Divine Evil (41 page)

“No, but if we've got something weird going on around here, I could follow up. All that stuff we found out at Biff's shed—and the way Biff was killed. We're saying it's all tied together. Maybe Sarah's being gone is tied in, too.”

“Don't make yourself crazy.” Cam put a hand on Bud's shoulder.

Bud's eyes, desperately tired, met Cam's. “You think it could be all tied together.”

He couldn't hedge. “That's what I think. But thinking and proving's two different things.”

When Bud nodded, his face no longer looked quite so young. “What do we do now?”

“We start all over again.”

“With Biff?”

“No, with the cemetery.”

Sometimes men gather together for reasons other than poker or football, or a Saturday night beer. Sometimes they meet to discuss interests other than business or farming or the women they've married.

Sometimes they gather together in fear.

The room was dark and smelled of damp—a place where secrets had been shared before. Spiders skittered along the walls and built intricate webs to trap their prey. No one would disturb them there.

Only three met. They had belonged the longest. Once there had been four, but the other died in flames, among trees and quiet waters. They had seen to that.

“It can't go on.”

Though voices were hushed, nerves rang loudly.

“It will go on.” This was the voice of assurance and of power. The high priest.

“We've done no more than what was necessary.” This was the soothing tone, the calming one. Beneath it was a quest for power, a thirsty ambition to ascend to the position of high priest. “We have only to keep our heads. There have to be some changes, though.”

“It's all coming apart around us.” Restless fingers reached for a cigarette and match, despite the disapproval of the others. “Rafferty's digging deep. He's sharper than anyone bargained for.”

This was true, and the slight miscalculation was annoying. But nothing that couldn't be dealt with. “He'll find nothing.”

“He already knows about Parker. He got that idiot sheriff down there to reopen the case.”

“It was unfortunate that Garrett chose to speak so freely to a whore. And unfortunate that the whore alerted our good sheriff.” With a fussy movement, James Atherton waved aside the smoke. It wasn't the law that concerned him. He was above the law now. But the quiet, reasonable man beside him who spoke of change was a worry. “But, as they have paid the price, there is nothing to lead the sheriff to us. Nothing but our own stupidity.”

“I'm not stupid.” The cigarette glowed, revealing Mick Morgan's frightened eyes. “Shitfire, that's my point. I've been a cop long enough to know when another one's on the scent. We figured wrong when we thought he wouldn't care squat about Biff. He's got a line on everyone in town.”

“It hardly matters, since everyone of importance is well alibied.”

“Maybe it wouldn't, if he hadn't found all that stuff out
at the farm.” Mick rammed a fist on the rickety table. “Goddamn it, Biff took pictures. Sonofabitch must've been crazy to take pictures of them.”

There was agreement, but no panic. He was much too powerful to panic. “The pictures were destroyed.”

“But Jane Stokey saw them. She's already identified the one girl. I tell you Rafferty isn't going to let go.
Goddamn
Biff.”

“Biff was a fool, which is why he's dead. If we made a mistake, it was in not realizing how large a fool he was earlier.”

“It was the drink,” the other man said sadly. What was left of his conscience mourned the death of a brother. “He just couldn't handle drink.”

“Excuses are for the weak.” This was said sharply and brought both of Atherton's companions to silence. “However, the pieces of evidence the sheriff found there that linked the girl to Biff, link her only to Biff. In the end, it will be a dead man who will be accused of her abduction and murder. I've already taken steps to assure that. Do you doubt me?”

“No.” Mick had learned not to. He looked from one man to the other and knew he, and others, were caught in their tug-of-war for control. “It's hard, you know? I gotta work with Bud every day. I like Bud, and he's just sick about his sister.”

“We're all sorry for the family,” the second man said. “But what was done had to be done, though it could have been accomplished with less—relish.” He looked hard at Atherton. “She has to be the last. We have to move back to where we were. When we began more than two decades ago, it was a way of seeking knowledge or exploring alternatives, of empowering ourselves. Now we're losing our way.”

