Divine Evil

office.
    “I don't know. I wish I did.” Blair's mouth was a thin line from tension. “I'd like to get a look at that kid, too. A good, long look.”
    “I'll deal with Ernie.”
    “You might want to deal with this.” Blair tapped a finger on the fat file he'd brought along. “I went up to the newspaper in Hagerstown. Did a little digging in the morgue. And I called the
Post
, had them fax me some articles on Satanism. I think you'll find it interesting reading.”
    Cam flipped open the file and whistled through his teeth. “We're a long way from D.C.”
    “A lot of places are. It doesn't stop this kind of crap from going on.”
    Mutilated livestock, disemboweled house pets. Cam paged through the slick fax sheets, disgust surging in him. “We ran into this now and again when I was on the force. Ritual circles in some of the wooded areas, symbols carvedinto trees. But here?” His eyes lifted to Blair. “Christ, we grew up here. How could this be going on without our having a clue?”
    “For the most part this kind of group is careful, real careful.” He rose and went to the coffeepot. “You want some more of this nuclear waste?”
    “Yeah.” His gut had told him something was very wrong almost from the beginning, when he'd stared down into that small empty grave. “Biff, though,” he said. “That was sloppy. No.” His eyes glittered up at Blair. “Not sloppy. Arrogant.”
    “I'll tell you what I get from this.” Blair poured more coffee into Cam's cup. “They don't think like other men. They don't feel like other men.” As he sat again, the chair squeaked with his restless movements.
    Cam pulled over an ashtray. “Tell me, like a reporter.”
    “Okay.” He settled back, steepled his hands. “I think arrogant was a good choice of words. It's a mistake to believe that they're stupid. It's not all junkies and psychopaths and rebellious teenagers in cults. Some of this stuff talks about doctors, lawyers, college professors being involved, often highly placed within the cult, too.”
    Cam had gleaned that much himself but wanted to hear the logic. “How do they get involved?”
    “The groups are well organized. There's networking, recruiting. Part of the appeal is the secrecy, the smugness of belonging to a group that's outside society's normal bounds.” As he talked, Blair was afraid he understood the allure all too well. “They live for pleasure, a lot of sick pleasure. Getting off with animals. Christ, with kids. And power—a lot of it comes down to power.” He spread out the sheets. “Some don't believe they can conjure up demons, but they belong for the indulgences. Sex. Drugs. The thrill of killing.” He glanced over as Cam watchedhim. “You can see from a couple of these articles that we aren't always talking about killing sheep and dogs. Sometimes they get in deeper. Runaways are a good target.”
    Cam thought of Carly Jamison with a sick feeling of acceptance. Then of Biff. “Do they kill their own?”
    “Why not? This isn't your average men's club, Cam, and some of these people believe, deeply, fervently, that Satan will give them whatever they want if they follow the path. I've got all kinds of stuff here, from what they call the dabblers right on up to the big boys. But from a couple of kids lighting a black candle and playing a record backward to La Vey—what pulls it together is power. It all comes down to power.”
    “I've been reading quite a bit, too,” Cam said. “What I'm getting is that there are different type of cults. The high-profile ones are big into indulgence and ceremony but reject any kind of ritual sacrifice.”
    “Sure.” Blair nodded and found himself stifling a nervous laugh. Here they were, good old friends, discussing devil worship and ritual murder over bad coffee. “But there are others. I need to do more checking, but from what I can gather, that's your most dangerous group. They take what they want from the books, from the traditions, and make their own. They go back to the ancients, when blood was the only way to appease and—and cajole the gods. They form where they please. They don't seek attention, they hide from it. But they find each other.”
    “How do we find them?”
    “I'm afraid,” Blair said, and he no longer had the urge to laugh, “that we may not have to look very far.” Restlessly, he dragged a hand through his hair. “But I'm a political reporter, Cam. I don't know whether that's an advantage or an