually dumps whatever poor girl he’s seeing, and I keep breaking his heart.”

  It was my turn to give Skye a sidelong glance. When she described her ex, he sounded like a cross between a hopelessly devoted lapdog and a limp dishrag. I’d met Ryan only once, a couple of years earlier, at a convention of the Society of American Travel Writers in Germany. He’d struck me as shy but intelligent, with old-fashioned manners that made me like him. We’d had dinner together one night with a group of journalists and their partners in Dresden, and I remembered Skye ridiculing Ryan for wearing jeans and looking schlumpy. You’d never know how much money he makes, would you? she’d asked everyone at the table, embarrassing us all into silence.

  There was an odd kind of intimacy you developed from traveling with other journalists. People revealed a great deal about themselves on the road; taken out of their element, they bonded with strangers quickly, revealing secrets their closest friends back home didn’t know. But road-friendships often didn’t translate into real-life ones. That dinner in Germany was the only time I’d had a meal with Skye and Ryan together.

  “Here we are.” Skye pushed open a wrought-iron door filled in with panes of opaque red glass.

  My stomach rumbled slightly. “Have you had dinner?”

  “I can’t even look at food these days.”

  “I noticed you’re a bit—”

  “Emaciated,” she filled in. “I’ve been kind of sick the past couple of months.”

  “I’m so sorry. Is it…” Is it serious? I wanted to ask, but Skye gave a sharp little laugh.

  “Don’t worry, Lily, it’s not contagious.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m fine. My doctor says a lot of it is stress-induced.”

  As we entered the bar, the host gave us an extravagant nod—almost a bow—and unfurled his arm to indicate that we could pick any seats we wanted. It was a polite but unnecessary gesture, since the place was empty except for its staff. The Hotel Cerón’s bar was a study in scarlet and black. There were tall wrought-iron gates acting like privacy screens, with crimson and fuchsia flowers climbing through them. The room had an upper level that was dominated by a bar counter covered in mirrored tiles; on the wall behind it, jutting out between bottles of tequila and mezcal, was a giant, genderless face. Its features, shaped in plaster, were human, but the way its eyes popped in opposite directions and its mouth, filled with pointed teeth, opened in a scream, startled me.

  Skye must have noticed me staring, because she said, “That’s copied from the ruins of Xochipala. Have you been there?”

  “No. Is it nearby?”

  “It’s in the same state as Acapulco, but it’s a pain in the ass to get to. It was looted decades ago, but there’s still some interesting stuff there.”

  She was quiet while I looked around. The carved wooden tables and ocelot-patterned upholstered chairs around the bar were elegantly tame. The floor at the center of the room was cut open into a smooth oval, guarded by an elaborate, waist-high iron railing. A sweeping staircase led to the level below, which had glittering tiles that I took for a dance floor. There were a few uniformed employees moving about, their footsteps echoing in what felt like a movie set.

  “Are we under quarantine?” I asked. “Where is everyone?”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?” Skye’s teasing tone evaporated. “It’s quiet as a tomb here. Want to sit on the balcony? I know it’s ninety degrees out there and drizzling, but it’s the only way to get any privacy.” I gave her a curious look, and she gave me a tight smile that didn’t quite fit her face. “Plus, that’s the only place you can smoke.”

  “Does that mean you’ve quit?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”


  “That’s great. Is it going to bother you if I smoke?” I asked.

  “No, don’t be silly. It’s fine.”

  We abandoned the air-conditioned comfort of the bar to sit outdoors, and the hot, clammy air draped itself around me like a shroud. It felt as if I’d walked into a tightly enclosed space, instead of an open, empty one. A waiter trailed after us, lighting a citronella candle as we took our seats. Our table was shielded from the rain by a giant umbrella with a golden, tasseled fringe that must have looked absurdly gaudy in daylight. The waiter offered us menus, lit my cigarette, and took our order, returning a couple of minutes later with a pomegranate margarita for me and an orange juice for Skye.

  “So,” I said, exhaling smoke, “are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Skye’s eyes were on the table. “It’s a long story.”

  “You mentioned that already.” I scanned her face, noticing her mouth quiver, as if tears were building up inside her again. I looked away, wanting to give her space in which to compose herself. “The view from this place must be incredible during the day,” I said, staring into the distance. The sun was completely gone, and the sky was an unrelieved expanse of flat blackness, with clouds crowding out the stars that should have been peering down at us. The fronds of towering palm trees rustled as they moved, stirred by salty gusts of ocean breeze that seemed to be the only relief from the merciless humidity. I could hear the water, even if I couldn’t see it. The cliffs, caught in shadow, were pitch-black, a jagged silhouette framed by fiery torches. The streaks of orange flames matched the beads around Skye’s neck; their colors were as vivid outside, by candlelight, as they were indoors.

  “It’s a dead hotel in a dying destination.” Skye’s tone was harsh. “Do you mind if I steal a cigarette?”

  “No, but didn’t you just tell me you quit?”

  “I’m under way too much stress right now,” she answered. “Anyway, tomorrow’s another day.” That made her sound like a peroxided Scarlett O’Hara, but I don’t think she realized it; my love of old movies wasn’t something Skye shared. She waved the waiter over for a light while I watched her, perplexed by the strangeness of her demeanor. She took a long, deep drag and closed her eyes, sighing as she exhaled.