Divine Evil

microwave, then wrapped it in a piece of Wonder bread, and began to slather on mustard. “If Angie ever finds out-”
    “I'm on the extention, you idiot.”
    Chuckling, Clare added a row of dill pickle slices. “Oh, well, all is discovered. So what's up?”
    “After that,” Jean-Paul said, “I am.”
    “Behave yourself,” Angie said mildly. “We wanted to see how you are.”
    “I'm good.” Satisfied, Clare picked up the dripping sandwich and bit in. “Really good,” she mumbled with a full mouth. “In fact, I just finished some sketches with a new model. The kid's got great arms.”
    “Oh, really?”
    Amused by Angie's intonation, Clare shook her head. “I meant kid literally. He's sixteen, seventeen. I also tooksome sketches of this friend of mine who's a waitress. Competent poetry in motion. And I've got my eye on a fabulous set of hands.” She thought of Cam and chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe the face, too. Or the whole damn body.” Just how would he react if she suggested he pose nude? she wondered.
    “You sound busy,
chèrie. ”
Jean-Paul picked up a chunk of amethyst from his desk.
    “I am. Angie, you'll be pleased to know I've been working every day. Really working,” she added, scooting up on the counter, then taking another bite of the hot dog. “I've actually got one piece finished.”
    “And?” Angie probed.
    “I'd rather you see it for yourself. I'm too close to it.”
    With the phone cocked between his ear and shoulder, Jean-Paul passed the stone from hand to hand. “How is life in the boondicks?”
    “Docks,” Clare corrected. “Boondocks, and it's fine. Why don't you come see for yourself?”
    “What about that, Angie? Would you like a few days in the country? We can smell the cows and make love in the hay.”
    “I'll think about it.”
    “A week in Emmitsboro is not like a year in the Outback.” Warming to the idea, Clare polished off the hot dog. “We don't have wild boar or mad rapists.”
    “Je suis desolè, ”
Jean-Paul said, tongue in cheek. “What do you have,
chèrie?”
    “Quiet, tranquility-even a comforting kind of boredom.” She thought of Ernie with his youthful restlessness and dissatisfaction. Boredom wasn't for everyone, she supposed. “After I show you the hot spots like Martha's Diner and Clyde's Tavern, we can sit on the porch, drink beer, and watch the grass grow.”
    “Sounds stimulating,” Angie muttered.
    “We'll see what we can shuffle in our schedule.” Jean-Paul decided on the spot. “I would like to see Clyde's.”
    “Great.” Clare lifted her bottle in an absent toast. “You'll love it. Really. It's the perfect American rural town. Nothing ever happens in Emmitsboro.”
    A thin spring drizzle was falling, muddying the earth in the circle. There was no fire in the pit, only the cold ash of wood and bone. Lanterns took the place of candles. Clouds choked the moon and smothered the stars.
    But the decision had been made, and they would not wait. Tonight there were only five cloaked figures. The old guard. This meeting, this ritual, was secret to all but these chosen few.
    “Christ, it's shitty out here tonight.” Biff Stokey cupped his beefy hand around his cigarette to protect it from the rain. Tonight there were no drugs, no candles, no chanting, no prostitute. In the twenty years he had been a member of the coven, he had come to depend on, and require, the ritual as much as the fringe benefits.
    But tonight, instead of an altar, there was only an empty slab and an inverted cross. Tonight, his companions seemed edgy and watchful. No one spoke as the rain pelted down.
    “What the hell's this all about?” he demanded of no one in particular. “This isn't our usual night.”
    “There is business to tend to.” The leader stepped out of the group, into the center, and turned toward them. The eyes of his mask looked dark and empty. Twin pits of hell. He lifted his arms, his long fingers splayed. “We are the few. We are the first. In our hands the power shinesbrighter. Our Master has given us the great gift to bring others to Him, to show them His glory.”
    Like a statue he stood, an eerie mirror image of Clare's nightmare sculpture. Body bent, head lifted, arms outstretched. Behind his mask, his eyes gleamed with anticipation, with appreciation of the power he held that the others would never understand.
    They had come, like well-trained dogs, at his call. They would act, as mindless as sheep, at his command. And if one or