Divine Evil

next. Unfortunately, the call from Gladys hadn't come until noon, and once Clare had remembered what the offer of the ride was for, she'd had to dash from the garage to the bedroom and throw on a suit.
    She wasn't sure if the short blue skirt and military-style jacket constituted ladies luncheon wear, but it was the best she could do. Even now she was driving with her elbows as she struggled to fasten her earrings.
    She could only groan when she spotted the van fromthe Hagerstown television station. She pulled up behind it and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.
    She hated public speaking. Hated interviews, hated cameras aimed in her direction. Her palms were already wet and clammy, and she hadn't even stepped out of the car.
    One of the last things she'd done in New York had been to cave in and speak to Tina Yongers's club. The art critic had put on the pressure—just as Min had done. And Clare had buckled. Just as she always did.
    No backbone. No spine. You wimp. You wuss. She pulled the rearview mirror over and studied her face. Great. She had mascara smeared under her eyes. For lack of something better, she spit on her finger and wiped at it.
    “You're a grown woman,” she lectured herself. “An adult. A professional. You're going to have to get over this. And no, you are not going to throw up.”
    It went deep, and she knew it. The fear, the panic. All the way back to the weeks after her father had died. All those questions, all those curious eyes focused on her. All those cameras at the funeral.
    This is now. Damn it, this is today. Get your queasy stomach and jelly knees out of the car. All of this was bound to take her mind off of being robbed—and the prospect of Cam's asking her why the hell she hadn't locked the garage in the first place.
    When she climbed out, the first thing she saw was the moon ball, then the stable boy. A nervous giggle escaped as she started up the walk.
    Then there were the lions. She had to stop. She had to stare. Reclining on either side of the steps were a pair of white plaster lions wearing rhinestone collars.
    “Excuse me, boys,” she murmured and was grinning when she knocked on the door.
    * * *
    While Clare was dealing with the Ladies Club, Joleen Butts sat on a folding chair beside her husband in the high school gym. The commencement address was running long, and more than a few people were shifting in their seats, but Joleen sat still and stiff with tears in her eyes.
    She wasn't certain why she was crying. Because her boy was taking another giant step toward adulthood. Because he looked so much like his father had when she and Will had donned cap and gown. Because she knew, in her heart, she had already lost him.
    She hadn't told Will about the argument. How could she? He was sitting there with his own eyes bright and pride glowing all over his face. Nor had she told him that she had raced up to Ernie's room when he slammed out of the house, on a frantic search for drugs. She'd almost hoped she would find them so that she would have something tangible on which to blame his mood swings.
    She hadn't found drugs, but what she had found had frightened her more.
    The books, the leaflets, the stubs of black candles. The notebook crammed with drawings of symbols, of strange names, of the number
666
boldly printed a hundred times. The diary that told, in minute detail, of the rituals he had performed. Performed in that room, while she slept. The diary that she had closed quickly, unable to read further.
    She had hardly closed her eyes since that day, wondering and worrying if she would find the courage and wisdom to approach him. Now, as the names of the graduating class were called, as the young men and women filed in a stately march to the stage, she watched her son.
    “Ernest William Butts.”
    Will had the video camera on his shoulder, but his free hand groped for his wife's. Joleen took it, held it. And wept.
    In a daze Ernie walked back to his seat. Some of the girls were crying. He felt like crying himself, but he didn't know why. In his hand was his ticket to freedom. He'd worked for twelve years for this single piece of paper so he could go where he wanted. Do as he chose.
    It was funny, but Los Angeles didn't seem so important now. He wasn't sure about going there anymore, about finding others like him. He thought he'd found others like him here. Maybe he had.
    You have been marked with the sacrificial blood.
    But that had been a goat. Just a dumb goat. Not