Divine Evil Read online

  comforting or friendly or sweet. It had been like getting scorched by a lightning bolt. He wondered how in the hell he'd missed Clare Kimball the first time around. He didn't intend to let her slip by again.

  When he was done here, he thought, he would just swing by her house-hoping she was welding-and see if she was interested in a meal and a movie in Hagerstown. If he had any luck, and his assessment of her reaction to him was anywhere close to target, he'd see about talking her into coming back to his house. Then they'd play it by ear.

  She didn't want to be rushed, he reminded himself. It was too bad that patience had never been one of his strong suits.

  Around the last curve, he spotted a couple of kids with bicycles. Hooking school, he thought, and had to appreciate the spirit of it on such a terrific May morning. It was with regret that he pulled over and prepared to give them the routine. He got out of the car and walked toward the boys.

  He recognized both of them-the curse or blessing of small towns. Cy Abbot-younger brother of Josh, from the cemetery disturbance-and Brian Knight, Min Atherton's nephew. Though a part of Cam wanted to wink and grin and wish them well, he strode forward, sober-eyed. They were both a little green around the gills, he noted, and wondered if it was being caught by the law that had shaken them up or if they'd been practicing chewing tobacco.

  “Well, now.” Cam put a hand on the handlebars of the dirt bike the Abbot boy was straddling. “Little late for school this morning, aren't you?”

  Cy opened his mouth, but only a wheeze came out. Turning a paler shade of green, he leaned over the side of the bike and vomited weakly.

  “Oh, shit,” Cam muttered, and put two hands on the bike to steady it. “What the hell have you two been up to?” He looked over at Brian since Cy was busy gagging.

  “We were just fooling around. And we-we-” He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, hard, and Cam noticed there were tears welling in his eyes.

  “Okay.” He softened his tone and put an arm around the now shuddering Cy. “What happened?”

  “We just found it.” Brian swallowed deeply, and his spit tasted foul. “We were going to pull our bikes down and go wading in the creek, that's all. Then we saw it.”

  “What did you see?”

  “The body.” Despite the humiliation of being seen blubbering, Cy began to sob. “It was awful, Sheriff. Awful.

  All the blood.”

  “Okay, why don't you guys sit in the back of the car? I'll go take a look. Come on, we'll put your bikes in the trunk.” He led the two shaking boys to the rear of the car. Probably a deer, maybe a dog, he told himself. But his hands were icy-a symptom he recognized. “Relax.” He opened the back door of the car and tried to lighten the mood. “You're not going to be sick all over the carpet, are you?”

  Cy continued to weep as Brian shook his head. He gave his friend a little punch on the arm for comfort.

  Beyond the gravelly shoulder of the road, the ground tapered down, carpeted with dead leaves from the previous autumns. With a last glance at the two white faces in the back of the car, Cam started down, sliding a bit on the ground, still slippery after the night of rain.

  He could smell damp earth, damp leaves. There were deep skid marks where the boys had hustled down, and marks where they had scrambled back up again. He saw, as they must have, the smearing trail of blood. And he smelled it. Death.

  An animal, he told himself as he regained his footing. Hit by a car, then crawled off to die. Sweet Jesus, there was a lot of blood. He had to stop a moment, shake off the image that rushed into his brain.

  The walls of a tenement, splattered with red. The stench of it. The screams that wouldn't stop.

  He began to breathe through his mouth and curse himself.

  That was over, goddamn it. That was done.

  When he saw the body, his stomach didn't revolt as the boy's had. He had seen bodies before. Too many of them. What he felt first, vividly, was fury in finding one here. In his town. In his sanctuary.

  Then came disgust and pity. Whoever this broken heap of flesh and bones had been, he had died horribly. Then regret, that two young boys had hooked school on a warm spring morning only to stumble across something they couldn't understand and would never forget.

  He didn't understand it-after all the years on the force, all the senseless and small cruelties, he didn't understand it.

  Carefully, not wanting to disturb the scene, he crouched down beside the body. Wet leaves clung to the naked flesh. It lay outflung, its broken arms and legs at impossible angles, its face buried in the dirt and wet leaves.

  As he studied what was left, his eyes narrowed. Through the bruises and the blood, he made out a tattoo. His mouth dried. And he knew, before he cautiously lifted the battered head, before he looked into the ruined face. Rising, he swore over what was left of Biff Stokey.

  “Jesus, Cam.” Bud felt bile rise up hot in his throat and choked it down. “Holy Jesus.” He stared down at the body at his feet. With the sleeve of his shirt, he swiped at his mouth as sweat popped out on his face and ran cool and fast from his armpits. “Jesus, Jesus,” he said hopelessly, then turned, stumbling away to be sick in the brush.

  Calmer now, Cam stood where he was, waiting for Bud to get his system under control. From somewhere on the other side of the creek, a thrush began to trill. Squirrels scurried in the trees.

  “Sorry,” Bud managed, running a clammy palm over his clammy face. “I just couldn't-I've never seen-”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. You going to be okay now?”

