Divine Evil (40 page)

They were old, and obviously well used. Some of the pages were splattered with coffee or liquor stains. Passages were underlined, pages dog-eared.

“Where did you get these?”

She blew out smoke. “They were my father's.”

With his eyes on hers, he set them aside. “Maybe you'd better sit down and explain.”

“I'll stand up and explain.” She took another jerky drag and exhaled. “I found them boxed up in the attic. In my father's old office. I don't know if you were aware, but he was fascinated by religion. All religions. He also had books on Islam, Hinduism, stacks on Catholicism—any other
ism
you can name. Blair seems to think I should have brought these to you.”

“You should have.”

“I don't agree.” She put out the cigarette, snapping it in half. “But since Blair was adamant, I said I would. Now I have.”

“Sit down, Slim.”

“I'm not in the mood to be interrogated. I brought them to you, and you can make what you like out of it.”

He studied her in silence. Her eyes were too bright, her mouth just beginning to tremble. Cam rose from his chair and walked around the desk. As she stood rigid, he put his arms around her.

“I know this isn't easy.”

“No, you don't know. You can't know.”

“If I had a choice, I'd tell you to take the books and walk away so we could pretend this never happened.” He drew back. “I don't have that choice.”

“He was a good man. I had to listen to people say terrible things about him once. I don't think I could stand it a second time.”

“I'll do everything I can. That's all I can promise.”

“I want you to try to believe in him. I want you to see that owning these books, reading them, studying them, even believing in some of what they say wouldn't make him a bad person.”

“Then let me try to prove that. Sit down. Please.”

She did, stiffly, her hands linked on her lap.

“Clare, did he ever talk to you about these books or what's in them?”

“No, never. He talked about religions. It was a big topic, especially after—after he started drinking. He went back into the church. He was raised Catholic, but he'd had a real attitude about organized religion because of the way he was raised.”

“When did he go back to the church?”

“When I was about seven or eight. It became very important to him. Blair and I ended up going to CCD classes and making our First Communion. The whole bit.”

“That would have been about twenty years ago?”

“Yeah.” She smiled wanly. “Time marches on.”

He noted it down, wondering what events he could tie in. “Did you ever wonder why?”

“Sure. At the time I was too young to think about it. And I liked the mass and the music, the priest's clothes. The whole ritual.” She stopped abruptly, uncomfortable with her own choice of words. “Later, I suppose I figured that he'd just gotten a little older, put some distance between himself and all the things he'd rebelled against in his upbringing. He'd probably missed the security and the familiarity. He'd have been about the age I am now,” she murmured. “Nearly thirty and starting to wonder what the rest of his life would be like. He was worried about Blair and me, too. The fact that we'd had no religious training. He felt as though he'd overcompensated for his parents by going as far in the opposite direction as possible.”

“Did he say that?”

“Yes, actually, I remember him saying almost exactly that to my mother. Dad was what my mother called a fretter. Always worrying whether he'd done the right thing or, if he had, whether he'd done it well enough. He tried so hard not to stuff the church down our throats. He wasn't a fanatic, Cam. He was just a man struggling to do his best.”

“When did he start drinking, Clare?”

“I don't really know.” Her fingers began to twist together on her lap. “It wasn't a sudden thing, more of a progressive one. None of us really noticed at first. I remember him having a whiskey and soda after dinner. Then maybe he'd have two. Then he stopped bothering with the soda.”

The misery in her voice had him reaching over to still her hands. “Clare, I've been down that road. I'm the last one who would condemn him.”

“I feel disloyal. Can't you understand? I feel like I'm betraying him by talking about his flaws and mistakes.”

“He was a whole person. Whole people have flaws.
Don't you think he'd have wanted you to recognize them and love him anyway?”

“You sound like my shrink.” She rose and walked to the window. “I was thirteen the first time I saw him really drunk. I'd come home from school. Blair had band practice, and my mother was at a meeting. Emmitsboro Boosters or something. Dad was at the kitchen table, crying into a bottle of whiskey. It scared me to see him that way, reeking and sobbing, his eyes all red. He kept telling me how sorry he was. His words were all slurred together, and he tried to stand up. He fell. He just lay there on the kitchen floor, crying and trying to apologize.” She brushed impatiently at a tear. “‘I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. I don't know what to do. I can't do anything. I can't change it. I can't go back and change it.’”

“Change what?”

“His drinking, I suppose. He couldn't control it. He didn't think he could change it. He told me he'd never wanted me to see him that way. He was really frantic about that. He'd never wanted me to see, wanted me to know.”

“Wouldn't that have been around the time he was making the deal for the shopping center?”

