Divine Evil

to go back, Blair. Though I'm not entirely sure why, I need to go back.”
    He hesitated, wanting to argue. Then with a shrug he gave it up. “Look, the house is empty. You could move in tomorrow if you want, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to go walking down memory lane if you're already feeling low.”
    “Like you said, most of the memories are good. Maybe it's time to deal with the bad ones.”
    “Still seeing that shrink, are you?”
    She smiled a little. “Off and on. But my real therapy's work, and I don't seem able to work here anymore. I want to go home, Blair. That's the only thing I'm sure of.”
    “When's the last time you drove a car?” Angie demanded.
    Clare loaded the last suitcase into the back of her brand-new Z, slammed down the hatch, and stood back. As cars went, this one was a work of art. “What?” she said as she noted Angie was tapping a foot, this time encased in teal blue snakeskin.
    “I said, when was the last time you drove a car?”
    “Oh, a couple of years ago. She's a honey, isn't she?” Affectionately, Clare stroked the shiny red fender.
    “Oh, sure, a real honey. That's a five-speed in there, isn't it? And that speedometer goes up to about one-sixty. You haven't been behind the wheel in two years, then you go out and buy a machine with fangs?”
    “I suppose you'd be happier if I'd bought a pokey old station wagon.”
    “I'd be happier if you'd unload that monster and get back upstairs where you belong.”
    “Angie, we've been round and round this for a week.”
    “And it still doesn't make any sense.” Exasperated, Angie paced down the sidewalk and back again, instinctivelyavoiding the disaster of snagging her two-hundred-dollar heels in the cracks. “Girl, you can hardly remember to tie your shoelaces, how are you going to get this rocket launcher all the way to Maryland?”
    “Didn't I mention the automatic pilot?” When Angie failed to see the humor, Clare took her by the shoulders and shook. “Stop worrying, will you! I'm a big girl. I'm going to go spend the next six months or so in a quiet little town with two stoplights, where the biggest crime problem is kids stealing lawn art from the neighboring yard.”
    “And what the hell are you supposed to do in a place like that?” “Work.”
    “You can work here! Christ Almighty, Clare, you've got the critics eating out of your hand after the show. You can name your own price. If you need a vacation, take a cruise, fly to Cancun or Monte Carlo for a few weeks. What the hell's in Emmitsburg?”
    “Boro.
Emmitsboro. Peace, quiet, tranquility.” Neither of them turned a hair when a cab driver jumped out of his hack and began screaming obscenities at another driver. “I need a change, Angie. Everything I've worked on in the last month is garbage.”
    “That's bull.”
    “You're my friend, and a good one, but you're also an art dealer. Be honest.”
    Angie opened her mouth but at Clare's steady stare let out only an impatient hiss of breath.
    “Well, that's honest,” Clare mumbled.
    “If you haven't been producing your best work for the past couple of weeks, it's only because you've been pushing too hard. Everything you finished for the show was fabulous. You just need some time off.”
    “Maybe. Take my word for it, it's really tough to pushtoo hard in Emmitsboro. Which is,” she added, holding up a hand before Angie could argue, “only a five-hour drive. You and Jean-Paul can come down and check on me any time you like.”
    Angie backed off only because she knew there was no shaking Clare once her mind was set. “You'll call.”
    “I'll call, I'll write, I'll send up smoke signals. Now say good-bye.”
    Angie searched her brain for one final argument, but Clare simply stood smiling at her, in baggy jeans, screaming green high tops, and a purple sweatshirt with a huge yellow question mark down the front. Tears burned the backs of Angie's eyes as she held out her arms.
    “Damn it, I'm going to miss you.”
    “I know, me too.” She hugged Angie hard, drawing in the familiar scent of the Chanel that had been Angie's trademark since their art school days. “Look, I'm not joining the Foreign Legion.” She started around the car, then stopped and swore. “I forgot my purse, it's upstairs. Don't say a word,” she warned as she loped toward the entrance door.
    “That girl will probably make a wrong turn and end up in Idaho,” Angie muttered.
    Five hours later, Clare was indeed lost. She knew she