Divine Evil

herself in her waitress's uniform, but she had only managed to steal twenty minutes away. Besides, the closest thing she had to funeral gear was a black sweatshirt. “They're going to start in a minute.”
    “I'm just going to sit in the back.” Clare had no intention of marching up to the coffin and peeking in.
    Hey, Biff, haven't seen you for years. Sorry you're dead.
    The thought of it had her choking back a nervous laugh, then fighting off a wave of hot tears. What was she doing here? What the
hell
was she doing here? She was here for Cam, Clare reminded herself. And she was here to prove that she could sit in this little overheated room and get through a ritual like a responsible adult.
    “You all right?” Alice whispered.
    “Yes.” She took a long, cleansing breath. “We'd better sit down.”
    As she and Alice took a seat, Clare scanned the room for Cam. She spotted Min Atherton in navy polyester, her face in solemn lines, her bright eyes gleeful. The mayor was beside her, his head bowed as if in prayer.
    Farmers and merchants and mechanics stood in their Sunday suits and discussed business and the weather. Mrs. Stokey was flanked by townswomen. Cam stood to theside, a set, unapproachable look on his face as he watched his mother.
    Chuck Griffith walked to the front of the room, turned, and waited. With murmurs and shuffles, people filed to the folding chairs.
    Silence.
    “Friends,” he began, and Clare remembered.
    The room had been packed both evenings during the viewing. There hadn't been a man, woman, or child in Emmitsboro who hadn't known Jack Kimball. All of them had come. The words they had spoken had blurred in her head, leaving only their meaning behind. Sorrow and regret. But no one, no one had known the depth of her own grief.
    The church had been packed for the service, and the line of cars heading out to the cemetery at Quiet Knolls had stretched for blocks.
    Some of the same people were here today. Older, with more flesh and less hair. They took their seats and held their silence and thought their thoughts.
    Rosemary Kimball had been surrounded by towns-women, just as Jane Stokey was. They had stood by her, a unified line of support, filled with sympathy for her loss, filled with relief that their own widowhood was somewhere down the road of a murky future.
    They had brought food to the house-ham, potato salad, chicken-to feed the grieving. The food had meant nothing, but the kindness helped fill some of the empty spaces.
    Days later-only days-the scandal had hit. Jack Kimball, well-loved member of the community, was now an opportunist charged with kickbacks, bribery, falsified documents. While her grief was still blood-fresh, she'd beentold to accept the fact that her father had been a liar and a cheat.
    But she had never accepted it. Nor had she accepted his suicide.
    Cam saw her. He was surprised she was there and less than pleased when he noted that her face was too pale, her eyes too wide. She had a hand gripped in Alice's as she stared straight ahead. He wondered what it was she saw, what it was she heard. He was certain she wasn't listening to Chuck Griffith's words about eternal life and forgiveness any more than he was.
    But others listened. With their faces blank and their hands still, they listened. And they feared. A warning had been given. When one of their number broke the Law, he would be plucked out, without mercy. The wrath of the few was no less than the wrath of the Dark Lord. So they listened, and they remembered. And behind their somber eyes and bent heads, they were afraid.
    “I have to get back.” Alice squeezed Clare's hand. “I have to get back,” she repeated. “Clare?”
    “What?” She blinked. People were shuffling to their feet and filing out. “Oh.”
    “I could only get time off to come for the service. Are you driving out to the cemetery?”
    “Yes.” Clare had her own grave to visit. “I'll be driving out.”
    A half dozen cars slid into position in the back lot of Griffith's. There were farms to run and shops to open, and the fact was there weren't too many people willing to take the time to see Biff Stokey get plopped in the ground. Clare pulled in at the rear and settled into the short, stately drive. Ten miles out of town, the grim parade drove through the open iron gates.
    Clare's fingers were clammy when she turned off the ignition.She waited in the car. The pallbearers hefted their burden. She saw the mayor, Doc Crampton, Oscar Roody,