Divine Evil

sister.” His eyes met Blair's stunned ones over the round of wood as it bobbled between them. “I figured we should get that out of the way first.”
    “Jesus, Cam, what do you expect me to say?”
    “I guess congratulations might be a bit much. Let's put it here.” He grunted as they set the burl beside the garage. He watched Blair dust off his suit. “Want to take a punch at me?”
    “I'm thinking about it.”
    “Before you do, I'd better tell you something I haven't gotten around to telling her yet. I love her.”
    After a long stare, Blair stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well.”
    “I always said you had a real gift for words.”
    Feeling baffled and foolish, Blair ran a hand over his hair. “When the hell did all this happen?”
    “Beats me.”
    Blair blew out a long breath. “Maybe we ought to go in and have that drink.”
    “You go ahead.” Cam glanced toward the house. “She isn't ready for me yet.” He started for the truck, pausing when Blair called his name.
    “Cam—she's not Sarah Hewitt.”
    Cam wrenched open the truck door. “Nobody knows that better than I do.”
    But it was to Sarah that Cam had to go.
    Clyde's was more subdued than usual for a Friday night. People were nervous. Wives were demanding that their husbands come home after work, end of the week or not. If a woman wasn't safe walking down the road, how could they know they were safe inside their own homes?
    A few of the regulars remained. Less Gladhill hulked over the bar, nursing a brew and the indigestion he'd gotten from meatloaf at Martha's. A fight with his wife had sent him out looking for dinner and consolation elsewhere. Besides, everyone knew that Big Barb Gladhill could take care of herself and ten men besides.
    Cam studied the familiar faces as he walked to the bar. He noted not only who was there but who was missing.
    “Slow night,” he said to Clyde.
    The barman scowled. “You come in to point that out, or you want a drink?”
    “Give me a Rolling Rock.”
    Skunk Haggerty was there, in his usual corner, nursing his usual shot of Johnnie Walker while he waited for Reva Williamson to finish her shift at Martha's. The Dopper boy, home from college for the holiday weekend, drank Budweiser and hoped he'd get lucky with Sarah Hewitt.
    Nobody played the jukebox, and the clatter of pool balls came clearly from the back room.
    Cam drank his beer while Less stood beside him and belched.
    “Friggin onions. Give me another beer, Clyde, goddamn it.”
    “Walking home?” Cam said easily.
    “I can hold my beer.”
    “Another DUI'll go rough on you.”
    “Then I'll sonofabitchin′ walk.” Feeling sorry for himself, he slurped up beer. God knew he got enough nagging from his old lady. Was it any wonder he went out looking for other female companionship when he was married to a damn warhorse? “It's a fucking shame when a man can't enjoy a beer without being hounded.”
    “Hard day?” Cam sipped, but his eyes had fixed on the bandage wrapped around Less's right hand. “Hurt yourself?”
    Grumbling, Less turned the hand from side to side. He'd been expecting the question and had already worked out an answer. “Burned the shit out of my hand on a fucking manifold.”
    Cam hated knowing he would check in the morning to corroborate Less's story. “That's tough.”
    Less guzzled down beer, burped, then sighed. “I guess I'm pissed ′cause we were supposed to have a poker game tonight. Roody's old lady won't let him out of her sight after sundown. Skunk's got his balls in an uproar over that skinny-assed Reva. Sam Poffenburger's sleeping in his ex-wife's living room until she calms down, and George Howard is patrolling his yard with his dogs, for Christ's sake. This business has screwed everything up.”
    “Can't deny that.”
    “That woman up to the hospital, she tell you anything you can use?”
    “If I start discussing a witness, I'll get fired.” He drank again. “Best I can tell you is that I've been hitting a lot of walls.” He was studying Less like a cop, and they both knew it. “Thing is, when you keep hitting a wall, eventually you knock it down. You want to tell me where you were Tuesday night, between ten-thirty and eleven?”
    “What the hell is this?”
    “My job.” Cam held up his mug. “Sometimes it's easier to do it over a beer than down at the office.”
    “Shit.”
    “It's routine, Less. You're not the first one I've talked to, and you won't be the last.”
    “I don't much