The Summoning

by Bentley Little

  "That's it," he muttered under his breath. "When I'm eighteen, I'm hitting the road."

  Neither of her parents heard his remark, and Sue just let it lie. She didn't want to inflame the situation even further.

  John finished eating quickly and, without waiting to be excused, pushed his chair away from the table "I gotta catch the bus," he said. He ran down the hall to his bed room to get his books, and a moment later yelled, "ByeI"

  The door slammed behind him.

  "Tieu pei, "her father said, more to himself than anyone else.

  Her mother finished eating, and she took her own and John's bowl to the kitchen. A few seconds later, the phone rang, and Sue heard her mother answer it. " "Lo?" There was a short moment of silence "Sue?"

  "Coming!" She pushed back her chair and hurried into the kitchen, taking the receiver from her mother. "Yes"

  "Sue, it's me."

  "Janine?"

  "Yeah. My car died again this morning, and I have to be at work in five minutes" Her friend's words were rushed, her voice on the edge of panic "I called Shelly, but her mom says she's not home Do you think you could get your dad's car and pick me up?"

  "Sure. I'll be there in a few minutes. Where are you?

  Home?" - :

  "Yeah." ........ "Okay, I'll be right over."

  She asked her parents if she could borrow the car to take Janine to work. Her father said okay, but her mother said no, they had shopping to do. She explained that she'd be back in ten minutes, two hours before the grocery store even opened.

  "The keys are on the dresser," her father said. :

  Before her mother could disagree, Sue hurried into her bedroom, put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed the keys from her parents' room, and hurried out to the garage.

  Janine worked at The Rocking D, a dude ranch situated at the foot of Poundcake Hill that catered to young rich couples from the Valley and out of state who liked to pre tend for a week or a weekend that they were living in the

  Old West.

  The Old West with swimming pools and cable TV.

  The ranch was Rio Verde's sole claim to fame. A four star resort, it had been built in the 1950s by a hotel mogul from back East who had been suckered into buying investment land in Rio Verde sight unseen.

  Determined to turn a lemon into lemonade, the mogul had built the Rocking D and had then proceeded to place advertisements for his "guest ranch" in such unconventional places as National Geographic and Modern Equestrian magazines. His strategy had worked, and while Rio Verde had been too far from civilization to ever make it a resort mecca, the Rocking D did generate a consistent profit. Ads for the ranch still appeared periodically on TBS and other cable stations, although, like the rest of the town, the ranch had lately fallen on hard times and had seen much of its business defect to Scottsdale and Laughlin.

  Janine was waiting in front of her house in her cowgirl uniform, nervously banging her purse against her thigh, when Sue pulled up. She had the passenger door opened and was inside almost before Sue had stopped the car.

  "What's the hurry? We'll make it."

  "Yeah, but I have to be there on time. I was already late once last week, and let's just say my supervisor is not exactly my best friend."

  . Sue turned around at the end of the cul-de-sac and headed back toward the highway. They passed a corner where three raggedy-looking elementary schoolchildren waited for the bus.

  "Did you get that schedule for Pueblo College?" Sue asked.

  Janine shrugged. "I think so."

  "I'm thinking of taking a few classes this semester. Classes start next week."

  "You're driving all the way to Globe?"

  "Of course not. They have extension classes at the high school here on weeknights. Didn't you read the schedule?" :

  Janine shook her head. "No. But it doesn't matter. I wouldn't go back to school anyway. I'm over, done, and through with that crap. I promised myself on the day I graduated that I would never set foot in another classroom again." Sue smiled but said nothing. Her friend's attitude was not entirely foreign to her--it was an attitude shared by most of her ex-classmates---but she still thought it terribly shortsighted. Credits from the extension courses were accepted at Arizona State University, Northern Arizona University, and most of the community colleges throughout the state. There weren't many classes being offered right now, but there would be, and she knew that she could earn nearly enough credits to get an AA degree without leaving Rio Verde.

