Divine Evil (45 page)

Her annoyance was laced with the beginnings of fear. She reminded herself that the windows were open and a few good screams would bring neighbors. And he was a kid. She slid her hand from under his. Sexually frustrated, mixed up, but still a kid.

Not a murderer. She wouldn't believe that. Didn't dare.

“All right, Ernie.” She moved casually and put the couch between them. “What's this about?”

“You were supposed to be the one. The way you looked at me.”

“I looked at you the way a friend would. That's all.”

“You were supposed to be the one,” he insisted. She was his hope. Maybe his last. “But you went with Rafferty. You let him have you.”

The pity that had been creeping into her heart iced over. “My relationship with Cam isn't open for discussion. It's my business.”

“No. You were mine.”

“Ernie.” Patience, she told herself. Patience and logic. “I'm ten years older than you, and we've only known each other a couple of months. We both know that I never did anything to make you think I was offering more than friendship.”

He shook his head slowly, continually, his eyes dark and fixed on hers. “You were sent. I thought you were sent.” A whine came into his voice, the music of youth, and softened her.

“Sent? Ernie, you know that's not true. You've built something that never existed out of your imagination.”

“I saw the statue. The statue you made. The high priest. Baphomet.”

Shaken, she took a step back in denial. “What are you talking about? Did you steal it?”

“No, others did. Others know what you know. You've seen. So have I.”

“Seen what?”

“I belong. There's nothing I can do now. I belong. Don't you see? Can't you understand?”

“No.” She laid a hand on the back of the couch. “I can't. But I'd like to. I'd like to help you.”

“It was supposed to make me feel good. It was supposed to give me anything I wanted.”

The whining turned to tears, but she couldn't make herself step forward and comfort him. “Ernie, let me call your parents.”

“What the hell for?” Tears turned to rage. “What do they know? What do they care? They think they can make everything all right by making me go to a psychiatrist. All right for them, maybe. I hate them, I hate them both.”

“You don't mean that.”

He pressed his hands to his ears, as if to block out her words and his own. “They don't understand. Nobody does, except—”

“Except?” She took a step toward him. The whites of his eyes glowed in the shadows. She could see the sweat beaded over the upper lip he only had to shave once a week. “Sit down, Ernie. Sit down and talk to me. I'll try to understand.”

“It's too late to go back. I know what I have to do. I know where I belong.” He turned and ran out of the house.

“Ernie!” She raced after him, pausing in the middle of her yard when he jumped into his truck. “Ernie, wait.” When he speeded past her, she looked frantically down the street. His house was dark. Clare swore and darted to
her own car. She hadn't been able to change things for Lisa. Maybe she could help Ernie.

He turned onto Main, and she lost him. Slapping the heel of her hand against the wheel, she circled around, scooting down side streets searching for his truck. Ten minutes later, she was ready to give up, figuring the best thing she could do was go into Rocco's and relate the incident to his parents.

Then she spotted the truck, parked in the rear lot of Griffith's Funeral Home. Clare pulled in beside it. Great, just great, she thought. What was he doing? Breaking into a funeral parlor?

She didn't bother to weigh the consequences. She would go in and get him out, as quickly and quietly as possible. Then she'd turn him over to his parents.

The rear door was unlocked, and she opened it, fighting back her natural distaste for entering a place where death was a daily business. She sent out a quick prayer that no one had died lately and slipped inside.

“Ernie?” she whispered, her voice sounding hushed and reverential as it floated downward. The delivery entrance, she supposed, looking down the flight of iron steps. “Damn it, Ernie, why here?”

Abruptly, she thought of the symbolism. Coffins and candles. Clare was well aware of the statistics on teenage suicide. Ernie was a prime candidate. Torn, she stood at the top of the stairs. She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't trained. If she couldn't stop him …

It would be better to go find Cam, she decided, though it made her feel like a squealer. Doc Crampton might be an even better choice. As she turned toward the door, a sound from below made her hesitate. Why would the boy listen to a cop—especially one he'd decided to hate? And he certainly wouldn't pay any attention to a small-town
G.P. If it was just an adolescent temper tantrum, how much harder would it be for Ernie to have a cop pick him up? She remembered his tears and his desperation, and sighed.

She would just go on down and see if she could find him first. Trained or not, she could talk to him, and with luck and perseverance calm him down. Slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the dark, she descended the stairs.

Voices. Who the hell could Ernie be talking to? she wondered. Chances were that Charlie was working—oh, God—and the boy had run into him. She would try to explain, cajole, smooth over, then get Ernie back to his parents before there was any real trouble.

