Divine Evil

Stray dog or something musta crawled off and died in the hay field.” He stopped the baler. The last thing he wanted was to look for some maggoty dog, but he couldn't afford to run over it with the baler either. “Come on, July, let's find the damn thing and haul it off.”
    “Maybe it's a horse. Smells as bad as a horse. Could call the dead wagon.”
    “We ain't calling no dead wagon until we find it.”
    They hopped off the baler. Chip took a page out of July's book and tied a bandanna around his nose and mouth. The stench was worse on the ground, and he was reminded of the day he'd been playing by the railroad tracks and had come across what was left of a dog that had had the bad luck to get flattened by the freight train headed toward Brunswick. He cursed and breathed shallowly behind the cloth. It wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat.
    “Gotta be right around here,” he said and started into the uncut hay. It was unpleasant, but not difficult to follow the scent, which reared up like a big, squishy green fist.
    As it was, Chip almost tripped over it.
    “Jesus Christ Almighty.” He pressed a hand over his already covered mouth and looked at July.
    July's eyes were bulging out of his head. “Shit, oh shit, oh shit. That ain't no dog.” He turned away, coughing and gagging, then began a shambling run after Chip, who was already racing over the freshly cut hay.
    * * *
    Thirty minutes later, Cam stood at the same spot. His breath hissed out between his teeth. After ten years on the force, he thought he'd seen everything a man could see. But he'd never come across anything as bad as this.
    She was naked. Death hadn't robbed her of her gender, though it had taken nearly everything else. He judged her to be of small to medium build. Age wasn't possible to determine. She was ageless now.
    But he thought he knew. Even as he took the blanket he'd brought from the car and covered her, he thought that Carly Jamison would never party down in Fort Lauderdale.
    His face was pale, but his hands were steady, and he only thought once, fleetingly, that a shot of Jack would go down real smooth just about then. He walked across the field he'd once plowed in his youth to where Chip and July waited.
    “It was a body, just like we told you.” July was hopping from foot to foot. “I ain't never seen a dead body, 'cept my Uncle Clem, and he was laid out in his Sunday suit down to Griffith's. Chip and me, we was haying your ma's field, just like we told you, then we smelled it—”
    “Shut the fuck up, July.” Chip passed a hand over his sweaty brow. “What do you want us to do, Sheriff?”
    “I'd appreciate it if you'd go into the office and give your statements.” He took out a cigarette, hoping the taste of smoke would clean his mouth. “Did either of you touch her?”
    “No, sir. Nosirree.” July hopped again. “Shit, she was a mess, wasn't she? Did you see all them flies?”
    “Shut the fuck up, July,” Cam said without heat. “I'll call in, make sure Mick's there to take your statements. We may need to talk to you again.” He glanced toward the house. “Did you say anything to my mother?”
    “Sorry, Sheriff.” Chip shifted, shrugged. “I guess Julyand me weren't thinking proper when we ran into the house.”
    “It's all right. It'd be best if you gave your statements right away.”
    “We'll drive in now.”
    With a nod, Cam went up the steps and into the house, where his mother waited.
    She all but pounced. “I told them it was just a dog or some young deer,” she began, twisting her apron. Shadows haunted her eyes. “Neither one of those boys has a lick of sense.”
    “Have you got any coffee?”
    “In the kitchen.”
    He walked past her, and she followed, a sour sickness in her stomach. “It was a dog, wasn't it?”
    “No.” He poured coffee, drank it down hot and black, then picked up the phone. For a moment he hesitated, the receiver cool in his hand, the image of what he had left in the field twisting in his mind. “It wasn't a dog. Why don't you wait in the other room?”
    Her mouth worked, but the words wouldn't come. Pressing her lips together, she shook her head and sat while he called the coroner.
    Clare was downing a breakfast Twinkie and contemplating her sketches for the Betadyne Museum. She wanted to get started on the outdoor piece. It had been nudging at her for days. She could already see it, completed, glowing copper, an abstract female form, arms lifted, with the