  “Yeah.” But Bud kept his gaze several inches above what lay on the leafy ground. “You think he got hit by a car? I guess he could've been hit by a car, then rolled on down here. People are always taking these turns too fast.” He wiped his mouth again. “Too damn fast.”

  “No, I don't think he got hit by a car. Can't see a car breaking nearly every bone in his body.” Eyes narrowed, Cam thought out loud. “Where are the skid marks? How the hell did he get out here? Where's his car? Where the hell are his clothes?”

  “Well, I guess… I guess maybe, maybe he was shit-faced again. Could be we'll find his car, and his clothes, too, just down the road. And he was walking along, drunk, and a car came by and…” But he knew it was stupid even as he said it. Stupid and weak.

  Cam turned until his eyes met Bud's panicked ones. “I think someone beat him to death.”

  “But that's murder. Christ Almighty, nobody gets murdered around here.” In panic, Bud's voice rose an octave, then cracked. “We haven't had a homicide in this part of the county since T. R. Lewis went crazy and shot up his brother-in-law with his thirty-thirty. Hell, I wasn't no more than five or six years old then. People don't get murdered in Emmitsboro.”

  Judging by the waver in Bud's voice, Cam knew he could lose him if he didn't take it slow. “We'll wait for the coroner to get here. Meanwhile, we're going to have to rope this area off and start our investigation.”

  It would keep Bud busy, Cam mused, and little else. He was already certain Biff hadn't died here.

  “We'll need pictures, Bud. Go up and get the camera.” He caught the look in his deputy's eye and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I'll take the pictures,” he said gently. “Just go on up and get me the camera.”

  “All right.” He started up the slope, then turned back. “Sheriff, it's a damn mess, isn't it?”

  “Yeah. It's a goddamn mess.”

  Once he had the camera, Cam sent Bud back up on the roadside again, to wait for the coroner. Making his mind a blank, Cam began his grisly task. He noted the raw and sawed flesh on the wrists and ankles, the lack of bruises on the back and buttocks.

  Finished, he wished violently for a cigarette but only set the camera aside and picked up the can of spray paint he'd grabbed from the storeroom at his office. Crouched low, he pushed the sprayer, cursed when it only sputtered, then shook the can hard. He could hear the musical sound of the mixing beads jiggling inside.

  He'd always liked
that sound, he realized. The competence of it, the anticipation of it. But it wasn't something he would look forward to any time soon. Again, he aimed the can at the ground and pushed the nozzle.

  He saw with grim amusement that he'd grabbed a can of canary yellow. Well, the lousy sonofabitch would get his death silhouette in a nice, cheerful color.

  He started at the feet, forcing himself not to cringe at the vulnerability of those bruised and broken toes.

  You had that foot planted on your ass more times than you can count, he reminded himself. But his hand shook a bit as he continued the paint stream beside the naked left leg.

  “Broke your fucking knees, didn't he?” Cam muttered. “I always hoped you'd die hard. Looks like I got my wish.”

  He gritted his teeth and continued. It wasn't until he stood again that he realized his jaw was aching. Very deliberately he capped the paint can, set it down, then took out a cigarette.

  He remembered the last time he had stood and looked at death. Then it had been someone he cared about, someone he'd laughed with, felt responsible for. Had grieved for.

  Cam closed his eyes, but only for a moment, because when he did, he could see the past all too clearly. Jake's body sprawled on that filthy stairway, the blood pumping out of him so fast they'd both known there hadn't been a chance. Not a chance in hell.

  My fault, he thought as the sweat pooled at the base of his spine. My fault.

  “Sheriff. Sheriff.” Bud had to give him a shake on the shoulder before Cam snapped back and looked at him. “Coroner's here.”

  Cam nodded, then picked up the paint can and the camera and handed them to Bud. Beside the deputy stood the county coroner, black bag in hand. He was a short, spare man with white, white skin and oddly Oriental eyes, dark, slightly slanted, and luxuriantly lashed. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, the part so straight it might have been surveyed. He was wearing a trim beige suit and a somewhat cocky bow tie. He was fiftyish, soft-spoken and shy. He felt more at home with his cadavers than with their living counterparts.

  “Dr. Loomis. You made good time.”

  “Sheriff.” Loomis offered a pale, fine-boned hand. “Apparently you've had some trouble.”

  “Apparently.” Cam felt a ridiculous urge to chuckle at the understatement. “Some kids found the body about an hour ago. I've already taken pictures and outlined the body position, so you won't have to worry about disturbing the crime scene.”

  “Excellent.” Loomis looked down at the body. His only reaction was a pursing of lips. With businesslike motions he opened his case and took out a pair of thin surgical gloves.

  “You're not going to-” Bud took two steps back. “You're not going to do, like, an autopsy or anything right here?”

  “Don't worry.” Loomis gave a surprisingly rich chuckle. “We'll save that for later.”

  Cam took the camera back. They would need it. “Bud, go on up to the road. Make sure nobody stops and gawks.”

  “Yes, sir.” Relieved, Bud scrambled up the slope.

  “Your deputy's a nervous fellow.”

