Divine Evil

lies tonight in the dirt.” The priest spoke softly, but all the muted conversations ended instantly. “The Law was broken, and the weak one has been punished. Know that any who defy the Law, any who stray from the path will be struck down. The dead are dead.”
    He paused, turning his head slowly. “Are there any questions?”
    No one would have dared. And he was pleased.
    “Now we have need of another to fill out our number. Names will be considered and offered to the Master.”
    The men began to talk among themselves again, often arguing over choices like politicos over a favorite son. The priest let them ramble. He already had a candidate. Mindful of his timing, he walked into the circle and raised his hands.
    Silence followed him.
    “We require youth, strength, and loyalty. We require a mind still open for the possibilities, a body still strong enough to carry the burden of duty. Our Master craves the young, the lonely, the angry. I know of one who is already prepared, already seeking. He wants only direction and discipline. He will begin a new generation for the Dark Lord.”
    So the name was written on parchment to be offered to the four Princes of Hell.

Chapter 12
    O N SATURDAYS ERNIE WORKED the eight-to-four-thirty shift at the Amoco. And that was fine with him. It meant he was up and out of the house before his parents stumbled out of bed. They'd be busy making pizza at Rocco's when he came home. He could do as he pleased from the time he clocked out until his one o'clock curfew.
    Tonight he planned to lure Sally Simmons up to his room, lock the door, turn on some AC/DC, and fuck her brains out.
    He'd chosen to move on Sally with less concern than he felt when choosing what shirt to wear in the morning. She was at worst a substitute, at best a symbol of his real desire. The image of Clare rolling around between the sheets with Cameron Rafferty had haunted Ernie through the night. She had betrayed him and their joint destiny.
    He would find a way to punish her, but in the meantime, he could vent his frustration with Sally.
    He gassed up a milk truck. As the pump clicked off the dollars and gallons behind him, he looked vacantly around town. There was old Mr. Finch, his knobby whiteknees poking out below plaid Bermuda shorts, walking his two prissy Yorkshire terriers.
    Finch was wearing an Orioles fielder's cap, mirrored sunglasses, and a T-shirt that said MARYLAND IS FOR CRABS. He clucked and crooned to the Yorkies as though they were a pair of toddlers. He would, Ernie knew, walk down Main, cut across the Amoco lot, and go inside for a doughnut and a piss. As he did every Saturday morning of his life.
    “How's it going, young fella?” Finch asked as he asked every Saturday.
    “All right.”
    “Got to get my girls some exercise.”
    Less Gladhill breezed in, late as usual. He carried the pasty, sulky look that said hangover in progress. With barely a grunt for Ernie, he went into the garage to change the plugs on a ’75 Mustang.
    Matt Dopper rumbled through in his aged Ford pickup, his three dogs riding in the back. He bitched about the price of gas, picked up a pack of Bull Durham from the cigarette counter inside, and headed off to the feed and grain.
    Doc Crampton, looking sleepy-eyed, pulled in to fill up his Buick, bought a book of raffle tickets, and commiserated with Finch about the man's bursitis.
    Before ten, it seemed half the town had come through. Ernie moved from pump to pump, gassing up carloads of giggling teenage girls on their way to the mall. Young mothers and cranky toddlers, old men who blocked the pumps as they shouted to each other from car windows.
    When he went in for his first break and a Coke, Skunk Haggerty, who ran the station, was sitting behind the counter, munching on a doughnut and flirting with Reva Williamson, the skinny, long-nosed waitress from Martha's.
    “Well, I was planning on washing my hair and giving myself a facial tonight.” Reva rolled strawberry-flavored bubble gum around her tongue and grinned.
    “Your face looks just fine to me.” Skunk came by his name honestly. No amount of soap, deodorant, or cologne could disguise the faint gym sock aroma that seeped through his pores. But he was single. And Reva was twice divorced and on the prowl.
    She giggled, a sound that made Ernie roll his eyes. He could hear them continue their tease and shuffle as he walked into the back to relieve his bladder. The dispenser was out of paper towels. It was his job to