“What we were is what we are,” Atherton stated and linked his long fingers. He kept his smile to himself He was enough of a politician to recognize a campaign speech. But he understood, as his opponent refused to understand, that sex and blood were what held the group together. And always would. “The Master demands blood.”

“Not human blood.”

“We will see.”

Mick wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “It's just that before Biff, we never killed one of our own.”

Atherton steepled his hands. “You're forgetting Jack Kimball.”

“Jack Kimball was an accident.” Mick lit one cigarette from the butt of another. “Parker and me just went up to talk to him, maybe scare him a little so he wouldn't mouth off about the shopping center deal. We didn't mean for anything to happen to him. It was an accident.”

“Nothing is an accident. The Master punishes the weak.”

Mick only nodded. He believed it, deeply. “Jack should've toughened up, we all knew it. I guess I figured when he died, we'd cut out our weak link. But he could still be a problem.”

“How do you mean?”

“That's why I asked for this meeting. Cam's looking into the land deal.”

There was a sudden, terrible silence broken only by Mick's uneven breathing and the patient gnawing of a field mouse. “Why?”

“I figure because of Clare. The other day she came into the office, tight as a spring. Right after, I find out he's making calls to the county courthouse, asking for access to the records.”

A moment's pause. The faint drumming of fingers on wood. “There's nothing for him to find.”

“Well, I know we covered our tracks real good, but I figured you ought to know. If he ties any of that business to us—”

“He won't. In your position as deputy, you should be able to steer him in another direction. Perhaps what we need is some new evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Leave it to me.”

“I was thinking …” Mick tried to choose his words carefully. “With Cam poking around like he is, and the town so edgy, we might postpone the next couple of ceremonies. Maybe until Lammas Night. By then—”

“Postpone?” Atherton's voice was no longer hushed, but sharp as a scalpel. “Postpone our rites because of fools and weaklings? We postpone nothing. We yield nothing. We fear nothing.” Gracefully, he rose to tower over the other men. “We will have our
messe noir
on schedule. And we will demand that His wrath fall on those who would persecute us.”

It was after four when Clare dragged herself into the house. She went straight to the refrigerator, popped open a beer, and chugged half of it. It helped wash the taste of cranberry parfait punch out of her mouth.

She stepped out of her shoes as she walked from the kitchen to the living room. “Blair? Blair, are you home? Guess not,” she muttered into her beer when there was no answer. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it in the direction of a chair. She started upstairs, tilting the beer with one hand and unbuttoning her blouse with the other.

When she heard the movement above her head, she
swallowed slowly. A creak, the sound of something heavy being dragged. Silent in her stocking feet, she moved to the top of the steps.

The attic door was open. Her heart sank a little at the idea of Blair going through those boxes of memories as she had.

But when she stood in the doorway, it was Cam she saw, not her brother.

“What are you doing?”

Cam looked up from the box he was emptying. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“Obviously.” She stepped inside the room. Her father—those pieces of his life—had been uncovered and stacked on the floor. “I asked what you were doing.”

“Looking for something that might help.” He sat back on his heels. One look at her face warned him he'd better go carefully. “Your father might have had something else. A notebook. Some papers.”

“I see.” She set the half-finished beer aside to pick up the gardening shirt. “Got a search warrant, Sheriff?”

He struggled for patience and at least found understanding. “No. Blair gave the go-ahead. Clare, are we going to cover the same ground again?”

She shook her head and turned away. Slowly, with infinite care, she refolded the shirt and set it down. “No. No, go through every scrap if it'll help put this aside once and for all.”

“I can take the boxes home, if it would be more comfortable for you.”

“I'd rather you did it here.” She turned back. “Sorry for the bitch routine.” But she didn't look at the boxes. “This is the best way, and it helps that you're the one doing it. Do you want some help?”

It was a nice feeling to be able to admire as well as love
her. “Maybe. I haven't found anything.” He rose to go to her. “What did you do to your hair?”

She reached a hand to it automatically. “I cut it a little.”

“I like it.”

“Thanks. So, where is Blair?”

“He was with me earlier. We ran into Trudy Wilson. She was in her nurse's uniform.”

“Oh?”

