Divine Evil

together.
    Lying on the living room rug, arms and legs tangled. Bonnie Raitt playing on the stereo. A breeze, tipped with summer, had drifted in through the windows, along with the call of a whippoorwill.
    “Why did you change you mind?” he'd asked her.
    “About what?”
    “About marrying me.”
    “I didn't change it.” She'd rolled over, folding her arms on his chest and resting her chin on them. “I made it up.” He remembered how she'd smiled. Her eyes had been dark, like gold in an old painting. “My first marriage was a really dismal failure. It made me gun-shy. No—” She'd taken a breath, as if determined to be accurate. “It made me insecure. I thought I was doing everything right, but I wasn't.”
    “That kind of thing is never one person's fault.”
    “No, we both made mistakes. My biggest was that I didn't care enough. When things started to fall apart, I justlet it happen. Pulled in emotionally. It's been a habit of mine since my father died. It's a very elemental equation. Don't care too much equals don't hurt too much. It doesn't work with you.”
    “So you're going to marry me because I messed up your equation.”
    “Simply put.” She'd pressed a kiss to his throat. “I love you so much, Cam.” He'd felt her lips curve against his skin. “You'd better get to work on that garage.”
    He hadn't seen her since.
    Restless, he rose to walk into her garage. Her tools were there, ready to be picked up. Piles of sketches littered the worktable. Wood chips were scattered on the floor.
    If she drove up now, she'd laugh at him for worrying. And she'd be right. If he wasn't so edgy, he wouldn't have given a second thought to the fact that she wasn't home. But the interview with Mona Sherman still nagged at him. He was just so damn sure he was being set up.
    Mona Sherman had been lying. Or at least there had been enough lies mixed in with the truth that he was having a hard time telling one from the other. First he had to prove she was lying, then he had to find out why.
    But that didn't have anything to do with Clare, he told himself. Clare was out of it. He would make sure it stayed that way.
    Ernie watched Rafferty walk back to his car and drive away. Like the child he wished he could be, he climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his head.
    When Clare woke, it was dark. She couldn't tell if it was night or day because the windows were all shuttered tight.Her head throbbed, dull as a toothache. When she tried to shift, she found that her hands and feet were tied to the iron rungs of a bed.
    In blind, dry-mouthed panic, she fought against the rope, pulling and twisting until the pain sliced through the fear and had her weeping into the musty pillow.
    She didn't know how long it took her to gain some control. It didn't seem to matter. She was alone. At least Atherton wouldn't have the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.
    Atherton. The dutiful mayor of Emmitsboro. Her father's friend. The dedicated science teacher and faithful husband. His was the voice she had heard so many years ago, calling out demonic names. His was the hand she had seen lift the knife to slaughter.
    All these years, she thought. He'd been quietly serving the town. And quietly destroying it.
    Dr. Crampton. Her father's best friend, her own surrogate father. She thought of Alice with jagged despair. How would Alice ever get over it? How would she ever accept it? No one, Clare thought, understood better than she herself what it was like to lose a father.
    Chuck Griffith, Mick Morgan, Biff Stokey How many more?
    Ernie. She closed her eyes, grieving as she thought of his mother.
    But there was still a chance for Ernie. He was afraid, and the fear was healthy. Maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to convince him to help her.
    She wondered if she'd killed Mick. She prayed she had. The bitter venom of hate stirred and helped clear her head. Yes, she prayed to God she'd killed him. Atherton would have to work to explain a dead deputy.
    The tears had passed and so, she was grateful, had the panic. Carefully, she turned her head to study the room.
    It was no bigger than ten by twelve and smelled of stale, humid air. Occasionally, she could hear a skittering sound and tried not to think about what was making it.
    There was a table and four chairs. A few cigarette butts littered the floor around them. She understood she was feeling better when she pined for a quick drag from one of the butts.
    A disgusting thought but a