Divine Evil (22 page)

“That's right.” Her smile was small and bitter. “And when Clare Kimball heads back to New York and leaves you dry, they'll still be coming to me. We're the same, you and me, we always have been. You're still Cameron Rafferty from the wrong side of the tracks, and you're as stuck in this stinking town as I am.”

“There's a difference, Sarah. I came back because I wanted to, not because there was no place else to go.”

She shrugged off his hands in two edgy moves. She wanted to pay him back, make him suffer. It didn't matter
for what. “Must be handy, wearing that badge right now, when even your mother wonders if you were the one who beat Biff to death.” She watched the heat leap into his eyes and fed off of it. “Won't be long before people start remembering that temper of yours and bad blood.” She smiled again, eyes narrowed. “There are some who are going to want people to remember. You think you know this town, Cam, and all the good, solid citizens in it. But there are things you don't know. Things you couldn't even imagine. Maybe you should ask yourself why Parker picked up and ran. Why he moved his fat, lazy ass out before he even collected his pension.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

She was saying too much. It wouldn't do to let pride or temper push her further. Instead, she walked to the door, put a hand on the knob, then turned back. “We could have been good together, you and me.” She gave him one last look, thinking that with a little help from her, he was already on his way to hell. “You're going to regret it.”

When the door closed behind her, Cam rubbed his hands over his face. He already regretted it, he thought. Regretted that he hadn't gotten out of the office ten minutes sooner and avoided her altogether. Regretted that he hadn't handled the encounter better. Regretted that he remembered, all too clearly, those nights with her in the woods with the smell of pine and earth and sex.

She reminded him too well of what he had been at seventeen. What he could still be if he hadn't learned to strap down the more vicious of his impulses-of what he had nearly become again after his partner had been killed and the bottle had seemed the best and easiest answer.

Absently, he lifted a hand to touch the badge on his shirt. It was a small thing, something-as Clare had once said-he could pick up at any dime store. But it meant
something to him, something he wasn't sure he could explain even to himself.

With it, he felt he belonged in the town, to the town, in a way he hadn't since his father had died. Sarah was wrong, he thought. He knew the people here. He understood them.

But what the hell had she meant with that remark about Parker? Suddenly tired, he rubbed the back of his neck. It wouldn't do any harm to put in a call to Florida. He glanced at the clock again, then picked up his keys.

He'd do it in the morning-just to satisfy his own curiosity.

He was too tired, Cam decided as he drove to Clare's, for putting on company manners and socializing with strangers. He would go by, make some excuse, then leave her alone with her friends.

Sarah's comments were rubbing against him, abrasive as sandpaper. He was stuck here. It might have been through choice, but it didn't change the bottom line. He could never again face living and working in the city, where every time he strapped on his gun or walked into an alley he'd be chased by his partner's ghost. Clare would go back to New York. In a week, a month, six months. He couldn't follow her. He remembered how empty he'd felt when he stood in the cemetery and watched her walk away.

It scared him right down to the bone.

Cam pulled up in back of a Jaguar, then stopped by Clare's car to pull out her keys before he walked through the garage to the door leading to the house. Music was blaring-jazz-hot and slick and sophisticated. He saw her standing at the counter, tearing open a bag of chips. Her feet were bare, and her hair was pulled back with a shoestring. Long amethyst wands swung from her ears, and her T-shirt was ripped under the armpit.

He realized he was desperately in love with her.

She turned, spotted him, and smiled as she poured chips into a cracked blue bowl.

“Hi. I was afraid you weren't going to-”

He cut her off, pulling her against him and savaging her mouth. Her hands went to his shoulders as her body absorbed the shock waves. She held tight-he seemed to need it-and let him feed whatever hunger gnawed at him.

Relief. Simple. Sweet. Stunning. It washed over him, flowed through him. Slowly, without even being aware of the change, he gentled the kiss, softened it, and savored. Her hands slid from his shoulders to cling weakly to his waist.

“Cam.” She was surprised the sound was audible in the thick, syrupy air.

“Shh.” He nibbled on her lips, once, twice, then slicked his tongue over hers. There was a lingering zip of wine overlaying the deeper, richer flavor he'd discovered was uniquely hers.

“Clare, Jean-Paul's not having any luck with the charcoal. I think we should-oh.” Angie stopped, her hand still holding the screen door open. “I beg your pardon,” she said when Cam and Clare drew a few inches apart.

“Oh.” Clare lifted an unsteady hand to her hair. “Cam, this is-ah… ”

“Angie.” After letting the screen door slam, Angie held out a hand. “Angie LeBeau. It's nice to meet you.”

“Cameron Rafferty.” Cam kept an arm around Clare's shoulders in a gesture he knew was overly possessive.

