Divine Evil

by Nora Roberts

  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.

  “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