No, not voices, she realized. Music. Bach played on an organ. She supposed Charlie preferred the reverential music to set the mood for his work.

She turned into a narrow corridor. Light was thrown by wall sconces, but was overwhelmed by shadows. There was movement again, murmuring under the music. Clare reached out with a hesitant hand and parted a long black curtain.

And the gong sounded.

There was a woman lying on a platform. At first Clare thought she was dead, so pale was her skin in the flowing candlelight. But she shifted her head, and Clare knew, with an even more primitive horror, that she was alive.

She had her arms crossed over her naked breasts and gripped a black candle in each hand. Between her spread thighs was a silver cup, covered by a paten on which lay a small round of black bread.

There were men, a dozen of them, in long, hooded robes. Three of them approached the altar and made a deep bow.

A voice was raised, intoning Latin. Clare recognized it and began to tremble.

But it wasn't right, she thought, swaying a bit with the first shock. There had been trees and a fire and the smell of smoke and pine. Her knuckles were bone-white against the black curtain, and she stared. The voice, the one she remembered from her dream, filled the stark little room.

“Before the King of Hell and all the demons of the Pit, before this, my brotherhood, I proclaim that Satan rules. Before this company, I renew my allegiance and my vow to honor Him. In return I demand His assistance for the fulfillment of all my desires. I call upon you, Brothers, to do the same.”

The men flanking him spoke in unison, repeating the vow.

It was true, Clare thought, horrified, as the celebrant and his deacons continued in Latin. All of it was true. The dream, her father. Sweet God, her father. And all the rest.

“Domine Satanas, Rex Inferus, Imperator omnipotens. ”

The celebrant took up the paten, raised it to chest level, where a heavy silver pentagram rested against his robes, and recited the profane words in a long-dead language. He replaced it, repeated the gesture with the cup, then set that down as well, back between the woman's slim white thighs.

“Mighty Lord of Darkness, look favorably on this sacrifice we have prepared for You.”

The scent of incense, sweet and heavy, took her back to the long, formal High Masses of her childhood. This, too, was a mass, she thought. A black one.

“Dominus Inferus vobiscum. ”

“Et cum tuo. ”

Her body was sheathed in ice. She shuddered from it, willing herself to move, to step back, to run; unable to pull
her rigid hand away from the curtain. The music droned on, dreamlike. The incense spun thickly in her head. The celebrant lifted his arms, palms downward. He called out again, his voice rich and full and hypnotic. And she knew. Though her mind rejected it, she knew the voice and the face that went with it.

“Salve! Salve! Salve!”

The gong rang three times.

And she fled.

She didn't think about moving silently, being cautious. The panic that gripped her demanded that she run, escape. Survive. It had been the same that night so many years ago, when she had scrambled like a rabbit through the woods, back to her father's car. She had lain there, shivering with shock, until he found her.

The lights in the corridor floated around her, silent and secret, casting the steps into deeper shadow. For an instant, she thought she saw her father, standing at the base of them, his eyes filled with sorrow, his hands stained with blood.

“I told you not to come, cutie pie. It's not a place for little girls.” His arms reached out for her. “It's just a dream, a bad dream. You'll forget all about it.”

As she raced toward him, the image faded. She bolted through it, sobbing, and up the metal stairs. She knew the taste of hysteria. Its chalky flavor clogged her throat, gagging her, as she pushed against the exit door.

She was trapped. The sweat that had beaded on her skin began to run in rivers as she pushed against the door. Her own whispered pleas roared in her head. They would come for her. They would find her. And she would die, as Carly Jamison had died. They would take up the knife and, as if she were a small, terrified goat, slice it across her throat.

A scream bubbled up to her lips, then she found the latch and stumbled out into the night. Blind fear took her across the dark parking lot. Breath heaving, she clung to a tree, pressing her wet cheek against the bark.

Think, think, damn it, she ordered herself. You have to get help. You have to get Cam. She could run to his office, but her legs no longer felt as if they could carry her. He might not be there. She would go to his house. Safe, it would be safe there. Somehow, between the two of them, they would make everything right again.

She looked over and saw her car, gleaming red beside Ernie's truck. She couldn't leave it there. Didn't dare. She took a step back, and the wave of revulsion struck like a fist. Clare gritted her teeth against it and kept walking. She would get in her car, drive away, drive to Cam's house, and tell him what she'd seen.

When the beam of headlights cut across her, she froze like a rabbit.

“Clare?” Dr. Crampton leaned his head out the window of his car. “Clare, what in the world are you doing there? Are you all right?”

