As far as I can tell, he's working on one body at a time.
And looking for a human suspect."
"Have you talked to the coroner?"
"He's the one who sprung the vampire theory on me.
He's autopsied the bodies and said there's no known way that the blood, urine, and everything could've been sucked out those holes in the necks."
"Necks." Pee Wee nodded, impressed. "Who's coroner these days?
Woods?"
"Yeah."
"He knows his stuff." Pee Wee walked over to a wooden rocking chair, sat down. "This is getting interesting'
Robert sat on the overstuffed couch adjacent to the fireplace. "I'm buying it too.
"What about you?" Pee Wee asked, looking over at Rich. "You haven't said much through all this."
"I don't know what to think. I haven't made up my mind yet. But it's definitely open."
The ex-chief nodded. "Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that we are dealing with a real vampire." He looked from Rich to Robert. "How often does he have to feed?"
Robert sighed. "The killings seem to be about a week or two apart."
"So he needs a body every two weeks."
"Plus animals," Rich reminded him
"Let's just deal with the humans for now. Okay, a body every two weeks. No correspondence with lunar cycles or any of that crap. That's good."
"Why's that good?" Because! "
"The less mumbo jumbo we have to deal with, the better. If there are such things as vampires, and if we got one here, we have to figure out how to track him, catch him, and kill him. We have to treat him like an animal, observe his habits and use 'em to our advantage. And the first thing we have to do is separate the myts, from the true.
"The first have to do, Robert said, is find thing we out how we can protect people from him." him "Or her," Rich said.
"True enough." Robert nodded.
"Let's think about this logically." Pee Wee set his coffee cup down on the floor next to the couch. "If this guy's a vampire, he lives forever, right? He must be a hundred years old. Two hundred, maybe.
If that's so, why haven't we heard about him before? Why hasn't he wiped out whole towns? I'll tell you why--because he moves on. It's a big world, and a crowded one, and I bet a vampire could feed a little in one place and then keep moving and no one'd ever know."
"Hell," Robert said. "Maybe he hibernates. Like a bear. Comes out every century, drinks some blood, goes back to sleep."
"Maybe," Rich said doubtfully, and there was silence in the room after he spoke.
Robert picked up his coffee from the floor, drank it, and the three of them stared out of the living room --through the huge window into the endless desert beyond.
It was nearly noon when they arrived back in town. Robert radioed over to the station, learned that nothing had happened this morning, and said he would be in after lunch. He turned toward Rich. "You in a big hurry? Let's cruise over to Buford's, grab some chow."
"Okay."
The cruiser slowed for two teenagers crossing the high way in front of the liquor store.
"You know what?" Rich said. "All these years we've been going to Buford's, and I don't even know his last name."
"I thought Buford was his last name."
"I think it's his first."
"We'll check." Robert pulled into the parking lot of the hamburger stand, and they both got out. Robert ordered a half-pound Monstro Burger, large fries, and a large Dr. Pepper, and after only a second's deliberation, Rich ordered the same.
Robert grinned. "No willpower." He bent to peek through the order window as Buford pulled two huge hamburger patties from the refrigerator and slapped them on the grill. "I know this is a stupid question," he said to the cook, "but is Buford your first name or your last name?"
"Both."
"Both? Buford Buford?"
"That's what my daddy named me."
Robert glanced over at his brother. "Hear that? I guess we're both right." His smile faded as Rich, frowning, to a hand-lettered sign on the in pointed surreptitiously side of the glass next to the pickup window: "New Hours
11 A.M.-6 P.M."
Robert turned back toward Buford. "You're closing at six now?"
"Yeah." The cook did not elaborate.
"You're going to miss the dinner crowd."
"I changed the hours last week." He paused. "I don't want to work after dark anymore."
Rich and his brother exchanged glances, saying nothing.
The sizzling of the burgers grew louder. "Rumor has it," Buford said,
"that you caught your vampire." "What?"
"Mike Vigil. He went crazy and thought he was a vampire. "Mike's crazy all right, but he's no vampire. Besides, : he was in Florence under observation the other night when Clifford killed. '
"I didn't put no store by it." He flipped over the burgers, pulled a handful of sliced onions from the refrigerator, and dumped them on the grill. He worked the onions with his spatula for a moment. "I think I saw the vampire last week."