“The sheriff, yes.” Angie smiled at him and took his measure from the tips of his worn high tops all the way to his dark, tousled hair. “Clare's told us about you.” Angie's brow cocked as she shot Clare a look. “Apparently she left a few things out.”

“There's wine open,” Clare said quickly. “Or beer if you'd rather.”

“Whatever.” Cam was taking his own measure. Angie LeBeau, he noted, was, like the jazz pouring out of the radio, very slick. She was also very suspicious. “You and Clare went to college together, right?”

“That's right. Now I'm her agent. What do you think of her work?”

“Have some more wine, Angie.” Clare all but thrust a fresh glass in Angie's hand.

“Personally or professionally?” “Excuse me?”

“I wondered if you were asking as her friend or as her agent.” He watched Angie as he took a glass from Clare. “Because if it's as her agent, I'll have to watch my step. Since I want to buy the fire sculpture she's got sitting out in the garage.” He flicked a glance at Clare. “You left the keys in your car again,” he said, then dug them out of his pocket and tossed them to her.

Smiling, Angie sipped her wine. “We'll talk. Meanwhile, what do you know about starting charcoal?”

J
ANE STOKEY DIDN'T CARE
what was done to the farm. She was finished with it. She was done with Emmitsboro, too. She had two husbands lying in the cemetery, each one taken from her abruptly. The first one she had loved desperately, fully, happily. There were times, even after all these years, when she thought of him with longing-as she walked toward the fields he had plowed, the fields he had died in, or up the stairs toward the bed they had shared.

She remembered him as young and vibrant and beautiful. There had been a time when beauty had been a large part of her life, when such things as flowers in the garden or a pretty new dress had been vital and soothing.

But Michael was gone, more than twenty years gone, and she was an old woman at fifty.

She hadn't loved Biff, not in that heart-fluttery, giddy way. But she had needed him. She had depended on him. She had feared him. His loss was like an amputation. There was no one left to tell her what to do, when to do it,
how to do it. There was no one to cook for, to clean for, no warm body breathing beside her in the night.

She had left her parents′ home at eighteen and gone to her husband's, full of dreams and dizzy love and flowering hope. Mike had taken care of her, paid the bills, made the decisions, done all the worrying. She'd kept the house and planted the garden and borne the child.

That was what she had been taught. That was what she had known.

Six short months after his death, she had given herself, the farm, the house, to Biff. Even before that he had begun taking over the worries and details. She hadn't had to struggle with bank statements and budgets. If there hadn't been as much money, or as much serenity, as she'd had with Mike, at least she'd been a wife again. Perhaps Biff hadn't been kind, but he had been there.

Now, for the first time in her life, she was completely alone.

The loneliness was crushing, the house so big, so empty. She had almost asked Cam to come home with her, just to have a familiar male presence in the house. But that would have been disloyal to Biff, and he had ruled her life for so long, his death would not change her allegiances.

Besides, she had lost her boy somewhere along the way as completely as she had lost her boy's father. It wasn't possible for her to pinpoint when it happened, and she had long since given up the effort. He had stopped being her son and had become a restless, rebellious, defiant stranger.

He'd made her feel guilty, miserably guilty, about marrying Biff so soon after Mike died. He hadn't said a word, not one, but the way he'd looked at her with those dark, condemning eyes had done the damage.

She paused on her way to the huddle of outbuildings
and set down the boxes she carried. The sun was bright, glinting on the green hay that would be cut and baled by strangers. A new calf scampered after its mama for milk, but Jane didn't notice. In her mind the farm was already gone, and the hope she'd had for it.

She'd loved it once, as she had once loved her son. But that feeling for the land and for her child seemed so distant now, as if experienced by another woman. She knew Biff had been hard on the farm, just as he'd been hard on the boy, as he'd been hard on her.

They had all needed it, she reminded herself as she hauled up the cardboard boxes again. Mike had pampered them. She felt her eyes welling as they did too often these days and didn't bother to blink back the tears. There was no one to see. No one to care.

In a few weeks she could take the money she earned from the sale of the farm and move to Tennessee, near her sister. She would buy a little house. And do what? she wondered as she leaned against the shed and sobbed. Please God, do what?

She had worked hard and long every day of her life, but she had never held a job. She didn't understand things like escrow and capital gains. She was baffled and frightened by the people she sometimes saw on
Oprah
or
Donahue
who talked about discovering self, starting over, coping with grief.

She didn't want to be liberated or capable. Most desperately of all, she didn't want to be alone.

When the weeping had run its course, she mopped her face with her apron. She had gotten through the days since Biff's death by filling them with chores, necessary and unnecessary. Already that morning she had dealt with the milking, the feeding, had gathered eggs and washed them. She had cleaned her already clean house. It was still short
of noon, and the day stretched endlessly ahead, to be followed by yet another endless night.

