Divine Evil

support at the funeral.” Christ, he wanted a cigarette. A
drink.
“But for now, I'd appreciate it if you left this to the family.”
    They filed off, some to their pickups, others to wander down to the post office or the market where they could discuss the situation in depth.
    “I'm sorry about that, Cam.” On a wheezy sigh, Mick Morgan pulled a package of Red Indian chewing tobacco from his pocket.
    “Nothing to be sorry about.”
    “They brought him in around the back. Oscar wasworking on a toilet inside. That's all it took. Old fart couldn't wait to get his tongue wagging.” Mick stuffed the plug in his cheek. “They were just curious is all. I'd've had them on their way in a minute or two.”
    “I know. Is my mother inside?”
    “That's what I heard.”
    “Do me a favor and keep an eye on the office for a while.”
    “Sure thing.” He used his tongue to settle the chaw more cozily. “Ah…mighty sorry about your trouble, Cam. If you want to take a couple days off, stay with your mom, Bud and me can double up.”
    “Thanks. I appreciate it. But I don't think she'll need me.” Wearily, he walked up to the door with its discreet brass knocker.
    He stepped inside to the overwhelming scent of gladiolas and Lemon Pledge. There was a churchlike hush in the red-draped hallway. Why in the hell did funeral parlors always use red? he wondered. Was that the color of comfort?
    Red plush, dark paneling, thick carpet, and ornate candlesticks. A bunch of plucky glads and lilies sat in a tall vase on a glossy table. Beside them was a stack of printed business cards.
WE'LL BE HERE IN YOUR TIME OF NEED
    Charles W. Griffith and Sons Emmitsboro, Maryland established 1839
    It pays to advertise, Cam thought.
    There was a carpeted stairway leading to the second floor. The viewing rooms. An entertaining term for a morbid tradition, he thought. Why the hell people wanted tostare at corpses he couldn't figure. But maybe that was because he'd had to look at more than his share.
    He remembered climbing those steps as a child, to look at the dead face of his father. His mother had been weeping, walking ahead of him with Biff Stokey's beefy arm around her. He hadn't wasted any time moving in, Cam thought now. Mike Rafferty hadn't even been in the ground before Stokey put his hands on the widow.
    Now they were full circle.
    His hands jammed in his pockets, Cam started down the hallway. The double doors to the main parlor were shut. He hesitated, then pulled a hand free to knock. Within moments, the door opened silently.
    Standing somber-eyed in one of his five black suits was Chuck Griffith. For more than a hundred and fifty years the Griffiths had been undertakers in Emmitsboro. Chuck's son was already in training to take over the family business, but at forty, Chuck was in his prime.
    As a boy he'd been as comfortable in the embalming room as on the baseball field, where he'd been the star pitcher. To the Griffiths, death was a business, a steady one. Chuck could afford to take his family on a two-week vacation every year and buy his wife a new car every third one.
    They had a pretty house on the edge of town and an inground swimming pool, heated. People often joked about it being the pool that death built.
    In his capacity as coach for Emmitsboro's Little League, Chuck was loud, boisterous, and competitive. As the town's only funeral director, he was somber, soft-spoken, and sympathetic. Immediately he extended one of his wide, capable hands to Cam.
    “It's good you're here, Sheriff.”
    “Is my mother inside?”
    “Yes.” Chuck cast a quick glance behind him. “I'm having some trouble convincing her that, under the circumstances, a closed casket service would be advisable.”
    Cam had an instant and uncomfortable flash of what had been left of Biff's face. “I'll talk to her.”
    “Please, come in.” He gestured Cam inside the dimly lit, flower-filled room. There was music playing quietly from hidden speakers. Something soft and soothing. “We're having some tea. I'll just get another cup.”
    Cam nodded, then walked toward his mother. She was sitting stiffly on the high-back sofa, a box of tissues within arm's reach. She was wearing a black dress, one he didn't recognize. He imagined she had borrowed it or had one of her lady friends buy it for her. She held the teacup in a white-knuckled grip. Her knees were pressed so tightly together, Cam thought they must ache with the pressure of bone to bone. At her feet was