Robert tried to peer through the window to judge whether or not Buford was pulling his leg, but all he could see through the dirty rusted screen was the cook's white i aproned chest and clean-shaven bottom jaw.
"I wasn't sure whether I should tell you, but I promised myself that if you came in, I'd bring it up." He pointed his spatula toward Rich. "I don't want none of this in the paper, understand?"
Off the record," Rich agreed.
"I haven't even told my wife. Don't want to frighten her."
"What happened?"
"I was here late, all alone, and all of a sudden I got... kind of a weird feeling. I can't describe it, but it was like I knew something was out there, watching me, waiting for me to leave. Scared the living shit out of me. When I finally did leave and go out to my car, I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A white shape.
Big. Kind of fluttering. But then it was gone. I didn't stop to look for it. I just hopped in my car and hauled ass."
"It disappeared?"
"It disappeared into the arroyo," Buford said. "It went into the arroyo."
"The arroyo," Rich said. "It comes back to the arroyo."
Robert shook his head. "We searched it. We didn't find anything but dead bugs and animals. No tracks. NothingP "How far did you follow it?"
"Five miles. The damn thing stretches all the way to Rocky Gulch."
"Maybe he uses the washes and gullies and arroyos like trails or tunnels, uses them to get in and out of places. God knows there's a network of them across the desert."
"That's reassuring," Robert said. He sighed. "We'll check it out again. I don't have anything else to go on."
"You could stake this place out, wait and see if he comes back."
"Steak it out," Rich said with a wry grin. "I get it." Robert turned to his brother. "Maybe I'll talk to Rossiter about it. It's about time those guys pulled their weight around here."
"Yeah. I'm sure they're going to assign FBI agents to wait night after night at a hamburger stand for a vampire to show up."
"We have to do something. Do you have any ideas?" Rich shook his head. "Neither do I."
A blue Chevy Impala pulled into the burger stand's parking lot.
Sunlight glinted off the silver crucifix hanging from the car's rearview mirror.
Buford slid aside the screen on the pickup window and pushed through a tray. "Lunch is served."
Wheeler awoke feeling tired. He had not seen Jesus for over two weeks, and the strain was making him tense, nervous, jumpy. He knew he was doing the Lord's bidding, but he did not feel confident enough in the worthiness of his own thoughts and actions to make decisions without higher approval. What if he were doing something wrong? What if Jesus wanted shakes instead of shingles on the roof of His house? What if Jesus didn't approve of drywall and foam insulation?
There were so many things to consider.
He got out of bed, took a quick shower, and got dressed. The cat Covey
had killed yesterday was still lying curled in the basting pan on top of the kitchen counter, its broken dripping eyes staring at nothing, and Wheeler touched a tentative finger to the congealed blood surrounding the animal's body. The blood was sticky, neither cold nor hot, and had the consistency of melted taffy.
The butterflies began flying in his stomach, but Wheeler ignored them and placed two pieces of bread in the toaster. He poured himself some orange juice, took a spoon and knife from the utensil drawer. When the toast was done, he spooned a generous helping of blood onto the bread, spreading it with the knife. It smeared almost as well as jelly.
As always, he gagged when he bit into the blood, but he forced himself to keep chewing, his brain ordering his rebellious tastebuds to ignore the information they were receiving firsthand and concentrate on the importance of getting used to the thick, unnatural flavor.
He was able to eat both slices of toast without spitting out a single bite.
After breakfast, he drove straight to the church. The five men of the morning shift were on top of the newest addition, working on the frame for the second floor, and before he even rounded the corner onto Arrow, he saw the parallel series of black beams they'd put up since yesterday protruding proudly upward from behind the other buildings on the block.
He parked on the south side of the original chapel and got out of the car, waving back to the workers when they waved at him.
The Church of the Living God was taking shape. The contours of the awesome structure placed into his mind by Christ and given material form in Covey's sketches could now be seen in the building itself. The nucleus of the completed church was clearly visible in the existing structure. If work went on at this pace, if construction continued unabated day and night, if they continued to recruit more volunteers, it was quite likely that the church would be completed within the next two weeks.
In time for the Second Coming.
He looked up at the building. The black looked good.