She'd decided to start on the sheds. Most of the tools and farm machinery would be auctioned off, but she wanted to go through the outbuildings first, to examine and collect whatever bits and pieces might bring a higher price in direct sale. She was terrified of not having enough money, of being not only alone, but poor and alone.

Biff hadn't carried any life insurance. Why waste good money on premiums? She'd buried him on credit. Die now, pay later. The mortgage on the farm was nearly due, and the loan payment on the hay baler Biff had bought two years before. Then there was the feed payment, the market, the payments on the tractor and Biff's Caddy. Ethan Myers at the bank had told her they would extend her time until she had her affairs in order, but the payments gave her sleepless nights.

She couldn't bear the shame of owing. Before, she'd justified all the credit by thinking it was Biff who owed, Biff who paid or didn't. Now there was no one to stand between her and the reality of being in debt.

She couldn't sell the farm fast enough.

She took the keys out of her apron pocket. Biff had never allowed her to enter this building. She had never questioned him. Had never dared. Even as she fit the key into the stout padlock, she felt a prickle of fear, as if he would leap up behind her, shouting and shoving. A thin line of sweat broke out over her top lip as the lock clicked open.

The old rooster crowed and made her jump.

The air inside was stale and overly sweet. As if something had 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 shoulder
toward 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 Saturday.”

“A parade.” His face lit up. “With marching bands and pretty girls tossing batons?”

“All that and more. It's the biggest event in town.” She nodded toward a house they passed where a woman was down on hands and knees, busily painting her porch. “Everybody spruces up and drags out their folding chairs. They'll put up a grandstand at the town square for the mayor and the councilmen and other dignitaries. We get school bands from all over the country, this year's Farm Queen, horses, the Little League.”

“Whoopee,” Angie said and earned a poke in the ribs.

“The Fire Department shines up the trucks or pumpers or whatever the hell they're called. We'll have balloons and concession stands. And,” she added, looking up at Jean-Paul, “majorettes.”

“Majorettes,” he repeated with a sigh. “Do they wear those little white boots with tassels?”

“You bet.”

“Jean-Paul, we're supposed to go back on Thursday.”

He smiled at his wife. “Another day or two, in the vast scheme of things, can hardly matter. In any case, I want to arrange for Clare's finished work to be shipped to the gallery. I'd like to oversee the packing myself.”

“You want to drool over little white boots,” Angie muttered.

He kissed the tip of her nose. “There is that as well.”

They stopped, waiting for a light stream of traffic before crossing the street. Glancing down, Angie noted a bumper sticker on a pickup.

GOD, GUNS, AND GUTS MADE AMERICA WHAT IT IS TODAY.

Jesus, she thought, closing her eyes. What was she doing here?

As they crossed, she listened with half an ear while Clare told Jean-Paul about past parades. If pressed, Angie would have to admit the town had a certain charm. If one was into country cute.

She certainly wouldn't want to live here and wasn't even certain how much of a visit she could tolerate before the quiet and the slow pace drove her crazy, but Jean-Paul was obviously delighted.

Of course, he didn't notice the stares, Angie mused. Though there were plenty of them. She doubted people were admiring her clothes or hair style. They sure as hell
noticed her skin. There was a secret and-she couldn't help herself-superior smile on her face when she followed Clare into Martha's Diner.

There was music on the juke. What Angie always thought of as drunken cowboy songs. But the scents were as seductive as any Jewish deli in New York. Grilled onion, toasted bread, fat pickles, and some spicy soup. How bad could it be? Angie thought as Clare waved to a waitress and slid into a booth.

“A cherry Coke,” Clare decided. “They still serve them here.” She passed her friends plastic-coated menus. “Please don't ask for the pasta of the day.”

Angie flipped the menu open. “I wouldn't dream of it.” She scanned her options, tapping the menu with a long cerise-tipped finger. “Why don't we leave the verdict to you?”

“Burgers all around, then.”

Alice stopped by the table, pad in hand, and did her best not to stare at the two people seated across from Clare. They looked as out of place in the diner as exotic birds, the man with his long, curling hair and big-sleeved shirt, the woman with her coffee-colored skin and light eyes.

“Did you come in for lunch?” she asked.

“Absolutely. Alice, these are my friends, the LeBeaus. Angie and Jean-Paul.”

“Nice to meet you,” Alice said. The man smiled, putting her at ease. “You visiting from New York?”

“For a few days.” Jean-Paul watched her eyes shift from him to his wife and back again. “Today Clare's giving us a tour of the town.”

“I guess there's not a lot to see.”

“I'm trying to talk them into staying on for the parade
Saturday.” Clare took out a cigarette, then pulled the metal ashtray in front of her.