“Well, Blair's tongue was hanging out. Guess he goes for crepe-soled shoes, so I left him in Trudy's capable hands.” Cam glanced down to where Clare's blouse gaped open. “Have you got anything on under that?”

She looked down. “Probably not. I got dressed in a hurry.”

“Jesus, Slim, it makes me crazy always wondering whether or not you're wearing underwear.”

She smiled, toying with the last two fastened buttons. “Why don't you find out for yourself?”

He picked her up and had just carried her down the attic steps when Blair met them on the landing. Oops.

Cam gave him a narrowed look. “There's that way with words again.”

“Sorry. I, ah, just came by to tell you I have a date.”

“Good for you.” Clare tossed the hair out of her eyes. “Want me to wait up?”

“No. I'm going to take a shower.” He started down the hall. “By the way, you're on in about fifteen minutes.”

“On what?”

“TV. Alice told me. And if you two could wait to play Rhett and Scarlett until after I'm done, I'd appreciate it.” He closed the bathroom door.

“TV?”

“Oh, it's nothing.” Clare went back to nuzzling Cam's neck. “That Ladies Club thing.”

“I forgot. How'd it go?”

“It went. I stopped feeling nauseated when I saw the white reclining plaster lions.”

“Excuse me?”

“The white reclining plaster lions. Where are we going?”

“Downstairs, to the TV.”

“You don't want to watch, Cam. It's silly.”

“Of course I want to watch. Tell me about the lions.”

“These incredibly ugly statues in front of the Ather-tons′.”

“There are a lot of incredibly ugly statues in front of the Athertons′.”

“You're telling me. I'm talking about the guard lions, at their ease. I kept imagining them springing off the stoop and devouring all the plastic ducks and wooden sheep, and chasing that poor stable boy up a tree. It was hard to take the whole business too seriously after that. Cam, I really hate to watch myself on television.”

“Okay.” He set her down. “Then you can get me something to drink while I watch. Did you wear that blouse?”

“Yes.”

“Like that?”

She wrinkled her nose and began doing up buttons. “Of course not. I unbuttoned it completely for TV.”

“Good thinking. Why were you feeling sick before the lions?”

“I hate public speaking.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because I'm a spineless wimp.”

“You've got a spine. I know, because you go crazy when I nibble on it. Make it a Coke or something, okay? I'm on duty.”

“Sure, I live to serve.” She slunk off to the kitchen while he fiddled with the TV dial. When she came back, he was settled on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table. “Sorry, I didn't make popcorn.”

“That's okay.” He pulled her down with him.

“I really don't want to watch.”

“Then close your eyes. I bet you knocked ′em dead, Slim.”

“There was polite applause.” She propped her feet beside his. “Mrs. Atherton made me come all the way back here for a sample of a work in progress. Which—shit—I just remembered. I left it there.”

“What was it?”

“A wood carving. Arms and shoulders. Yours, by the way.”

“Oh, God.”

His very genuine distress made her grin. “I think some of the ladies recognized you, too. There was some definite snickering. But mostly they wanted to know if I ever carved flowers or children. I think the arms and shoulders made them uncomfortable because without a head it made them think of decapitation, when what I was trying to express was male strength and elegance.”

“Now I'm nauseated.”

“You haven't even seen it yet.” She hesitated briefly, knowing how upset he would be, then decided to confess. “Cam, someone stole one of my sculptures. The nightmare work.”

He didn't move, but she sensed him go on alert. “When?”

“Had to be between last evening and midmorning. I think kids—”

“Bullshit.”

“All right, I don't know what I think. All I know is that it's gone.”

“Did they break in?”

“No.” She stuck out her chin. “Yell if you want. I forgot to lock the garage.”

“Damn it, Clare, if I can't trust you to lock a door, I'm going to have to put you in a cell.”

“I'll lock the damn thing.” It was easier to be annoyed with him than to dwell on having her work taken. On having someone close enough to steal it away. “I'll put in an alarm system if it'll make you happy.”

“Move in with me.” He cupped a gentle hand on her cheek. “Make me happy.”

The little hitch in her stomach forced her to look away. “I don't need protective custody.”