Divine Evil

the ground tapered down, carpeted with dead leaves from the previous autumns. With a last glance at the two white faces inthe back of the car, Cam started down, sliding a bit on the ground, still slippery after the night of rain.
    He could smell damp earth, damp leaves. There were deep skid marks where the boys had hustled down, and marks where they had scrambled back up again. He saw, as they must have, the smearing trail of blood. And he smelled it. Death.
    An animal, he told himself as he regained his footing. Hit by a car, then crawled off to die. Sweet Jesus, there was a lot of blood. He had to stop a moment, shake off the image that rushed into his brain.
    The walls of a tenement, splattered with red. The stench of it. The screams that wouldn't stop.
    He began to breathe through his mouth and curse himself.
    That was over, goddamn it. That was done.
    When he saw the body, his stomach didn't revolt as the boy's had. He had seen bodies before. Too many of them. What he felt first, vividly, was fury in finding one here. In his town. In his sanctuary.
    Then came disgust and pity. Whoever this broken heap of flesh and bones had been, he had died horribly. Then regret, that two young boys had hooked school on a warm spring morning only to stumble across something they couldn't understand and would never forget.
    He didn't understand it-after all the years on the force, all the senseless and small cruelties, he didn't understand it.
    Carefully, not wanting to disturb the scene, he crouched down beside the body. Wet leaves clung to the naked flesh. It lay outflung, its broken arms and legs at impossible angles, its face buried in the dirt and wet leaves.
    As he studied what was left, his eyes narrowed. Through the bruises and the blood, he made out a tattoo.His mouth dried. And he knew, before he cautiously lifted the battered head, before he looked into the ruined face. Rising, he swore over what was left of Biff Stokey.
    “Jesus, Cam.” Bud felt bile rise up hot in his throat and choked it down. “Holy Jesus.” He stared down at the body at his feet. With the sleeve of his shirt, he swiped at his mouth as sweat popped out on his face and ran cool and fast from his armpits. “Jesus, Jesus,” he said hopelessly, then turned, stumbling away to be sick in the brush.
    Calmer now, Cam stood where he was, waiting for Bud to get his system under control. From somewhere on the other side of the creek, a thrush began to trill. Squirrels scurried in the trees.
    “Sorry,” Bud managed, running a clammy palm over his clammy face. “I just couldn't-I've never seen-”
    “Nothing to be sorry about. You going to be okay now?”
    “Yeah.” But Bud kept his gaze several inches above what lay on the leafy ground. “You think he got hit by a car? I guess he could've been hit by a car, then rolled on down here. People are always taking these turns too fast.” He wiped his mouth again. “Too damn fast.”
    “No, I don't think he got hit by a car. Can't see a car breaking nearly every bone in his body.” Eyes narrowed, Cam thought out loud. “Where are the skid marks? How the hell did he get out here? Where's his car? Where the hell are his clothes?”
    “Well, I guess… I guess maybe, maybe he was shit-faced again. Could be we'll find his car, and his clothes, too, just down the road. And he was walking along, drunk, and a car came by and…” But he knew it was stupid even as he said it. Stupid and weak.
    Cam turned until his eyes met Bud's panicked ones. “I think someone beat him to death.”
    “But that's murder. Christ Almighty, nobody gets murdered around here.” In panic, Bud's voice rose an octave, then cracked. “We haven't had a homicide in this part of the county since T. R. Lewis went crazy and shot up his brother-in-law with his thirty-thirty. Hell, I wasn't no more than five or six years old then. People don't get murdered in Emmitsboro.”
    Judging by the waver in Bud's voice, Cam knew he could lose him if he didn't take it slow. “We'll wait for the coroner to get here. Meanwhile, we're going to have to rope this area off and start our investigation.”
    It would keep Bud busy, Cam mused, and little else. He was already certain Biff hadn't died here.
    “We'll need pictures, Bud. Go up and get the camera.” He caught the look in his deputy's eye and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I'll take the pictures,” he said gently. “Just go on up and get me the camera.”
    “All right.” He started up