Divine Evil

by Nora Roberts

  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 fathe
r.”

  “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.”

  The road had cut through the mountain, perhaps a half mile straight up. They'd stopped in front of a high gate. Atherton hummed along with Chopin as Mick climbed out of the car behind them and walked up to unlock the gate and swing it open.

  “I've just had a thought,” Atherton said as he drove through. “You won't be using that burl now. It's a pity. I had looked forward to seeing what you would do with it.”

  Clare had quietly worked the file up to her ankles. “Are you going to kill me here?”

  “Why no, of course not. As Jack's daughter, you're entitled to some ceremony. I've even decided to discourage the sex rite. In honor of his memory.” He stopped in front of a small, squat cabin. “We'll make you as comfortable here as possible, until the solstice.”

  “I'm going to be sick.” She slumped, keeping the file tight between her calves. When Mick opened her door, she allowed her head to loll forward. “Please, I'm going to be sick.”

  “Push her head between her knees,” Atherton said as he opened his own door.

  “Take it easy, Clare.” Mick unbuckled the seat belt. “I'm sorry about all of this. There's nothing else we can do.” He pushed her head down.

  She gripped the file in her hands, then swung it up. Blood spurted out of his chest. He stumbled back, so her second swing only grazed his thigh. “You killed my father, you bastard!”

  When he fell to his knees, gasping, she tried to struggle out of the car. Pain exploded in her head. She collapsed at Atherton's feet.

  Where the hell was she? Cam walked through Clare's house for the second time that afternoon. He didn't want to panic. She could have gone for a drive, for a visit to a friend. She c
ould have gotten the bug to go on one of her flea-market frenzies.

  Why hadn't she called?

  The note he'd left on the kitchen table after dropping by the night before—and waiting two hours—was still there. Her bed was rumpled, as it always was. It was impossible to know if she'd slept in it. Her purse was there. But she often left that behind, stuffing money into her pockets and popping into the car.

  Maybe he'd pushed her too hard with the sketches and she needed some time alone.

  But damn it, the last time they'd been together, it had been perfect between them. He sat at the kitchen table, trying to fight off a black uneasiness, and remembering the last night they'd spent together.

  Lying on the living room rug, arms and legs tangled. Bonnie Raitt playing on the stereo. A breeze, tipped with summer, had drifted in through the windows, along with the call of a whippoorwill.

  “Why did you change you mind?” he'd asked her.

  “About what?”

  “About marrying me.”

  “I didn't change it.” She'd rolled over, folding her arms on his chest and resting her chin on them. “I made it up.” He remembered how she'd smiled. Her eyes had been dark, like gold in an old painting. “My first marriage was a really dismal failure. It made me gun-shy. No—” She'd taken a breath, as if determined to be accurate. “It made me insecure. I thought I was doing everything right, but I wasn't.”

  “That kind of thing is never one person's fault.”

  “No, we both made mistakes. My biggest was that I didn't care enough. When things started to fall apart, I just let it happen.