“Doc?” Weak with relief, she darted to his car. Now she wasn't alone. “Thank God. Oh, thank God.”

“What is it?” He pushed up his glasses and focused, noting her pupils were dilated. “Are you hurt, ill?”

“No. No, we have to get away.” She sent a quick, desperate look toward the rear entrance. “I don't know how much longer they'll be down there.”

“They?” His eyes, behind the glint of his glasses, were filled with concern.

“In Griffith's. Down in the basement. I saw them. The robes, the masks. I used to think it was a dream, but it wasn't.” She held up a hand, trying to stop herself. “I'm not making sense. I need to get to Cam. Can you follow me?”

“I don't think you're in any shape to drive. Why don't you let me take you home?”

“I'm fine,” she told him when he stepped out of the car. “We can't stay here. They've already killed the Jamison girl and probably Biff. It's dangerous.” Her breath hissed as she felt the prick of a needle on her arm.

“Yes, it is.” There was regret in his voice as he sent the drug screaming into her bloodstream. “I'm very sorry, Clare. I tried very hard to protect you from this.”

“No.” She struggled away, but her vision was already wavering. “Oh, God, no.”

I
T WAS A DREAM
. In dreams you didn't really feel anything, and voices floated in and around your head. She had to open her eyes and wake up. Then she would find herself curled on her sofa, groggy from a late nap.

But when she was able to lift her heavy lids, she saw a small room, draped in black. The symbol of Baphomet leered down at her. Panic struggled with the drug so that she tried to move her weighted limbs. Her wrists and ankles were bound. The scream that ripped through her mind came through her lips as a moan. Since she couldn't be heard, she had no choice but to listen.

“She can't stay here.” Charlie Griffith paced on the other side of the platform. His hood was thrown back now, revealing his mild brown hair and worried eyes. “Damn it, it isn't safe for any of us as long as she's here.”

“Let me worry about safety. I always have.” The mayor ran his long, bony fingers along his silver pendant. His smile was faint, even mocking, but Charlie was too wound up to notice.

“If Doc hadn't been so late and run into her right outside—”

“But he did,” Atherton pointed out. “We're protected. How could you doubt it?”

“I'm not—I don't—it's just that—”

“Your father helped form our brotherhood.” Atherton laid a hand on Charlie's shoulder, more in restraint than comfort. “You were the first of the new generation. I depend on you, Charles, for your good sense, your discretion, and your loyalty.”

“Of course, of course. But holding a service here is entirely different than keeping her here. I have to think of my family.”

“We all think of our families and of each other's. She'll be moved.”

“When?”

“Tonight. I'll see to it myself.”

“James …” Charlie hesitated, afraid his words would show not only his fear, but his doubts. “You have my loyalty, as you have for more than ten years when my father brought me to be initiated. But Clare … I grew up with her.”

As if in benediction, Atherton grasped Charlie's shoulders. “Destroy before you are destroyed. Is this not the Law?”

“Yes, but … if there was another way.”

“There is only one way. His way. I believe she was sent. We know there are no accidents, Charles, yet she came here tonight. I believe her blood will purify, will make clean the smear that her father tried to mark us with so many years ago. She will be the sacrifice to appease Him for the betrayal of one of our own.” Atherton's eyes glittered in the shadowy light, with delight and with hunger. “Your son, it will not be long before he joins us.”

Charlie wet his lips. “Yes.”

“Take comfort in that, knowing that the next generation will prosper and succeed through His power. Go, and leave this to me. I want you to contact the others, see that they're calm and quiet. On the night of the solstice, we'll meet and sacrifice, and grow stronger.”

“All right.” There was no other way, and the Law left no room for guilt or conscience. “Do you need any help?”

Atherton smiled, seeing that he had once again overpowered the weak. Domination was his drug of choice. “Mick will be all the help I need.”

Atherton waited until Charlie slipped through the curtain before turning to Clare. He knew she was conscious and listening. It pleased him. “You should have left the boy alone,” he said. “He's already mine.” Bending, he took her face in his hand, turning it from side to side. “Still a little glassy-eyed,” he observed, “but you understand well enough.”

“I understand.” Her voice came to her ears as if through a tunnel. “It's been you, all these years. You killed that poor girl.”

“Her, and others. The Master demands His sacrifice.”

“You don't believe that. You can't.”

He pursed his lips as he often did before lecturing one of his classes. “You'll find that it isn't what I believe that matters, but what they believe. They'll spill your blood without a second thought because I tell them to.”

“Why?”

