Divine Evil

know all there was to know.
    She scanned the noisy crowd with her greedy eyes.
    There was Sue Ann Reeder—now Bowers, six months gone and only four months married. That marriage wouldn't last any longer than her first one had.
    Peggy Knight was buying her three brats soda pop and cotton candy. Teeth would rot out for sure.
    Mitzi Hawbaker had her youngest on her hip and was kissing her husband—tongue kissing, Min thought in disgust—right out on the street.
    She huffed and turned away, not only from the opendisplay of spit swapping but also from the children. All the children. Watching them made her feel empty inside, despite the two helpings of fried dough.
    It wasn't fair—it wasn't right—that all those young sluts dropped babies the way a she-cat dropped kittens, year after year. And that she should have a sick and empty womb.
    She hated them, all of them, for their careless fertility.
    “Want a cold drink before it starts, Min?”
    Atherton put a hand on his wife's shoulder. Min patted it—which was all the affection a wife need show in public—and smiled at him. “That'd be fine.”
    He loved her, she thought, as he hurried off to fetch the drink. And he was all the family she needed.
    With a little help from one of the councilmen, Gladys Finch, in her role as president of the historical society, climbed up on the grandstand in her sensible shoes. “Sure is a nice day for it. Remember how it rained last year?”
    “It's a little warm.”
    Gladys nodded but felt delightfully cool in her blue-striped seersucker. “Our band has a good chance of winning this year.”
    “Humph.” Min didn't approve of the new director's notion of having the band play show tunes instead of Sousa. She spotted the Cramptons and waved, regally, she thought. “Lucy Crampton's looking peaked.”
    “New diet,” Gladys said and irked Min because Min hadn't heard about it first.
    “There's Sarah Hewitt. Would you look at that?” She put a white-gloved hand to her mouth—not in shock, but to disguise the words. “High heels and a skirt that barely covers her privates. I don't know how her poor mother holds her head up.”
    “Mary's done her best with the girl.”
    “Should have taken a strap to her a time or two—Why, that's Blair Kimball.”
    “So it is. My, doesn't he look nice?”
    “Guess he came back because of his sister's trouble. Now that's a disgrace,” she continued before Gladys could comment. “Bringing those people right into town.”
    “What people?” Gladys looked and saw the LeBeaus walking with Clare. “Oh now, Min.”
    “I tell you it's unnatural. You can spout off all you like, Gladys Finch, but if one of your chicks had taken it in their head to marry one, you'd have sung a different tune. Why, I remember the scandal when the Poffenburger boy brought that Vietnam woman back after the war.”
    “Their oldest girl's an A student,” Gladys said dryly.
    “And no better than she has to be, I'm sure.” Min sniffed, then turned when her husband mounted the grandstand again. “Why now, thank you, James. I was just pointing Blair Kimball out to Gladys. Isn't it nice that he came up for the parade?”
    “Yes, indeed. How are you this morning, Gladys?”
    “Fit as a fiddle. Heard you have a big town meeting on Wednesday. People are mighty concerned now that the landfill's charging twenty-five dollars for a permit sticker. No doubt Poffenburger Refuse'll raise the rates, and that'll bump up taxes.”
    “The council and I are looking for solutions.” He took out his glasses, polished them. “Better get the speech-making over with so these people can have their parade.”
    He approached the mike, tapping on it to see if it was on, clearing his throat. There was a scream of feedback that had the crowd laughing, then quieting down to listen.
    He spoke about the valiant dead, the scourge of war, and the honor of God and country. There were those in the crowd who smiled secretly amid the cheers andapplause. For the chosen dead, they thought, for the scourge of vengeance, for the honor of the Master.
    Power sang in the air. Soon, there would be fresh blood.
    Ernie didn't listen at all. He got enough of Mr. Atherton in school. Instead, he worked his way through the crowd, looking for Clare.
    He was watched—as he had been watched, carefully, consistently over the last days. It had been agreed. And it had been written. His soul was ready for the taking.
    “It starts down by the elementary school,”