“Yes. And the closer all that came to being a reality, the more he drank. My father was a very uncomfortable criminal. His ambitions might have gotten out of line, but his conscience made him pay.”

“I want you to try to think. Did he go out at night with any regularity? Did he go out with someone or a particular group?”

Sighing, she turned back. “He belonged to all kinds of groups, Cam. The Jaycees, the Optimist Club, the Knights of Columbus. He was out quite a bit for meetings, dinners, to show houses after hours. I used to ask to
go with him, but he would tuck me into bed and tell me I had to wait until I grew up, then he would make me his partner. One night I snuck into his car—” She broke off, eyes panicked, cheeks paling.

“You snuck into his car?” Cam prompted.

“No, no, I didn't. I only dreamed I did. You can keep the books if you think they'll help. I need to get back.”

He took her arm before she could bolt for the door. “What did you dream, Clare?”

“For Christ's sake, Cam, my dreams are certainly my business.”

She had the same look on her face, precisely the same look, as when he had pulled her out of the nightmare. “Where did he go that night?”

“I don't know. I was dreaming.”

“Where did you dream he went?”

She went limp, seemed to fold into herself when he eased her into the chair again. “I don't know. It was a dream. I was only about five or six.”

“But you remember the dream. You still have the dream.”

She stared at the books on Cam's desk. “Sometimes.”

“Tell me what you remember.”

“It didn't happen. I woke up in my own bed.”

“Before you woke up?”

“I dreamed I hid in the back of the car. I knew he was going out, and I wanted to surprise him, to show him that I was big enough to be his partner. We didn't go to a house. We were outside. I followed him. It seemed like such an adventure. There was a place, and other men were there. I thought it was a meeting, like the Moose or the Elks, because … they all wore long black robes with hoods.”

Oh, God, Slim, he thought. What did you see? “Go ahead.”

“They wore masks, and I thought that was funny because it wasn't Halloween. It was spring. I hid in the bushes and watched.”

“There were other men. Who were they?”

“I don't know. I didn't pay attention. I was looking at my father. They made a circle and rang a bell. There were women. Two women in red robes. One of them took off the robe and lay down on top of something. I was fascinated and embarrassed all at once. There was chanting and a fire. A big fire. I was sleepy, and I couldn't understand it all. The man in the big mask had a sword. It glinted in the moonlight. He would say things, then the rest of the group would say things.”

“What things?”

“I couldn't understand.” But she had read the books, and she had remembered. “They weren't names I knew.”

“Names?”

“Oh, God, Cam, the names in the books. The calling up of demons.”

“Okay, take it easy.”

She swiped the heel of her hand over her cheek. “I was cold and tired, and I wanted Daddy to take me back home. But I was afraid, and I didn't know why. The man in the mask touched the woman, fondled her. They brought out a goat, a little white goat, and he took a knife. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. I wanted to run away, but my legs wouldn't move. The men took off their robes but left their masks on and danced around the pit of fire. I saw my father. I saw him with blood on his hands. And I woke up screaming, in my own bed.”

He pulled her out of the chair to hold her, and his
hands were gentle. But his eyes stared over her shoulder and were cold with fury.

“It wasn't real,” she insisted. “It didn't happen. I woke up in bed, just as I always do when I have that dream. My mother and father were there.”

“Did you tell them about the dream?”

“I couldn't at first. I guess I was hysterical. I remember my father rocking me, stroking my hair and rocking me. He kept telling me it was a dream, just a terrible dream, and that he would never let anything bad happen to me.”

Cam pulled her back, looked long and deep into her eyes. “It wasn't a dream, Clare.”

“It had to be.” Her hands shook. “It had to be a dream. I was in bed. My father was there with me. I know you're thinking about the books. I thought about them too. He must have bought them afterward. He was worried about me, about why I had the dream, and that it kept coming back. He wanted to understand. He was worried about me. For weeks after, he would come into my room at bedtime and tell me silly stories, sing songs, just be there.”

“I know he was worried about you. I know he loved you. But I think he was involved in something he couldn't control. Just like the drinking, Clare.”

She shook her head, frantic, furious. “I'm not going to believe that.”

“Clare, he must have been sick at the thought that you had seen him and what went on. A few years later, you're still having nightmares, he sees that it's not going to stop. And he tries to pull out. He goes back to the religion of his childhood.”

“You didn't know him the way I did.”

“No, I didn't.”

“He would never have hurt anyone. He wasn't capable ofit.”

“Maybe he didn't hurt anyone but himself. Clare, I don't want to hurt you, but I'm going to have to dig deeper. Part of that will be looking into whatever information is available on the land deal, the shopping center business. And your father's death.”

