Divine Evil

Hagerstown were on an informal rotation, and one of them popped down for religion classes and the nine o'clock mass that followed them. Otherwise, Our Lady didn't do a lot of business, except around Easter and Christmas. And, of course, weddings and funerals. No matter how far her faithful strayed, they came back to Our Lady to be planted.
    It wasn't a thought that gave Cam, who'd been baptized at the font, right in front of the tall, serene statue of the Virgin, any comfort.
    It was a pretty night, a little chill, a little breezy, but the sky was diamond clear. He would have preferred to have been sitting on his deck with a cold bottle of Rolling Rock, looking at the stars through his telescope. The truth was, he would have preferred to have been chasing a homicidal junkie down a dark alley. When you were chasing down possible death with a gun in your hand, the adrenaline pumped fast and kept you from dwelling on the reality. But picking your way over decomposing bodies kind of knocked you over the head with your own ultimate destiny.
    An owl hooted, causing Deputy Bud Hewitt, who walked beside Cam, to jolt. The deputy grinned sheepishly and cleared his throat.
    “Spooky place, huh, Sheriff?”
    Cam gave a noncommittal grunt. At thirty, he was only three years Bud's senior and had grown up on the samestretch of Dog Run Road. He'd dated Bud's sister, Sarah, for a wild and rocky three months during his senior year at Emmitsboro High and had been present when Bud had thrown up his first six-pack of beer. But he knew Bud got a charge out of calling him sheriff.
    “Don't think too much of it during the day,” Bud went on. He had a young, simple face, all curves and rosy skin. His hair was the color of straw and stuck up at odd angles no matter how often he wet his comb and fought it down. “But at night it makes you think about all those vampire movies.”
    “These people aren't undead, they're just dead.” “Right.” But Bud wished he had a silver bullet instead of regulation .38 slugs in his revolver. “It's over here, Sheriff.”
    The two teenagers who had chosen the cemetery to neck in gestured him along. They'd been spooked when they'd come squealing up his lane and banging on his door, but now they were running on panicked excitement. And loving it.
    “Right here.” The boy, seventeen and sporting a denim jacket and scuffed Air Jordans, pointed. He wore a small gold stud in his left ear-a sign of stupidity or bravery in a town like Emmitsboro. At his side the girl, a cuddly cheerleader with doe brown eyes, gave a little shudder. They both knew they'd be the stars of Emmitsboro High on Monday.
    Cam shined his light on the overturned marker. The grave was that of John Robert Hardy, 1881-1882, an infant who had lived one brief year and been dead more than a hundred. Below the fallen marker, the grave yawned wide, a dark, empty pit.
    “See? It's just like we told you.” The boy swallowedaudibly. The whites of his eyes gleamed in the shadowed light. “Somebody dug it up.”
    “I can see that, Josh.” Cam stooped down to shine his light into the hole. There was nothing there but dirt and the smell of old death.
    “You think it was grave robbers, Sheriff?” Excitement throbbed in Josh's voice. He was ashamed of the fact that he'd scrambled and bolted like a rabbit after he and Sally had all but tumbled into the yawning grave while rolling on the wild grass. He preferred to remember that he'd had his hand up her shirt. He wanted her to remember it too, so he spoke with authority. “I read about how they dig up graves looking for jewelry and body parts. They sell the body parts for experiments and stuff.”
    “I don't think they'd have found much here.” Cam straightened. Though he considered himself a sensible man, peering into the open grave gave him the willies. “You run along, see Sally home. We'll take it from here.”
    Sally looked up at him with huge eyes. She had a secret crush on Sheriff Rafferty. She'd heard her mother gossiping about him with a neighbor, chattering about his wild days as a teenager in Emmitsboro when he'd worn a leather jacket and driven a motorcycle and busted up Clyde's Tavern in a fight over a girl.
    He still had a motorcycle and looked to her as if he could still be wild if he wanted. He was six two with a ready, wiry build. He didn't wear a dumb khaki uniform like Bud Hewitt, but snug jeans and a cotton shirt rolled up to the elbows. His hair was jet black and curled