Divine Evil

had known had been solid, ambitious, delightful. How could a man who fretted over a sickrosebush have connected himself with a sect that advocated the sacrificing of animals, the shedding of innocent blood?
    It was inconceivable.
    And yet, there was the dream, the dream that had haunted her since childhood. She had only to close her eyes to see her father, glassy-eyed and naked, dancing around a fire pit with blood dripping from his fingers.
    It was symbolic, she told herself and hastily began to pile up books. Dr. Janowski had said—over and over— that she had never accepted her father's death. The dream was simply a reminder of the horror, the grief, the terror of losing him.
    But when she had switched off the light and lay sleepless in the dark, she knew that the dream had come to her long before her father died.

Chapter 18
    B Y TEN, EMMITSBORO WAS PACKED . Sidewalks teemed with people, children racing away from harried parents, teenagers hoping to be seen by other teenagers, concessionaires hawking lemonade, hot dogs, and balloons.
    The older, or the wiser, of the crowd had their lawn chairs set up beside the curb, coolers of soft drinks close by. Since the road was closed off from Dog Run to Mousetown, people hiked in from their cars.
    Those fortunate enough to live along Main Street—or to know someone who did—sat on their freshly painted porches, under the shade of awnings. They sipped cold drinks from cans, nibbled chips, and talked gleefully about their neighbors or about parades gone by.
    In backyards picnics were already set—wooden tables covered with colorful paper cloths that fluttered in the light breeze. Grills had been scrubbed down, and beer and watermelon were chilling.
    Emmitsboro High had a new young band director. Theold-timers looked forward to criticizing. It was a small, human pleasure.
    There was plenty of gossip. Talk about Biff Stokey's murder had been relegated to second place by the attack on the woman from Pennsylvania. Farmers considered the butchering of Dopper's cattle the number one topic of the day.
    But with a communal sigh of relief, most of the townspeople had resolved to put tensions aside and settled in to celebrate.
    The Hagerstown television station had sent a crew. Men sucked in their guts, and women patted their hair as the camera panned the crowd.
    There were twelve who stood among the crowd, hiding behind the colorful banners and laughter to celebrate their own secret rite. Their eyes might meet; the sign would be given. Discontent might simmer among them, but for today the town was theirs, even though the town didn't know it.
    The black armbands each wore were not an homage to the dead but a symbol of their alliance with the Dark Lord. Their Memorial Day celebration would begin here, among the gleaming brass and twirling batons, and end on another night, very soon, in the secret circle deep in the woods.
    Someone would die, and the secret that had been held among the chosen few would continue to crouch in the darkness.
    In the grandstand Min Atherton preened. She enjoyed sitting up there, looking down on friends and enemies. She'd bought a brand-new cotton dress for the occasion and thought the big purple irises spread across her breasts and hips gave her a girlish look. She was a bit sorry she'd belted it so tight—particularly after indulging in twoplates of fried dough—but her mother had always told her beauty must suffer.
    Her hair had been newly washed and set and sprayed so liberally it wouldn't have moved in a tornado, much less the light spring breeze. It sat like a lacquer helmet atop her wide face.
    Nearby, her husband glad-handed with members of the town council. Min was pleased that he looked so grave and handsome in his buff-colored suit. He'd argued a bit about the red tie she'd chosen, but she convinced him it would look just right on TV. As always he had deferred to her.
    Min considered herself the perfect politician's wife. The woman behind the man. And she enjoyed the power a woman could wield in secret. She fed him information she gleaned in the beauty parlor, in the market, over the backyard fence, and during bake sales. Often he would pat her hand and tell her she was better informed than the CIA.
    She didn't need listening devices or hidden cameras. She had a nose for gossip the way a hound had a nose for blood. Min could masticate on a juicy morsel for days before swallowing it.
    It was, after all, her right as the wife of the mayor to