“Why? What possible difference can any of it make now?”

“Because what you saw that night is still going on. Have you told anyone else about your dream?”

“No.”

“Don't.”

She nodded. “Are we finished?”

“No.” He pulled her close again, ignoring her rigid stance. “I'll just wait you out, Slim,” he murmured. “You can step back, build a wall, run away, and cover your trail. I'll just wait you out.”

“I can't think about you and me right now.”

“Yes, you can.” He put a hand under her chin, lifting it until their eyes met. “Because when the rest is done, that's all there is. I love you.” He tightened his grip when she would have turned away. “Damn it, that's one bit you're going to have to swallow once and for all. I love you, and I never expected to feel this way about anybody. But it's a fact.”

“I know. If this could have happened without the rest—”

“It happened. That's the bottom line. I want to know what you're going to do about it.”

She put a hand on his cheek. “I guess I'm going to love you back. That's about all I can do right now.”

“That'll be fine.” He kissed her. “I wish I could fix it for you.”

“I'm old enough to fix things for myself. I'd rather have a friend than a white knight.”

“How about a friend and a black sheep?”

“It's a nice combination. I wasn't holding this back from you. I was,” she corrected before he could speak. “But I was holding it back from myself first. I need to go home and think things through. You'll want to keep the books?”

“Yes. Clare …” He brushed the hair back from her cheeks. “We're going to need to talk again, to go over everything you remember in more detail.”

“I was afraid you'd say that.”

“Why don't we table it for tonight? What do you think about dinner at a Mexican restaurant? They've got pots and paper flowers.”

“I think that sounds like a great idea. Can we take your bike?”

“A woman after my own heart.”

“I'll be ready by seven.” She went to the door, then stopped. “Rafferty, you made it easier than it might have been. I appreciate that.”

Alone, he sat at the desk and studied his notes. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to make it easy for long.

M
IN ATHERTON WAS THE KIND
of woman who kept candles out for a centerpiece with the cellophane still wrapped around them. Almost everything she owned was for show and not for use. She would buy pink or purple candles—her favorite colors—and place them in the genuine brass or crystal holders, where they would stay snug in their clear wrap, never to be lit.

She liked buying things. More, she liked being able to buy things—particularly things her neighbors couldn't afford. Often, she left the price tags on, hoping a guest would take a peek at the base of a vase or statuette. In their place, she would. And did.

Min considered flaunting a responsibility. She was the mayor's wife, after all, and she had her stature to uphold. She knew they were the most well-to-do couple in town and her husband was devoted to her. Hadn't he bought her a pair of honest-to-God diamond earring clips just last Christmas? One-half carat each, too, counting the baguettes. Min showed them off at the Church of God every Sunday.

She made certain her hair was tucked behind her ears and that she tilted her head from side to side as she solemnly sang the hymns so that the stones would catch the light—and the envy of the congregation.

Her home was crowded with furniture. She didn't believe in antiques, no matter how expensive or valuable they might be. Min liked things new, brand spanking new, so that she was the first to use them. She only bought brand names. In that way she could talk about her La-Z-Boy, her Ethan Allen, or her Sealy Posturepedic as if they were members of the family.

Some of the less charitable people of the community said it was a shame she didn't have less money and more taste.

But Min recognized green-eyed jealousy when she saw it and hugged it to her like a medal of honor.

She loved her big, rambling brick house on Laurel Lane and had decorated every inch of it herself, from the living room with its pink and lavender floral sofa and matching draperies, to the powder room with its wild rose ceramic tile and hyacinth wallpaper. She liked big statues of dancing ladies in ball gowns and men in waistcoats. All of her plants were plastic, but they were tucked into precious containers in the form of woolly sheep and cottontail rabbits.

Min's creativity didn't stop with the interior. Goodness no. Many of the residents of Emmitsboro would never have the privilege of being invited inside the Atherton castle. Min felt they deserved some glimpses of the glamour within.

She had her big striped umbrella table on the patio, with its matching chairs and chaise longue. Since real animals made such a mess, she substituted plastic and plaster
ones so that the yard was alive with ducks and squirrels and more sheep.

In the front, opposite her pedestaled moon ball was her pride and joy, a cast-iron stable boy, black-faced, red-liveried, with a permanently sappy grin. Davey Reeder had once done some carpentry work for them and stuck his lunch pail on the statue's outstretched hand. Min had failed to see the humor of it.

Inside and out, Min's home was neat as a pin. For today, the monthly Ladies Club luncheon, she'd even gone down to the florist and bought a centerpiece of lilies and greens. Out of her own pocket. Of course, she'd see that their prissy accountant found a way to deduct it.