“I enjoy it.” He stripped off his robe, then laughed at the horror in her eyes. “Oh, no, I don't intend to rape you. I haven't the time or the inclination. But it wouldn't do for the mayor to be seen in anything other than a proper suit.” He began to dress, casually, pulling boxer shorts up his skinny legs.

“It isn't working anymore.” She twisted her wrists ruthlessly
but only succeeded in scoring her flesh with the rope. “You've made too many mistakes.”

“Mistakes have been made, certainly. And corrected.” He shook out his white Arrow shirt, perusing it for wrinkles. “The first one was your father. He was a disappointment to me, Clare. A grave one.”

“My father never killed anyone. He wouldn't have been apart of this.”

“Oh, indeed he was.” Atherton meticulously did up his buttons, from bottom to top. “A very important one. Such a bright and ambitious man, thirsty for knowledge. When he became one of us, the fever burned so hot in him, he was like a brother to me.” He sat on a three-legged stool to pull up his black support socks. “His turning away hurt me deeply. And for him to go back to some useless religion with its powder-puff God….” Sighing, he shook his head. “Where did it get him? I ask you, where? It got him a bottle and a false sense of righteousness. All because he wasn't ready to move on with us, to seek higher power.”

Ever the teacher, he placed his hands on his hairy thighs and leaned toward her. “Human sacrifice is hardly my invention, my dear. It's been around since time began. For the very simple reason that man not only needs to spill blood but thrives on it.” He regarded her. “Yes, I can see it appalls you, as it did Jack. But, ask yourself honestly, is your disgust merely a knee-jerk reaction?”

She could only shake her head. “How many? How many people have you killed?”

“Numbers are irrelevant, don't you think? The first sacrifice was a test that everyone passed but your father. And the woman was only a whore, after all. Killing her was symbolic. Perhaps if I had discussed it with Jack first, explained the reasoning, he wouldn't have reacted so strongly, so negatively. Well, I blame myself for that.”

He reached over and picked up his dark trousers with their knife pleats. “You could say Jack left me for a woman, though our relationship was spiritual, never physical. He left me and ran back to his rosaries and his cold, sexless God. And I forgave him.” Atherton stood, zipped, then reached for his belt. “He couldn't afford to betray me and risk his family. We had taken a vow, a blood vow. Jack did what he was told, for as long as he was able.”

“You threatened him.”

“He understood the rules before he was marked. It was the land deal that seemed to push him over the edge. I can't understand why. He told me he would no longer be part of it. And it was only money, you see. A transaction guaranteed to make us wealthy and more powerful. But Jack was crawling deeper and deeper into that bottle and couldn't think clearly.”

Through despair she felt a glimmer of hope. “He was going to tell. He was going to tell about you and this, and everything.”

“Oh, yes. I believe he was. Or at least he hoped to find what he considered the courage to do so.” Atherton picked up his gray-and-burgundy-striped tie and slipped it under his collar. “Parker and Mick went to see him, to try to convince him how foolhardy it would be for everyone involved. From what I'm told, Jack simply wouldn't listen. He went quite wild, violent. There was a fight, and, well, you know the rest.”

“They killed him,” she whispered. “My God, they killed him.”

“Now, you can hardly blame Parker or Mick for the fact that your father left those stakes out on the terrace. He might very well have lived through the fall, you know. I like to think of it as justice.” He completed the knot in his tie, smoothed it with his hands. “I still miss him.” Sighing
again, he picked up his suit jacket. “Now I see your coming back, your coming here, as a circle. I made mistakes with Jack. He should have been treated like any other traitor, but I let my affection for him get in the way. I'll have to rectify that mistake with you.”

“You murdered my father.”

“No, my dear, I wasn't even there.”

“You murdered him,” she repeated. She struggled against the rope. She wanted to bite, scratch, claw. Calmly, Atherton picked up a square of cloth and neatly folded it into a gag.

“I'm afraid you'll have to be quiet while we transfer you.”

“Go to hell.”

“There is no hell.” He smiled, closing the gag over her mouth. “Except the one we make.”

Stoically, Mick carried her up the steps and out to her car. Clare writhed and bucked, but to no avail. When he dumped her in the passenger seat of her own car, she swung out with her banded hands. He took the blow on his shoulder in silence, then strapped her in.

“It was careless of you to leave the keys in the car.” Atherton climbed into the driver's seat. “We may be a small rural town, but young people might find it difficult to resist the temptation of this car. A Japanese model, isn't it?” he continued conversationally as he fastened his seat belt. “I believe strongly, at least publicly, in buying American.” Atherton turned the key. “But I can appreciate the sense of power. It won't be a long drive, Clare, but try to make yourself comfortable.”

