Divine Evil

“They don't understand. Nobody does, except—”
    “Except?” She took a step toward him. The whites of his eyes glowed in the shadows. She could see the sweat beaded over the upper lip he only had to shave once a week. “Sit down, Ernie. Sit down and talk to me. I'll try to understand.”
    “It's too late to go back. I know what I have to do. I know where I belong.” He turned and ran out of the house.
    “Ernie!” She raced after him, pausing in the middle of her yard when he jumped into his truck. “Ernie, wait.” When he speeded past her, she looked frantically down the street. His house was dark. Clare swore and darted toher own car. She hadn't been able to change things for Lisa. Maybe she could help Ernie.
    He turned onto Main, and she lost him. Slapping the heel of her hand against the wheel, she circled around, scooting down side streets searching for his truck. Ten minutes later, she was ready to give up, figuring the best thing she could do was go into Rocco's and relate the incident to his parents.
    Then she spotted the truck, parked in the rear lot of Griffith's Funeral Home. Clare pulled in beside it. Great, just great, she thought. What was he doing? Breaking into a funeral parlor?
    She didn't bother to weigh the consequences. She would go in and get him out, as quickly and quietly as possible. Then she'd turn him over to his parents.
    The rear door was unlocked, and she opened it, fighting back her natural distaste for entering a place where death was a daily business. She sent out a quick prayer that no one had died lately and slipped inside.
    “Ernie?” she whispered, her voice sounding hushed and reverential as it floated downward. The delivery entrance, she supposed, looking down the flight of iron steps. “Damn it, Ernie, why here?”
    Abruptly, she thought of the symbolism. Coffins and candles. Clare was well aware of the statistics on teenage suicide. Ernie was a prime candidate. Torn, she stood at the top of the stairs. She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't trained. If she couldn't stop him …
    It would be better to go find Cam, she decided, though it made her feel like a squealer. Doc Crampton might be an even better choice. As she turned toward the door, a sound from below made her hesitate. Why would the boy listen to a cop—especially one he'd decided to hate? And he certainly wouldn't pay any attention to a small-townG.P. If it was just an adolescent temper tantrum, how much harder would it be for Ernie to have a cop pick him up? She remembered his tears and his desperation, and sighed.
    She would just go on down and see if she could find him first. Trained or not, she could talk to him, and with luck and perseverance calm him down. Slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the dark, she descended the stairs.
    Voices. Who the hell could Ernie be talking to? she wondered. Chances were that Charlie was working—oh, God—and the boy had run into him. She would try to explain, cajole, smooth over, then get Ernie back to his parents before there was any real trouble.
    No, not voices, she realized. Music. Bach played on an organ. She supposed Charlie preferred the reverential music to set the mood for his work.
    She turned into a narrow corridor. Light was thrown by wall sconces, but was overwhelmed by shadows. There was movement again, murmuring under the music. Clare reached out with a hesitant hand and parted a long black curtain.
    And the gong sounded.
    There was a woman lying on a platform. At first Clare thought she was dead, so pale was her skin in the flowing candlelight. But she shifted her head, and Clare knew, with an even more primitive horror, that she was alive.
    She had her arms crossed over her naked breasts and gripped a black candle in each hand. Between her spread thighs was a silver cup, covered by a paten on which lay a small round of black bread.
    There were men, a dozen of them, in long, hooded robes. Three of them approached the altar and made a deep bow.
    A voice was raised, intoning Latin. Clare recognized it and began to tremble.
    But it wasn't right, she thought, swaying a bit with the first shock. There had been trees and a fire and the smell of smoke and pine. Her knuckles were bone-white against the black curtain, and she stared. The voice, the one she remembered from her dream, filled the stark little room.
    “Before the King of Hell and all the demons of the Pit, before this, my brotherhood, I proclaim that Satan rules. Before this company, I renew my