Divine Evil

directing traffic in a plastic rain hat and white galoshes.”
    “I'm sorry I missed it.”
    “When you marry me, you'll have a direct line to the pulse of Emmitsboro.”
    “First you have to build a garage, though.”
    “What?”
    “A garage,” she said, bending over the back of the couch to nip his earlobe. “I have to have a place to work, and I've already figured out you'd be annoyed if I set up in the living room.”
    He swung an arm back, hooked her, and pulled her over the couch on top of him. “Is that a yes?”
    “First I see the plans for the garage.”
    “Uh-uh. That was a yes.”
    “It was a conditional maybe,” she managed before he closed his mouth over hers. His hands were already busy. With a gasping laugh, she shifted over him. “I guess it was more of a probably.”
    “I'm going to want to make babies.”
    Her head shot up. “Now?”
    He pulled her back again. “For now we'll just practice.”
    She was laughing again when they rolled off the couch onto the floor.

P art T hree

_____
    He who has understanding
,
him calculate the number of the beast,
for it is the number of a man.

—Revelation

Chapter 28
    A S WHORES WENT , Mona Sherman was a crackerjack. Since the age of fourteen, she'd been earning a living by selling her body. She liked to think that she performed a public service. And performed it well. She took pride in her work, running her business by the creed that the customer was always right.
    Like a good utility man in baseball, Mona could—and would—do whatever was requested. For twenty-five an hour. Straight or kinky, rough or smooth, bottom or top, as long as the pay was right Mona was your girl. Satisfaction guaranteed.
    In her own way, she considered herself a feminist. After all, she was a businesswoman who set her own hours and made her own choices. She figured her street experience would have earned her an MBA.
    Mona had her own corner and a steady stream of repeat customers. She was a likable woman, friendly before, during, and after business transactions. With ten years of experience under her garter belt, she knew the importance of customer relations.
    She even liked men, regardless of build, personality, or staying power. With the exception of cops. She hated them on principle—the principle that they interfered with her inalienable right to make a living. If she chose to make that living with her body, it was her business. But cops had a way of hauling you in whenever they got bored. She'd had the shit beat out of her in holding once and placed the blame squarely on the cop who had stuck her in there.
    So when she was offered a hundred times her going rate to pass a mixture of lies and truth on to a cop, Mona was more than happy to oblige.
    She had gotten half the cash up front. It had been delivered to her post office box. Being a good businesswoman, she'd slapped the money into a six-month CD so it would earn solid interest. With it, and the second half, she planned to spend next winter in Miami. On sabbatical.
    She didn't know who the money was from, but she knew where it was from. Through her professional relationship with Biff Stokey, Mona had earned a few extra bucks getting gang-banged by a bunch of loonies in masks. She knew that men liked to play all sorts of weird games, and it was nothing to her.
    As agreed, she'd contacted Sheriff Rafferty and told him she had information he might be interested in. She arranged to meet him at the scenic overlook off 70. She didn't want a cop in her room. She had her reputation to think of.
    When she drove up in her battered Chevette, he was already there.
    Not bad-looking, for a cop, Mona mused, and ran through her lines again in her head. She had them cold. It made her smile. Maybe she'd try Hollywood instead of Miami.
    “You Rafferty?”
    Cam looked her over. She was leggy and slim in her off-duty outfit of shorts and a tube top. Her hair was cropped short, with the tips bleached platinum. She might not have looked her age if it hadn't been for the lines carved around her eyes and mouth.
    “Yeah, I'm Rafferty”
    “I'm Mona.” She smiled, reached in the little red purse that hung from a strap between her breasts, and took out a Virginia Slim. “Got a light?”
    Cam pulled out matches, struck one. He waited until a family of four walked by, squabbling as they headed for the rest stop facilities. “What have you got to tell me, Mona?”
    “Was Biff really your old man?”
    “He was my