Divine Evil

glad.”
    “He wasn't what I expected.” Angie decided if the two men in the next booth were going to stare, she'd stare right back. “I had an image of a potbellied hick with sunglasses and an attitude.”
    “Listen here, boy,” Clare mimicked in a slow Foghorn Leghorn drawl. “That's pretty close to the former sheriff. Cam's a different matter altogether. I think maybe-” She broke off when she noted Angie didn't appear to be listening. Following her friend's gaze, she spotted the two local men in the next booth. They were staring, and there was a belligerence in the look that put Clare's back up. Hoping to soothe, she placed a hand over Angie's. “We don't get too many urbanites around here.”
    Angie relaxed, smiled, and squeezed Clare's hand. “I noticed. I was hoping you'd tell me you also didn't get too many men in white sheets.”
    “Stuff like that doesn't happen in this part of the county.”
    “Right.” Angie began to tap her fingers on the table. “Nothing much happens in Emmitsboro.”
    “We're not completely backward. Actually, we had a murder just last week.”
    “Only one?” Because Jean-Paul also sensed his wife's discomfort, he put a hand on her leg beneath the table.
    “Only one,” Clare agreed. “And the only one in Emmitsboro for as long as I can remember. It was pretty gruesome, really. Cam's stepfather was beaten to death and dumped off the road just outside of town.”
    “I'm sorry.” Angie forgot the stares. “It must be difficult for Cam.”
    Restless, Clare put out her cigarette with quick, short taps. “It is difficult-though they were anything but close.”
    “Does he have any suspects?” Jean-Paul asked.
    “I don't know. I doubt it.” Clare glanced out the window at the slow-moving cars and slower-moving people. “It's hard to believe it could have been anyone from town.” Then she shook her head and changed her phrasing. “No one wants to believe it could have been anyone from town.”
    It was after three when they returned home. Jean-Paul had scoured the antique stores and was toting three mahogany frames. To her surprise, Angie had come across a lovely Art Deco pin in sterling and had paid a small fraction of what the price would have been if the pin had found its way to Manhattan.
    A big yellow school bus, pregnant with children, stopped at the corner with a belch and a wheeze to offload. The race was on for bikes, for cartoons, for catcher's mitts.
    “There's Ernie.” Clare spotted him standing at the edge of her driveway. “The model for the arm,” she explained.
    “He seems to be waiting for you,” Jean-Paul commented.
    “He hangs around sometimes. He's lonely.” She smiled and waved. “I don't think he gets along with his parents. They haven't even bothered to come take a look at the sculpture.”
    He watched her, annoyed that she wasn't alone. He knew the sheriff was busy out at Dopper's farm where two young calves had been slaughtered. Ernie knew, because he'd done the slaughtering in hopes that it would trigger his initiation into the cult.
    “Hi, Ernie. Aren't you working today?”
    “I got a few minutes.”
    “Good, I haven't seen you around the last few days.” “Been busy.”
    “Well, I'd like to show you the finished sculpture. These are my friends, Mr. and Mrs. LeBeau.”
    He acknowledged their greetings with a mumble but shook Jean-Paul's hand when it was offered.
    “Come on into the garage. I'd like to know what you think.” Clare led the way. “You haven't seen it since it was finished and fired,” she continued. “Clay turned out to be the right medium, a little rougher and more primitive than wood. And since Mr. LeBeau plans to have it shipped up to New York soon, this might be your only chance.” She gestured, then hooked her thumbs in her pockets. “So, what do you think?”
    Studying it made Ernie feel strange and disjointed. Without thinking, he reached over to cup his left hand around his right forearm. She'd taken part of him somehow, more than his arm and hand and fingers. He couldn't explain it, didn't have the words. If he had, he might havechosen
essence
, for it seemed as though she'd stolen his essence and created it again in the defiant, disembodied arm and fist.
    “I guess it's okay.”
    Clare laughed and put a hand on his shoulder. “That'll do, then. I really appreciate your helping me out.” “It was no big deal.”
    “To us it is a very big deal,” Jean-Paul corrected. “Without you, Clare