  Of course, she had always planned on going to college. Her parents had wanted her to go to college too, but there simply hadn't been enough money. She'd received two partial scholarships based on her academic achievement and SAT scores, one from ASU and one from Pitzer College in California, but the key word had been "partial." Each of the scholarships would have paid for half of her tuition, but she would have had to come up with the other half herself, as well as money for books, food, lodging, and transportation. On the advice of her high school counselor, she had applied for a student loan, but for the past few years both the state and federal governments had been cutting back on the number of loans made available, and her application was rejected. When she'd called the Financial Aid Office at ASU to ask why, she was told that her parents had too much equity. They owned both their house and their restaurant, and although her family barely managed to eke out a living each month, on paper they had assets in excess of $100"O00--which made her ineligible for financial aid.

  She had been doing everything she could over the past two years to save money for college: living at home, working full time, allowing herself only an occasional movie for entertainment. But while she still wanted to go to college to learn, her parents' priorities had shifted a bit.

  They now thought of college as a place where she could look for a good husband.

  Janine looked at her. "Night classes, though..." Her voice trailed off.

  "I don't want to think about it," Sue said quickly.

  Janine shivered. "They said his body was totally drained of blood.

  Like a vampire got him or something."

  "That's a cheerful thought first thing in the morning." "Well, you brought it up."

  "No, I didn't. You did. I just said I might take some classes."

  "Well, that's why I have to get there on time. I don't want to get transferred to the night shift. I may have to do some brown-nosing for a while, but I don't want to work all alone at that counter in the middle of the night. Not with some loony running around."

  Sue turned off Highway 370 onto Rocking D Road, glancing at the dashboard clock. Janine might be a minute or so late, but that was all. "Do you need a ride home this afternoon?" she asked her friend.

  Janine shook her head. "I'll catch a ride with somebody."

  "You sure."

  "Yeah. Thanks for the lift, though. You saved me." Sue pulled to a stop in the parking lot in front of the ranch house that served as a lobby. She looked from the western-style buildings to the fake boulders surrounding the two sculpted swimming pools. It always amazed her that people from other cities were willing to pay exorbitant amounts of money to spend a few nights here in Rio Verde.

  She would pay money not to spend a few nights in Rio Verde.

  "What are you doing Friday?" Janine said as she got out of the car.

  "No plans yet. Why?"

  "Let's do something then. Catch a movie, maybe." "Sounds good," Sue said. "Give me a. call." "Okay. Later."

  Sue watched her friend walk up the porch steps of the ranch house, then turned around, put the car into gear, and headed toward home.

  There was plenty of used underwear at the Goodwill, and Sophocles Johnson bought it all.

  Ordinarily, they sorted the clothes by color here, put ting blues with blues, whites with whites, browns with browns. But the underwear they lumped all together, regardless of the color or style, and he gathered up the rows of hangers from the rack without bothering to check the undergarments. Many of the panties and
girdles were probably, soiled and worn through, most of the men's briefs were probably stained, but he didn't care. He piled them high on his arms, made his way down the aisle past an overweight woman who smelled of yesterday's sweat, and dumped the underwear on the taped cracked glass of the checkout counter. The old woman working at the cash register eyed him strangely, seemed even to be a little frightened of him, but he refused to give her any reassurance or any hint as to why he wanted the underclothes, and he stood silently, watching the numbers ring up on the electronic cash register.

  "Nineteen-fifty," the woman said.

  He paid the money, watched mutely as the clerk placed the undergarments in an oversize plastic bag, then carried his purchase out the door and to his car. Grinning, feeling proud of himself, he drove through town and back to the bank. He was latemthe lunch hour had officially ended twenty minutes ago--but it didn't matter. That was one of the perks of presidency. He got to make rules and didn't necessarily have to follow them.

