The Calling

by Robert Swartwood

  I lay in bed for almost a half hour, staring at the ceiling after I woke up from watching Joey burn ... and burn ... and burn. (In most dreams, where a horrific event almost always causes a person to snap awake, I was forced to watch him burn no matter how much I wanted to look away.) It made me think of Devin Beckett and those seven children. The youngest a baby, the oldest eleven years old.

  They say that when you’re in a burning house, you die from the carbon monoxide, not the flames. But for those few that dreadful morning, I knew carbon monoxide would have been a blessing.

  For the most part, my things were packed and loaded in my Cavalier. Last night Dean had called while I was eating dinner with Grandma and Mrs. Roberts. He had no news concerning Joey, no news from Steve, and he sounded like he had back in Lanton—worn out, frustrated, lost. I’d made it a point to tell him about the connection between Beckett and my parents’ murder, but he didn’t stay on long enough.

  “Tomorrow around one we’ll head back,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

  He hung up and I was left standing there, listening to only silence for however long it took until there was a click and the electronic voice told me what to do if I’d like to make a call. I wondered if my uncle even knew about the cross in blood that had been left on my bedroom door. I didn’t see why not. He must have been told to fully understand why Steve thought it was best for me to hide away. Then again, even if he did know, how could he make the connection when he’d probably never even heard the entire story of Devin Beckett in the first place?

  And I wondered to myself, had I even heard the entire story?

  • • •

  THE SPOT THE deputy’s cruiser had been taking up last night was vacant. Its tires were imprinted in the tall grass.

  I passed my grandmother’s trailer—I could hear the phone inside just beginning to ring—and kept going, up to the Rec House, looking for the cruiser. There were only a few places the car could be, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. It was gone.

  Heading back down the drive, I heard the buzzing of flies again. Under Mrs. Roberts’ trailer, I could even see a few of their black pinpoint bodies hovering about. The image that had crossed my mind last night resurfaced and I knew I had to check for myself.

  I took only three steps toward whatever lay in the cold shade when my grandmother’s screen door banged open and she called my name.

  “Christopher, I was just coming for you.” Her eyes were wide, her breathing heavy, and for an instant I thought she was having a heart attack.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She paused, took a breath, and said, “They found Joey.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Yes, but barely. He was rushed to St. Joseph’s. Deputy Toms drove Mr. Cunningham over there almost an hour ago.” My grandmother paused to catch her breath again. “Dean just called. He’s sending a car to pick you up. It should be here any minute.”

  I stared at her, so many possibilities swirling through my head. “Why?”

  “Joey,” she said, almost breathless. “He’s near death. There’s not much time.”

  “Grandma, why is Dean sending a car to pick me up?”

  She told me the only possibility I hadn’t come up with.

  “Joey’s asking for you.”

  • • •

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER I rode shotgun in a Deputy’s Blazer speeding down Route 17, headed south. The vehicle’s lights flashed and its siren sounded. The cab smelled of coffee and vanilla air freshener. The driver was a young woman named Lacy. She couldn’t explain exactly what was happening, because she didn’t know all the facts herself. All she knew for certain was that Joey had been found this morning. His pulse had been very weak. He was taken to St. Joseph’s Hospital, and when they got him in the ER they found he was badly bruised, many of his ribs broken. Everything else appeared stable, except his heartbeat, which was getting weaker by the second. He was unconscious and spent most of the morning in a bed hooked up to machines.

  Then, at about twenty minutes after noon, Joey awoke. Doctors appeared at his bedside immediately. When he spoke his voice was faint. He was told to rest and save his strength, but he kept trying to speak. Sheriff Douglas pushed her way inside and asked him what he knew.

  Lacy glanced at me. “He said he’d only talk to you.”

  We got off at the exit, made a right at the intersection, and sped down the street.

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. Just that he’d talk to you and nobody else.”

  When she pulled into the hospital’s entrance, a Chemung County deputy and state policeman were waiting by the glass doors. Once they saw us they hurried forward.

  I opened my door and got out.

  “His condition hasn’t gotten any better,” the deputy said. We headed inside, the deputy leading me as the state policeman trailed.

  At the elevators Sheriff Douglas waited. She didn’t look happy. Her arms were crossed and she was tapping her left toe.

  “Third floor,” she told me, then pushed the up button. An elevator opened seconds later and we all got inside. As the doors slid shut, she said, “They don’t think he has much longer to hold on.”

  The third floor was animated with people. Half a dozen police officers, a few orderlies and RNs and doctors, even two janitors. When we stepped out of the elevator they all paused in their whispered conversations and turned toward us.

  “Come on,” Sheriff Douglas said.

  A short skinny deputy met us as we passed the nurse’s station. He held a small tape recorder. He handed it to the sheriff, who handed it to me.

  “Record everything. I don’t care what he wants to talk about, I want it on tape. Try to find out as much as you can. I want to know who the bastard is that did this.”

