Divine Evil

She tossed back her long fall of hair and shot Clare a cool look. “I guess you've got customers to wait on, so I'll come by later.”
    Sure.
    Clare watched the girl go back to her car and rev the engine. “So, who was that?”
    “Sally? She's nobody.”
    “Sally Simmons?” With a laugh, Clare reached in her purse for her wallet. “Christ, I used to baby-sit for her. I'd better go home and pull out the rocking chair.” She paid him, feeling a lot lighter of heart. Surely there was nothing more normal than a kid with a jealous girlfriend. “See you later, Ernie.”
    “Yeah. See you.” His hand closed over his pentagram as she drove away.
    They needed information, desperately. How much did the MacDonald woman know? Whom had she seen? These were questions that burned in whispers from one to the other. Fear was growing, and the one who controlled them knew that fear was a weakness that led to mistakes.
    The information would be gathered, as it always was.
    There were those who murmured more about Clare Kimball than about the offering who had escaped. Clare, who had interfered by taking away the woman chosen for sacrifice. Clare, who had ignored or failed to understand the warning left at her door. Clare, who as a child had broken the sanctuary of the circle and seen more than a young girl's mind could bear to remember.
    And Clare, who had created an idol of the Master out of metal and fire.
    Some argued for her, some against. But the outcome had already been decided.
    The time of watching and warning was almost done. The time to act was approaching.
    * * *
    Some men might have tried roses. Cam figured clichés wouldn't work with Clare. It had taken him quite some time before he decided to try anything at all. That was a matter of pride. But there was nothing like depression to make a man kick pride aside and go for broke. It was becoming harder and harder to convince his gut that whatever was going wrong with the town was due to outside influences. Yet every time he drove through it, walked through it, stood on a corner, the idea of Emmitsboro's harboring a murderer, or worse, seemed preposterous.
    But Lisa MacDonald was a reality, and his first solid lead. And he had the lab report. Not all of the blood on her clothing had been hers. Lisa was type O. Some of the blood had been type A. Under her nails had been traces of skin—male Caucasian—and some black cotton fiber.
    With Bud and Mick he had combed the west end of Dopper's Woods, near the spot where Clare had found Lisa, and the three of them found the trail of blood, the signs of struggle and chase. It would require more lab work, and that meant he would have to ask the mayor for an emergency increase in budget.
    He wanted a couple of hours in which he didn't have to think about evidence and procedure, didn't have to remind himself that he would have to go to the hospital again to probe and poke at Lisa MacDonald's memory.
    Clare was working. He could see the light on in her garage, though it was barely dusk. He had driven by several times over the last couple of days and seen her there, bent over a worktable. But this time, he pulled into the drive.
    Alice was with her, he noted, and they were chattering over the Beatles′ “A Day in the Life.”
    “Go ahead and move around. It works better when you're moving.”
    “I thought people had to stand real still when they posed for an artist.” Though flattered, Alice wished that Clare had asked her to pose in something other than her waitress uniform. “Is this going to be one of those modern things where nobody'll know it's me?”
    “I'll know it's you.” Patiently, Clare molded and caressed the clay. “I want it very fluid. I'll cast it in bronze when I'm done.”
    “My mama had Lynette's and my baby shoes bronzed.” She glanced over and smiled. “Hi, Cam.”
    “Getting immortalized, Alice?”
    She giggled. “Looks like.”
    Not trusting her hands, Clare took them from the clay. “Something I can do for you, Sheriff?”
    Cool and slick as an ice cube, he thought, and cocked a brow. “Might be.” He wrapped a hand around her arm and hauled her up. “Come on.”
    “What the hell do you think you're doing? I'm working.” She shoved a clay-coated hand at him while he pulled her down the drive and Alice watched, wide-eyed. “Look, Rafferty, I don't have to tolerate this … police brutality.”
    “Don't be such a jerk, Slim.” He yanked her around to the bed of Bud's pickup. “I brought