  Sophocles parked at the side of the bank, near the instant teller machine, and took the bag from the passenger seat. The top of the bag had opened during the ride, and he could smell the undergarments inside, the fragrance at once acrid and somehow comforting. He got out of the car, slammed shut the door, and flung the bag over his shoulder, giggling because the act made him feel so damn much like Santa Claus.

  And he was going to be like Santa, in a way. At least to his underlings.

  No, his subjects. If he was the president' hey were his subjects.

  He walked through the front door of the bank and across the lobby, the bag still slung over his shoulder.

  He nodded to Susan Richman, the customer service of ricer, and said hello to Tammette Walker, the teller on duty. He was still grinning, unable to keep from smiling.

  He felt so damn good, so proud of himself, so excited, so happy. It was hard to keep his plan a secret, hard not to blurt it out to everyone in the entire building, but he managed to restrain himself, and made it to his office without spilling either the beans or the bag. He closed and locked the door behind him. Pressing the intercom button on his phone, he told Marge Norson, his secretary, to hold all calls and fend off all corners, he was not to be disturbed.

  He breathed deeply. This was a project. It would take him several days, maybe the entire week, but he would see it through, he would get it done.

  He dumped the contents of the bag on the floor of his office, took the sewing kit from the bottom right drawer of his desk, and got right to work.

  He sewed the underwear together himself, making uniforms for the tellers and the loan arranger and everyone else who worked at the bank.

  He neither washed the underwear nor dyed it a different color, but sewed the material together as it was, rayon to cotton to silk. While he called the clothes he made "uniforms," they were, in reality, nothing of the sort. If there were similarities between any two garments, it was strictly coincidental. He sewed without any plan or pattern but according to the dictates of the underclothes he found. The results, he had to admit, were spectacular. Before this, he had never picked up a needle or thread in his life, and he found himself imagining what he could have accomplished had he received formal training and guidance.

  He placed the completed uniforms on hangers, which he hooked over the nails he'd pounded into the wall behind his desk. Bob Mackie could not have done any better. The uniforms were marvels of style over substance, each retaining the essence of the bras, briefs, or panties from which it was designed, yet somehow transcending its humble origins to become a unique and stylish customized bank outfit.

  Sophocles had no idea whether or not the uniforms he was creating corresponded to the body sizes of his employees, but he didn't care.

  That did not matter. The workers could adjust their sizes to fit the clothesgain or lose weight as necessary, wear platform shoes or flat sandals-and if they were not able or willing to. do so, then new workers would be found.

  Anything was possible. Anything could happen. Anything. He had learned that the other night. When he had been out in the desert with his telescope, waiting for the meteor shower.

  When he had seen Jesus.

  When he had seen Jesus kissing Manuel Torres.

  He looked up from the uniform he was working on, feeling suddenly uneasy. An uncomfortable sensation came over him, and he had the feeling that he had forgotten something or had done something wrong. He frowned, trying to think, to remember. Then he saw his handiwork hanging from the hangers on the wall, and he relaxed as, once again, all seemed right with the world.

  It was dark outside, and the clock above the desk said it was ten-thirty, but he was not yet tired. He grabbed a pair of skivvies from the pile. He could continue sewing for hours. He could work through midnight with no problem. Maybe until dawn.

  He grinned. With any luck, he would be finished with the uniforms by Friday.

  The door to the town council chambers was open When he walked by, and Robert stopped for a second to peek inside. The room was dark, save for the line of dim ceiling lights above the council members' seats, and the gallery was shadowed, the aisles next to the walls bathed in gloom. There was something creepy about the pard al illumination of those, empty chairs behind the raised circular desk, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He hurried on, not looking back.

  He had passed by the council chambers a hundred times before on evenings such as this and had never thought anything of it, but tonight was different. Tonight everything seemed creepy.

  Part of it was that damned autopsy report. That thing had been haunting him now for two days, ever since he'd first received it.

