Divine Evil

purse and searched through it. “Let ′em eat cake,” she said, holding up a spare Twinkie.
    There was a pond in the center of the park. Clare remembered how they would float a tree out on a raft at Christmastime, where it would twinkle mystically over the water. She had come there with her parents, on school field trips, with dates. Once she had come there to sit alone on a bench, overcome with pleasure when one of her sculptures had been placed on exhibit at the nearby art museum.
    As they walked, fingers linked, the big leafy trees insulated them against the sound of traffic.
    “Smells like rain,” she murmured.
    “By tomorrow.”
    “I guess we need it.”
    “It's been a pretty dry spring.”
    She looked at him. They both smiled with the easy understanding of lovers. “Want to try politics next?”
    He shook his head and, putting an arm around her shoulders, drew her closer to his side. “I'm glad you were there when I came out.”
    So am I.
    “It's funny, I didn't think about cruising by the nearest bar. First thing I thought about was getting in the car and driving fast, maybe finding some asses to kick.” On her shoulder his fist curled, uncurled, then settled. “It used to work.”
    “So what works now?”
    “You do. Let's sit down.” He chose a bench and kept her close while he watched the water. Ducks paddled,noisy and optimistic, to the edge. Clare unwrapped the Twinkie and began to toss small hunks. The light gentled to purple.
    “Was it Carly Jamison?”
    “Yeah. The dental records came in late this afternoon. Her parents … there wasn't much I could do for them.”
    She watched the ducks scramble and fight. “They're here then?”
    “They came in about an hour ago. I can't sit.”
    She got up with him, walking, waiting for him to speak again.
    “I'm going to find out who killed that girl, Clare.”
    “But Biff—”
    “He was part of it. He wasn't all of it.” He stopped, looked down at her. She could see the anger in his eyes and, beneath it, a pain that wrenched at her own heart. “Somebody tossed her into that field. My field. Like she was nothing. I'm going to find out who it was. Nobody's going to do that to young girls in my town.”
    Looking out to the water, she wiped her sticky fingers on her jeans. “You still think that this is part of some kind of cult.”
    He put his hands on her shoulders. “I want you to make that sketch. Clare, I know what I'm asking, but I need you to remember everything, every detail of that dream, and write it down.” He tightened his grip. “Clare, she was killed somewhere else. Just like Biff. She was killed somewhere else, then put there, where we'd find her. Maybe you can help me find out where.”
    “All right. For whatever good it'll do.”
    “Thanks.” He kissed her. “Let's go home.”

Chapter 27
    S HE DIDN'T WANT TO REMEMBER . Clare knew it was cowardly, but she didn't want to call it up in her mind. For more than twenty years, she'd tried to block it—through force of will, the occasional tranquillizer, and hours of therapy. Never once had she deliberately recreated the picture in her mind. Now she had been asked to put it on paper.
    She'd procrastinated, making excuses to Cam and to herself. At night she lay awake, fighting sleep, afraid her subconscious would rear up and accomplish what she was stubbornly resisting.
    He didn't press her, not out loud. But then, he'd been so swamped with the investigation, he'd had little time to be with her at all.
    The rain had come, as Cam predicted. It had fallen solidly for two days and two nights. Still, at the market, the post office, down at Martha's, people talked about the water table and the possibility of water restrictions again this summer. When they weren't talking about that or theOrioles′ chances at a pennant this year, they were talking about murder.
    Clare's outdoor sculpture was put on hold. She piddled around the garage as she hadn't for weeks, unable to settle on a substitute. She moved listlessly from project to project, studying sketches, making more. In the back of her mind, her promise to Cam continued to nag.
    It was just that the house seemed so empty. At least that's what she told herself. With Blair back in D.C. and the rain falling and falling and falling, she felt so isolated. So alone.
    Why hadn't that ever bothered her before?
    Because she'd never jumped at shadows before. Never checked and rechecked her locks or analyzed every creak and groan of a