  As we walked, the crowd parted and I saw Moses Cunningham sitting in a chair against the wall. He was leaning forward, his shoulders hunched, his head in his hands. It looked like he was in prayer.

  I stopped and stared down at him. I wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say.

  Finally he looked up. Stared back at me. Asked, “Did my boy ever say he told me about you?”

  I nodded.

  “It was before we came to Bridgton,” he whispered. Then, nodding slowly: “Before he even met you.”

  A hand grabbed my arm, spun me around, and there Dean stood in his uniform.

  He looked at me hard and asked one word.

  “Ready?”

  Chapter 14

  I couldn’t see him at first. The fluorescents were off and the only light coming in was from the sun peeking through the closed curtains. The bed rested in the middle of the room. Medical equipment sat around it, wires reaching out onto the bed, and all I saw were sheets until I took a few more steps and noticed him lying there.

  Without his glasses his face looked different. Smaller. It looked as if his eyes were shut, but the closer I got the sooner I realized that wasn’t the case. Whoever had taken him had bashed his face in pretty good. Only one eye was half-open, the other swollen completely shut.

  I sat in the chair beside his bed, between him and the window letting in hardly any light. I turned the recorder on and set it on the edge of the bed.

  His head rolled toward me slowly. He stared at me with his one eye. Opened his mouth and tried to speak but then coughed. It went on longer than it should have and finally he was staring at me again. He opened his mouth once more and whispered very faintly, “Turn it off.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Turn it off.”

  “Joey, I can’t. It needs to stay on.”

  He only stared back at me. Seconds passed. I reached forward, turned off the recorder, placed it back on the bed.

  Joey whispered, “Thank you.”

  I just nodded.

  “Tell me about ... your parents.”

  “What?”

  “Please tell me ... about your parents.”

  I wanted to shake my head and tell h
im my parents had nothing to do with this. I wanted to ask him who the son of a bitch was that took him. But I saw from the desperation in his only good eye that Joey wanted to know, needed to know, about my parents.

  “My dad was always there for whoever needed help. Whenever someone had a problem they would come and talk to him about it, and he’d somehow make everything better. He wasn’t a psychiatrist or anything, but he helped them.”

  “And ... your mom?”

  “She was just like my dad. She was selfless. She always put others first, no matter what happened. She never talked bad about anyone either. When everybody else gossiped, she’d leave the room.”

  “And you?”

  I stared at him but said nothing for the longest time. Finally I shook my head. “What is this about?”

  Joey wheezed, his small chest rising and falling. He opened his mouth to speak but then began coughing again.

  “Do you want some water?”

  He shook his head and closed his eye. For an instant it looked as if he was sleeping and I wondered if maybe he was dead. But then his chest rose and fell again. He asked, “Did you ever wonder ... what would have happened ... had Adam and Eve said no to Satan?”

  It was the question he’d begun to ask me back at the Beckett House.

  “No, Joey. I haven’t.”

  “You will. I’ve had dreams of you ... of you running in the rain. Running from a monster. And you are ... you are thinking that question.”

  “Joey, what are you talking about?”

  He wheezed again, then whispered, “He wanted to kill me.”

  One of the machines next to his bed went beep ... beep ... beep.

  “Who wanted to kill you?”

  “The angel.”

  I leaned forward. “What angel?”

  “Samael. The angel of death. He wanted ... to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  “So that he could ... stop me.”

  I shifted in my chair. For an instant I wished the tape recorder were on.

  “Why would he want to stop you?” I tried keeping my voice natural and calm.

  “He thinks ... I’m the only one ... that can stop him.”

  “Stop him from what?”

  “Thirty-four people.”

  “Thirty-four people. What about thirty-four people?”

  “They are all ... gonna die.”

  That machine beside his bed kept going beep ... beep ... beep.

  “Who, Joey? Who are they?”

  He moved slightly in the bed, as if trying to get up, and I quickly held out my hand for him to stay put, to not move a single muscle. He shook his head as he continued his light wheezing.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you know that these thirty-four people are going to die.”

  Slowly, so very slowly, he nodded. “Samael gave me ... a choice. To pick one ... and save the others. But I didn’t choose. I couldn’t, even though ... even though I wanted to.”

  “Why do you think this, Joey? About these thirty-four people dying?”

  “God. He speaks to me.”

  “And he told you they were going to die?”

  Again he nodded.

  “But you don’t know who these people are.”

  “No.”

  “Listen, Joey, I—” But I only shook my head. I had nothing to say.

  Joey wheezed again, his chest rising and falling, and whispered, “Samael hates me ... because he knows ... I can stop him. That is why ... he wants me dead. But he’s wrong.”

  That machine kept going beep ... beep ... beep.

  “Chris ... do you hear me?”

  “Listen, Joey. I need to know who did this to you. Can you describe him? Was it just one person or were there a bunch of people?”

  “I already ... told you. The angel ... took me.”

  “The angel,” I said.

  Joey nodded. “Samael.”

  “And he’s the angel of death.”