  Woods had declared the official cause of death to be, in layman's terms, exsanguination--loss of blood--but the circumstances surrounding that blood loss were truly frightening. For it was not only blood that had been removed from Manuel Torres's corpse, it was water, spinal fluid, saliva, semen, bile every liquid that the human body produced or retained. And all of these fluids had been sucked out through a single hole bitten into the mechanic's neck.

  That was the word they had tiptoed around, had been afraid to say. It was ludicrous, of course, but it was also scary as hell. He had quizzed the coroner on the findings, asking if it would be physically possible for a deranged individual to suck out all of those fluids by placing his or her mouth on the wound. He knew from seeing Manuel's shriveled body that such an idea was absurd, but Woods had replied seriously that, yes, it would be possible with the aid of a pump strong enough to collapse inter organ membrane walls but not so strong as to significantly damage the organs themselves--although the coroner had to admit that he had never heard of the existence of such a device, and he didn't know how such a device could do exactly the same thing to the infinitely more fragile body structures of the animals found next to the corpse.

  The truth was, neither of them had any idea how it had happened. The only theory that offered any explanation was vampirism.

  But there were no such things as vampires.

  Robert felt cold, though the night was not particularly chilly. The short peach-fuzz hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He was glad that Ted was on duty tonight. He would not have wanted to be alone in the police office right now. Pussy, he told himself.

  He shook his head, smiling wryly as he pushed open the glass door.

  Robert Carter. Pussy shit face Might be a good title for his autobiography.

  He walked inside, nodding at Ted, who was sitting behind the front counter. "How's it going tonight?" "It's not." "Good."

  Ted stood, stretched, held his back. "Mary Beth Vigil called again, though. She says Mike's still missing." Robert frowned. "What'd you tell her?"

  "I told her she had to wait twenty-four hours to file a missing persons report. She said it's been twelve hours already."

  "Shit." :

  Mary Beth had phoned earlier in the afternoon to tell them that her father had not returned from a fig run to Casa Grande. He
'd called her from the Gasa Grande Dairy Queen before heading back to Rio Verde and had told her that he'd be home in two hours, but when three and a half hours had passed and he still hadn't arrived, Mary Beth had called them. They'd contacted the Department of Public Safety to see if there'd been any accidents on the highway, but none had been reported, and they'd assumed that Mike had stopped off at a truck stop for a piece of pie, or maybe just stopped off for a piece. He had been known to frequent Nicole's and was not above picking up hitchhikers in his more desperate moments.

  Now Robert was not so sure. It wasn't like Mike to disappear for this long without letting anyone know where he was, particularly once he'd called and specifically said he was coming home.

  "Did you call DPS again?" he asked Ted.

  The deputy nodded. "No accidents, no stalls. Their helicopter flew the route an hour or so before sundown."

  Robert felt the chill return. It was probably unrelated he hoped to Christ it was unrelated--but he could not help thinking that whoever had killed Manuel Torres was still at large.

  He imagined Mike lying at the bottom of the arroyo, his body shriveled and shrinking and dry.

  The worry must have shown on his face, because Ted looked at him sympathetically. "You seem pretty worn out."

  "Yeah," he admitted.

  "Go home then. Get some rest." ,

  He shook his head. "We have to come up with some leads on this murder." :::

  "Tonight? There's nothing we can do tonight. Go home."

  Robert ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the deputy, felt the sting of tiredness, and was forced to rub his eyes. "You're right," he said. He reached over the counter and picked up a rubber-banded stack of forms. "I'll take the answering machine off so I can hear the phone. If DPS calls or anything else comes up, give me a ring."

  "Will do."

  It was late, and the streets were empty as Robert drove home. He passed Rich's house and was going to give his usual shave-and-a-haircut honk as he drove by, but he saw that all of the lights were off and figured his brother and the family were already asleep. He turned onto Sagebrush, feeling slightly lonely. The moon was out, reflected in the front windows of all the homes on the right side of the street, and its dim bluish glow made the street look vacant and abandoned, like part of a ghost town.