A penny saved was a penny left to spend.

“James. James. I want you to come in here and take a look. You know how I value your opinion.”

Atherton stepped out of the kitchen into the dining room, smiling and sipping coffee. He studied his wife in her new pink dress and flowered bolero jacket. She'd worn her diamonds and had had Betty give her a rinse and her best bouffant. She'd had a manicure and a pedicure. Her pink toes peeked out of her size ten heels. Atherton kissed her on the tip of her nose.

“You look beautiful, Min. You always do.”

She giggled and slapped playfully at his chest. “Not me, silly. The table.”

Dutifully, he studied the dining room table. It was fully extended to seat the eighteen expected guests. On the damask cloth were the correct number of Corelle dinner plates with their tiny painted roses. She'd set out little fingerbowls of lemon water, just as she'd seen in a magazine. In the center were the lilies, flanked by the cellophane-wrapped candles.

“You've outdone yourself.”

“You know I like things to look nice.” Eagle-eyed, she walked over to hitch a hold out of her shell pink brocade draperies. “Why, last month when it was Edna's turn, she used plastic plates. I was mortified for her.”

“I'm sure Edna did her best.”

“Of course, of course.” She could have said more about Edna, oh, indeed she could. But she knew James could be impatient. “I wanted to make today extra special. Some of the ladies are just frantic, James. Why, there was even talk about having a self-defense course—which, as I told Gladys Finch when she brought it up, is very unladylike. I'm just worried about what they'll think of next.”

“Now, Min, we're all doing what we have to do.” He winked at her. “You trust me, don't you, Min?”

She blinked at him, eyes bright. “Now, James, you know I do.”

“Then leave it to me.”

“I always do. Still, that Cameron Rafferty—”

“Cameron's doing his job.”

She snorted. “When he's not sniffing around Clare Kimball, you mean. Oh, I know what you're going to say.” She waved her pudgy hand at him and made him smile again. “A man's entitled to his free time. But there are priorités.” She smiled up at him. “Isn't that what you're always saying, James? A man has priorities.”

“You know me too well.”

“And so I should after all these years.” She fussed with his tie. “I know you're going to want to scat before the girls get here, but I'd like it if you'd stay just for a few minutes. The newspaper and the television station are sending people. You wouldn't want to miss the opportunity. Especially if you're going to run for governor.”

“Min, you know that hasn't been settled yet. And”—he tweaked her chin—“it's between you and me.”

“I know, and it's just killing me not to brag on it. The idea that the party is considering you for a candidate. Not that it isn't richly deserved.” She brushed lovingly at his lapels. “All the years you've put into this town.”

“My favorite constituent. I'll stay awhile,” he said, “but don't set your hopes on the governor's mansion, Min. The election year's some ways off,” he reminded her when he saw her face fall. “Let's just take it as it comes. There's the door. Why don't I get it so you can make a grand entrance?”

Clare was late. But it was better than not showing up at all, which is just what would have happened if Gladys Finch hadn't called and asked Clare if she needed a ride. It was hardly a wonder she'd forgotten after she discovered the sculpture missing from the garage.

Kids, she told herself, and wanted to believe it had been kids playing a prank. But deep inside there was a fear that it was something much more deadly.

All she could do was report the theft, which she would do the minute this damned luncheon was over.

Why that piece? she wondered. Why that nightmare image?

She shook off the thought and concentrated on what she had to do next. Unfortunately, the call from Gladys hadn't come until noon, and once Clare had remembered what the offer of the ride was for, she'd had to dash from the garage to the bedroom and throw on a suit.

She wasn't sure if the short blue skirt and military-style jacket constituted ladies luncheon wear, but it was the best she could do. Even now she was driving with her elbows as she struggled to fasten her earrings.

She could only groan when she spotted the van from
the Hagerstown television station. She pulled up behind it and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

She hated public speaking. Hated interviews, hated cameras aimed in her direction. Her palms were already wet and clammy, and she hadn't even stepped out of the car.

One of the last things she'd done in New York had been to cave in and speak to Tina Yongers's club. The art critic had put on the pressure—just as Min had done. And Clare had buckled. Just as she always did.

No backbone. No spine. You wimp. You wuss. She pulled the rearview mirror over and studied her face. Great. She had mascara smeared under her eyes. For lack of something better, she spit on her finger and wiped at it.

“You're a grown woman,” she lectured herself. “An adult. A professional. You're going to have to get over this. And no, you are not going to throw up.”

It went deep, and she knew it. The fear, the panic. All the way back to the weeks after her father had died. All those questions, all those curious eyes focused on her. All those cameras at the funeral.