  Again Joey nodded, closing his eye.

  I sighed and hung my head. “Joey, please, you have to be serious here. Why won’t you talk to anyone else? Why me?”

  He opened his eye. Looked at me. Breathed in, breathed out, and whispered, “Because Samael ... is wrong. Someone else ... can stop him ... too.”

  Beep ... beep ... beep.

  “That is why ... you are here.”

  “Why I’m here.”

  “It was no accident ... what happened ... to your parents.”

  “My parents. What do you know about my parents?”

  He said nothing, only wheezed.

  “How did you know they were murdered?”

  “I just did.”

  “Do you know who killed them?”

  “Yes.”

  I leaned even closer to the bed. “Tell me. Tell me who.”

  “I can’t.”

  I wanted to stand and grab his neck, squeeze until there was nothing left to squeeze.

  “Don’t do this, Joey. Please don’t. If you know who killed them, you need to tell me.”

  “I’m sorry ... but I can’t. I can only tell you ... three things.”

  “If it’s not who killed my parents, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “First, talk to ... my father. He’ll explain ... about me. He will also ... give you ... a present ... from me. Use it ... when it’s ... time.”

  “A present? Joey, what are you—”

  “Second ... so you can believe ... stop Jack Murphy.”

  “Jack Murphy? What about him? Is he the one who killed my parents? Does he know who did it?”

  “And third ...”

  “What about Jack? Goddamn it, Joey, tell me. What does he have to do with this?”

  “Third ... read Job 42.”

  “Job 42?”

  Joey whispered, “Samael ... doesn’t know ... about you yet. He knows ... you are here. But he doesn’t ... know why.”

  “And why am I here?”

  He took another deep breath, his chest rising, as he stared back at me with his one good eye. “They are ... yawning now ... Christopher.”

  “What are?”

  Suddenly the machines surrounding his bed began beeping madly. The door opened. A man in a white coat entered, followed by three nurses and another doctor.

  I stood and leaned over the bed, got as close to Joey’s battered face as I could. Somebody grabbed my arm, tried pulling me away, but I fought them, just continued standing there, staring at him.

  I shouted, “What are?”

  Joey’s eye was drifting shut. His chest rose and fell very slowly. More hands grabbed me.

  “Churchyards,” he whispered.

  And died.

  Chapter 15

  Dinner that night was spaghetti and meatballs. The mixed scent of tomato sauce and garlic bread was thick in my grandmother’s trailer where we ate in silence. Grandma didn’t even attempt to make small talk. She was aware of what happened today and knew that if I wanted to talk about it, I’d do it on my own time.

  The TV was off, which was something new, and made the silence and tension between the two of us even stronger. The windows were open allowing in the noises from outside, the crickets and the wind and the distant sound of traffic down on 13. The curtains were open to my right, and through the screen I could see the large RV with the blue Metro parked beside it.

  “Christopher, would you like some more?”

  Grandma’s plate was cleared and she was sliding out from behind the table.

  I’d hardly touched my own plate. I shook my head.

  As she went to the stove to fix herself more, I glanced back out the screen at Moses Cunningham’s RV.

  First, talk to my father.

  I wasn’t sure what bothered me more about today. Standing there over Joey as he spoke his last word and watching his only good eye grow blank and glaze over. Or coming out of his room into the hallway and seeing his father sitting there looking back at me, giving me a look as if to say this wasn’t
a surprise to him at all and he knew exactly what his son had just said before he died.

  He’ll explain about me.

  Sheriff Douglas was pissed, as was my uncle and everyone else. They wanted information which I couldn’t provide, and it didn’t help that I’d stopped the tape recorder, even if they could clearly hear Joey’s voice telling me to turn it off. What did he tell you? they wanted to know, but I couldn’t tell them the truth, I knew they wouldn’t believe me—even I was having a hard time believing it myself. Then again, I wondered as I stood there under their scrutinizing gazes, what if they did believe me? This last was an even scarier thought, and so I lied and told them he had just wanted to witness to me one final time, that was all, he was some kind of Jesus freak and that was it.

  Whether they believed me or not, I didn’t know, nor did I care. Right now I had more important things to worry about.

  As my grandmother set her plate on the table and began to side back into the booth again, Mrs. Roberts tapped at the screen door. “Mind some company?” she asked.

  Grandma started to say something, about how it probably wasn’t the best time, but I shook my head and told her it was okay, that I was going to go back to my trailer anyway, thanks so much for the great dinner.

  When I stepped outside, I glanced toward the Rec House, at the spot where the deputy’s cruiser had once been. It was still vacant. I briefly wondered if they were having any luck in finding Joey’s abductor. Then I started down the drive, toward my trailer, as if that was really where I was headed.

  I knew better.

  A minute later I stood beside Moses Cunningham’s RV. I waited by the door, debating whether I actually wanted to go through with this or not. Then before I even had a chance to turn and walk away, the door opened. Moses stood there staring back at me, his dark face hard and set.