Divine Evil

crawled inside and died. Breathing through her mouth, Jane put both lock and keys in her apron pocket, then propped the door open with a rock.
    She had a sudden, unreasoning fear of being trapped inside. Of beating on the door, pleading and screaming. Biff's laughter would snicker through the cracks as he shot the lock back into place.
    She rubbed her cold hands over her cold arms as she started inside.
    It wasn't a large area-ten by twelve and windowless-but the strong sunlight couldn't seem to reach the corners. She hadn't thought to bring a flashlight, was sure she would find one inside. How else had Biff been able to see? He'd spent hours in there, often at night.
    Doing what? she wondered now as she hadn't allowed herself to wonder while he'd been alive and maybe able to read her thoughts.
    Skin prickling, she stepped inside. In the dimness she could make out a narrow cot, its mattress stained and bare. On the metal shelves where she had expected to find tools were stacks of the magazines he'd hoarded. She would have to burn them, Jane thought as heat stained her cheeks. She couldn't have endured it if the realtor or auctioneer had come through to snigger over them.
    There was no flashlight that she could see, but there were candles. Black ones. It made her uneasy to light them, but the dim, secret light was worse. By their glow, she began to pull magazines off the shelves and into the box, averting her eyes from the titillating covers. Her fingers touched cloth. Curious, she dragged it out and discovered a long, hooded robe. It smelled of blood and smoke, and she dropped it hastily into the box.
    She didn't wonder what it was-didn't allow herself to wonder. But her heart was beating too fast. Burn it, she told herself. Burn it all. The words repeated over and over in her head like a litany as she peered over her shouldertoward the doorway. Her mouth was dry, her hands unsteady.
    Then she found the pictures.
    There was a young girl, a child really, lying on the cot. She was naked, bound at the wrists and ankles. Her eyes were open, with a blind look in them. There were others-the same girl with her legs spread, her knees bent to expose her sex.
    A different girl-a little older, very blond, propped up against the wall like a doll. And there was a candle-dear God, a candle was protruding obscenely from beneath the pale triangle of hair.
    There were more, dozens of snapshots. But she couldn't look. Her stomach was heaving as she crumpled and tore them, as she scurried desperately on her hands and knees to gather every scrap. Her hand closed over an earring, a long column of beads. Jane tossed it in the box.
    Panting, she blew out the candles, then tumbled them in with the rest. Her movements were jerky and rushed as she dragged the box outside. She blinked against the strong sunlight, scanning the farmyard and lane, wild-eyed.
    What if someone came? She had to hurry, had to burn everything. She didn't stop to think what she was doing. She didn't ask herself what it was she was destroying. She ran to the barn for a can of gasoline, her chest constricting painfully. The breath was wheezing out of her lungs as she doused the box and its contents with fuel. Her rush had loosened the pins from her hair so that it fell in droopy tangles, giving her the look of a witch about to cast some secret spell.
    Twice she tried to light a match and apply the flame to the wick of one of the candles. Twice the flame flickered and died.
    She was sobbing out loud when the wick finally sizzled and burned. She touched it to the gas-drenched box, her shaking hands nearly extinguishing the flame again. Then she stood back.
    Cardboard and paper caught with a whoosh, shooting out hot flame and vapor. Inside, the photographs curled, and fire ate its way across Carly Jamison's face.
    Jane covered her own with her hands and wept.
    “I told you it was a quiet town.” Clare had a satisfied smile on her face as she strolled down Main Street between Angie and Jean-Paul.
    “I think the word ‘town’ is an exaggeration.” Angie watched a dog trot, happy and unleashed, down the opposite sidewalk. He lifted his leg and casually peed on the base of an oak. “It might qualify for village.”
    “One bite of a Martha burger'll wipe that sneer off your face.”
    “That's what I'm afraid of.”
    “What's this?” Jean-Paul pointed to the red, white, and blue bunting strung high over the street.
    “We're getting ready for the Memorial Day parade on