This is now. Damn it, this is today. Get your queasy stomach and jelly knees out of the car. All of this was bound to take her mind off of being robbed—and the prospect of Cam's asking her why the hell she hadn't locked the garage in the first place.

When she climbed out, the first thing she saw was the moon ball, then the stable boy. A nervous giggle escaped as she started up the walk.

Then there were the lions. She had to stop. She had to stare. Reclining on either side of the steps were a pair of white plaster lions wearing rhinestone collars.

“Excuse me, boys,” she murmured and was grinning when she knocked on the door.

* * *

While Clare was dealing with the Ladies Club, Joleen Butts sat on a folding chair beside her husband in the high school gym. The commencement address was running long, and more than a few people were shifting in their seats, but Joleen sat still and stiff with tears in her eyes.

She wasn't certain why she was crying. Because her boy was taking another giant step toward adulthood. Because he looked so much like his father had when she and Will had donned cap and gown. Because she knew, in her heart, she had already lost him.

She hadn't told Will about the argument. How could she? He was sitting there with his own eyes bright and pride glowing all over his face. Nor had she told him that she had raced up to Ernie's room when he slammed out of the house, on a frantic search for drugs. She'd almost hoped she would find them so that she would have something tangible on which to blame his mood swings.

She hadn't found drugs, but what she had found had frightened her more.

The books, the leaflets, the stubs of black candles. The notebook crammed with drawings of symbols, of strange names, of the number
666
boldly printed a hundred times. The diary that told, in minute detail, of the rituals he had performed. Performed in that room, while she slept. The diary that she had closed quickly, unable to read further.

She had hardly closed her eyes since that day, wondering and worrying if she would find the courage and wisdom to approach him. Now, as the names of the graduating class were called, as the young men and women filed in a stately march to the stage, she watched her son.

“Ernest William Butts.”

Will had the video camera on his shoulder, but his free hand groped for his wife's. Joleen took it, held it. And wept.

In a daze Ernie walked back to his seat. Some of the girls were crying. He felt like crying himself, but he didn't know why. In his hand was his ticket to freedom. He'd worked for twelve years for this single piece of paper so he could go where he wanted. Do as he chose.

It was funny, but Los Angeles didn't seem so important now. He wasn't sure about going there anymore, about finding others like him. He thought he'd found others like him here. Maybe he had.

You have been marked with the sacrificial blood.

But that had been a goat. Just a dumb goat. Not a person. He could hear her scream, and scream and scream.

As the graduation procession marched on, he had to force himself not to press his hands to his ears and run from the gym.

He couldn't afford to bring attention to himself. Beneath his gown his body sweated, the deep acrid sweat of fear. Around him, other graduates were beaming or misty-eyed. Ernie sat stiff and stared straight ahead. He couldn't make a wrong move. They would kill him if he did. If they knew that he had seen. If they suspected that he had panicked for a moment and called the sheriff.

He wouldn't make that mistake again. Ernie took slow, even breaths to steady himself. The sheriff couldn't do any good. No one could stop them. They were too powerful. Mixed with his fear came a quick jolt of dark excitement. He was one of them. Certainly the power was his as well.

He had signed his name in blood. He had taken an oath. He belonged.

That was what he had to remember. He belonged.

It was too late for Sarah Hewitt. But his time was just beginning.

“No word on her yet. Sorry, Bud.”

“It's been more than a week since anybody's seen her.” Bud stood beside his cruiser, looking up and down the street as though his sister might pop out of a doorway, laughing at him. “My mom thinks maybe she lit out for New York, but I … We ought to be able to do more,” he said miserably. “We just ought to be able to do something.”

“We're doing everything,” Cam told him. “We got an APB out on her and her car. We filed a missing persons report. And the three of us have talked to everyone in town.”

“She could've been kidnapped.”

“Bud.” Cam leaned against the hood. “I know how frustrated you must be. But the fact is, there was no sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle. Her clothes and personal items were gone. Sarah's thirty years old and free to come and go as she pleases. If I called the feds and yelled kidnapping, they'd never go along.”

Bud's mouth set in a stubborn line. “She'd have gotten in touch with me.”

“I think you're right. That's what my gut tells me. But the facts don't. All we've got are the facts. We're not going to stop looking. Why don't you go down to Martha's, have Alice fix you a decent cup of coffee?”

He shook his head. “I'd rather work. I saw that report
you're working on. The stuff on cults that Blair Kimball's looking into for you.”

“That's just a theory. We don't have anything solid.” And he didn't want Bud, or anyone else, looking over his shoulder while he investigated the possibilities.