  “He's young. It's his first homicide.”

  “Of course, of course.” Loomis's mouth pursed again. “This paint is still a bit tacky.”

  “I'm sorry. I didn't have anything else handy.”

  “No trouble. I won't disturb it.”

  Loomis took out a small recorder, set it fussily on a rock. He spoke aloud, slowly and patiently, as he examined the body.

  “We'll need to turn him over,” Loomis said matter-of-factly.

  Wordlessly, Cam set the camera aside to help the doctor lift and turn the corpse. The battered body shifted in their hold, reminding Cam of the way loose garbage moves in a Hefty bag. He bit back an oath as he heard bone rub against bone.

  If it had been bad before, it was worse now with Biff's dead eyes staring up at him. Unlike the back, the front of the body was a nightmare vision of bruises and broken bones. The bull-like chest had been caved in, the manhood Biff had been so proud of was a jellied stump.

  He'd been right about the knees, Cam thought, as he turned away to take a breath and pick up the camera again. As the doctor spoke his technical and meaningless terms, he took more pictures.

  They both glanced up at the sound of an ambulance.

  “There was no need for the siren,” Loomis said, and all but clicked his tongue. “We'll be moving the body to the morgue, Sheriff, for a thorough examination. I believe it's safe to say that this man suffered a severe and prolonged beating. Death was probably caused by a strong blow to the head. From the progress of rigor, we can assume he died between ten and fifteen hours ago. I'll certainly be able to give you more precise details after the autopsy.”

  “Can you give me an idea when you'll be able to get back to me?”

  “Forty-eight hours, perhaps a little more. Will we need dental records?”

  “What?”

  “Dental records.” Loomis snapped off his gloves, rolled them, and tucked them in his bag. “As the body is nude and without identification, will you need dental records?” “No, I know who it is.”

  “Well, then.” He looked up as his attendants started down the slope with a thick plastic bag and a stretcher. Before he could speak again, they all heard a car squeal to a halt on the road above. Cam ignored it, trusting Bud to hurry any curiosity-seekers along. Then he recognized the voice that rose up suddenly in panic and demand: “What do you mean Cam's down there?”

  Clare's legs nearly buckled. Every ounce of color drained from her face as she stared at the ambulance. “Oh, God, oh, my God, what happened?” She rushed forward, only to have Bud grab her arms and block her way.

  “You can't go down there, Clare. You don't want to. Believe me.”

  “No.” Horrible, merciless visions streaked through her mind. She saw her father, sprawled on the flagstone. And now Cam. “No, not Cam, too. I want to see him. Damn you, I want to see him now.” She fought her way clear, shoving Bud aside. Her blind rush forward took her skidding down the slope and into Cam's arms.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “You.” She lifted a shaking hand to his face, pressing her fingers in hard. There were bruises, old bruises, but he was solid and real. “I thought-You're okay? Are you okay?”

  “I'm dandy. Get the hell up on the road.” He turned her so that she didn't see the scene below, then pushed her in front of him up to the shoulder. “I thought I told you to keep people out,” he snapped at Bud.

  “It's not his fault.” She pressed a hand to her mouth and struggled for composure. “I got away from him.”

  “Now you can get away altogether. Get back in your car and go home.”

  “But, I-”

  His eyes flared at her, hard and bright. “This doesn't concern you, and I haven't got time to hold your hand.”

  “Fine.” She swung away, but the adrenaline drained quickly and had her leaning weakly against the hood of the car.

  “Damn it, Clare, I said I haven't got time for this.” All he could think of was getting her away, well away, before the body was brought up. He crossed over to take her arm and pull her to the driver's side.

  “Fuck off.” She jerked away, furious that she was near tears.

  “Hey.” He yanked up her head, frowning at the glitter in her eyes. “What's all this?”

  “I thought it was you.” After slapping his hand away, she fumbled for the latch of the door. “I don't know why it would have bothered me to think you were lying down there hurt or dead, but for some idiotic reason, it did.”

  His breath hissed out between his teeth. “I'm sorry.” When she managed to wrench the door open, he merely slammed it shut again. “Damn it, Clare, I'm sorry. Come here.” He pulled her against him, ignoring her struggle. “Give me a break, Slim. I've had a rough day.” As she softened a bit, he pressed his lips to her hair, breathing in the clean scent of it after the rancid smell of death. “I'm sorry.”

  She shrugged, knowing the movem
ent was bad tempered. “Forget it.”

  “You were worried about me.”

  “It was a brief moment of insanity. It's passed.” But her arms went around him to give him one quick squeeze. She would think about her reaction later, she promised herself. For now, she eased away. “What happened here?”

  “Not now.” Over her head he saw the attendants struggling up the slope with their gruesome burden. “Go on home, Clare.”

  “I wasn't trying to pry into official business,” she began. When she reached for the door handle, she looked back, intending to call an apology to Bud. And she saw the thick black plastic bag. “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “Biff.”

  Slowly, she turned back to look at Cam. “What happened?”

  His eyes weren't hot now, but flat and distant. “We haven't