He cruised out of the parking lot, turned left away from Main Street, and headed out of town. For his own
amusement, he toyed with the radio until he came to a classical station.

“An excellent machine,” he said. “Handles beautifully. I envy you. Of course, it wouldn't do for me to be seen driving such an expensive vehicle. Political aspirations mean I must continue a more subtle life-style.” He imagined himself in the governor's mansion. “My money goes into Swiss accounts—and land, of course. Jack taught me the value of land. And it's so pleasant just to have it. Naturally, I indulge Min's wishes whenever possible. Her tastes are very simple, really. A man couldn't ask for a more supportive wife. Sexually, if I might say, she's a bit rigid. But paying for a whore is a small price for a solid, successful marriage. Wouldn't you say? Oh, of course, you can't say.”

He reached over and tugged off her gag. “You can scream if you like. You won't be heard.”

She didn't bother. With her hands tied in front of her and strapped to her body by the seat belt, she couldn't even attempt to grab the wheel. Perhaps that was best, she thought. She might not survive a car crash. And she was determined to survive. The best she could hope for was to keep him talking and to pay very close attention to the direction they were taking.

“Your wife—she knows?”

“Min?” He smiled affectionately, tolerantly, at the thought. “Now, now, we won't discuss my Min. One of our basic rules is not to involve our wives and daughters. You might say we have a very exclusive men's club. You might consider that both sexist and unconstitutional. We prefer to think of it as selective.”

“Dr. Crampton. I can't believe that he would be a part of this.”

“One of our founding members. It's unlikely you know that he had a bit of a problem with drugs in medical
school.” He gave her a brief glance. “As you should be aware, people are not always what they seem. Though the good doctor has been giving me a bit of trouble of late, it's nothing I can't deal with. In time.” And it would give him great pleasure to deal with Crampton as he had dealt with Biff. Once done, there would be no one left who'd dare to question him. “It isn't difficult to find men who want a different way,” he went on. “Particularly when that way offers sex, money, drugs, and a taste of power.”

They were climbing now, up a steep, winding road that cut through largely undeveloped land. Woods closed in on either side. Atherton tapped the accelerator and pushed them up to fifty.

“A wonderful car. It's a shame to destroy it.”

“Destroy it?”

“George at Jerry's Auto Sales and Repairs sees to such matters for us. We'll strip it first. It should make up for the worthlessness of Sarah Hewitt's tired old Chevy.”

“Sarah? You—”

“It had to be done, I'm afraid. She knew more than it was wise for her to know.”

“And Biff.”

“Executed.” He smiled. There was new power here, he discovered, in being able to speak with impunity of things he had done. “Quite simply, he could no longer control his drinking or his drug habit. He broke the Law by attacking one of our own, then publicly fighting with the sheriff. A pity. He was one of the first to accept the power of a true sacrifice. He had a pure selfishness I admire. He wanted Jane Rafferty, and Mike Rafferty was in the way. He killed him.”

“Biff killed Cam's father?”

“A bold and brilliant move. I believe he knocked Mike unconscious, then using chains and a lever pulled the
tractor on top of him. Risky. But what is life without risk? Then he was there to comfort the grieving widow.”

She shifted, sickened. Her foot scraped across the metal file that had lain forgotten on the floor since the trip to Annie's trailer. With her heart pounding dully, Clare nudged it between her feet. “Your cult is nothing but an excuse to murder.”

“Not an excuse at all.” He turned onto a dirt road and was forced to slow down to navigate the bumps and turns. “But a way. A way to take and to have. Every member of our group has what he wants, what he needs, and more. We grow daily. In small towns and large cities. Thirty years ago, I was an unhappy draftee in the army. While stationed in California, marking time until I was discharged and would be able to start the rest of my dull, unhappy life. I was introduced to a sect, a fascinating group, but disorganized. I began to see how, with care and persistence, a religion such as theirs could be turned into a satisfying and profitable business. After all, look at the wealth and power of the Catholic church. I took what I needed from them, and from other similar groups, and when I came home I sought out others. Does it surprise you that it's easy to entice solid citizens?”

“It disgusts me.”

Atherton chuckled. “Ah, well, not everyone can be a convert. I had big hopes for Cameron, but he proved to be a disappointment. I'm afraid he'll have to be disposed of.” He caught her look of blank horror and laughed. “Oh, don't worry, I doubt we'll need violence. Political pressure should be enough to move him out and along. I've already planted seeds that will have him looking elsewhere for Biff's murderer. I don't have anything to fear from Cameron. As long as that remains true, he's safe enough. Well, here we are.”