It lent the original chapel and its additions a pleasing uniformity.
He waved again to the workers, walked up the front steps, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
The interior of the church had been transformed.
Wheeler stood for a moment in the vestibule, the door swinging slowly and silently shut behind him.
The pews were gone. The long benches had been disassembled, the wood used to cover all windows in the room and to make crude walkways over the three large holes which now took up most of the chapel's floor space. The cross still hung behind the altar, untouched, but the altar itself was now peopled with the mummified remains of three men, positioned in reclining poses, and a woman who held in her hands a plate on which sat the dehydrated head of a child.
The woman was obviously supposed to be Salome, holding the head of John the Baptist. It was beautiful.
Wheeler took a tentative step forward, but from within the blackness of the nearest hole there came a sound of wind, a sound of water. A single strong my of light burst upward from the opening and rising within that light was the Lord Jesus Christ.
Wheeler involuntarily stepped back. Jesus arose from the depths, grinned. His eyes were wide, the brows arched, and His teeth were red, smeared with blood, the divisions between them dark and unusually well defined. His beard was dirty, matted with brown and red, and in His arms was the unmoving body of a goat.
"Truly, truly I say to you, unless you eat flesh and drink blood, you have no life in you." Jesus laughed, almost giggled. ""He who eats flesh and drinks blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For flesh is food indeed, and blood is drink indeed."
A slight chill caressed the back of Wheeler's neck. He recognized the verses from the Gospel according to John, but there were words missing, words that altered the meaning of the phrases. Somewhere, a small part of him was saying that Jesus was not supposed to act this way, but Christ looked upon him, held his eyes, and that tiny voice died.
Standing upon the walkway above the hole, Jesus raised the goat to His face. He bit into the animal's neck and placed His mouth over the bite before the blood began to gush. Wheeler watched as the goat's body deflated instantly shrinking, caving in on itself, the long hair twisting, withering, the skin conforming to the structure of the skeleton beneath.
Jesus dropped the used carcass into the hole.
And then it was over. He was the Savior again, the bloody beard and teeth gone, the. wild giggling visage replaced by a solemn expression of perfect contentment, and Wheeler fell to his knees, sobbing with joy, unbearably happy to be in the presence of this Lord, the Lord he knew and loved.
"This is my home," Jesus said, his melodious voice echoing in the pastor's head. "I live here now. And from this day forward, worship services will be conducted outside. They will no longer be held within the church." "Yes," Wheeler agreed, nodding.
"Sacrifices acceptable and pleasing to God will be left in each of the three openings in the earth."
"Yes," Wheeler agreed.
Jesus smiled. "We shall begin the punishment of the sinners.
Wheeler's pulse quickened, and the excited anticipation which coursed through every fiber of his being was unlike anything he had ever experienced. "Yes," he said. Christ's smile was beatific. "They will all die painfully." "Yes." Wheeler felt a strange stirring in his groin. Jesus reached out a hand, and the pastor walked across the small section of floor onto the pew walkway over the hole. Looking down, he could see that the hole was not really a hole at all, but a steeply sloping tunnel running under the south wall of the church. He took Jesus' hand, and the Savior's eyes twinkled. "I will show you my home. I will show you my wonders. I will show you fear in a handful of dust."
That sounded familiar, Wheeler thought. He had heard that before. Not in the Bible, but somewhere else. He tried to think, tried to focus, tried to remember, but the connection would not be made.
And then they had jumped from the walkway and were floating down.
"No." Rich shook his head. "I will not." "I'm not trying to censor you or anything," Hollis said. "I'm just saying play it down, don't sensationalize it, leave it alone for a while."
Rich looked the owner of the dude ranch squarely in the eye. "Play it down? You think I'm making too much of this, blowing it out of proportion? You think Clifford's going to come back to life?"
"That's not what I'm saying. Look, our businesses are interconnected here, and I just think we oughta look out for each other. It's not going to do anyone any good to start a panic. As you know, I'm the largest single employer in Rio Verde. I provide jobs for twenty-five people part time and another twenty full time. If guests get scared away, those people'll be out of jobs. I'll lose money; I won't be able to afford to advertise in your paper; everyone will get hurt."
Sue watched Rich from the side. Sloe saw his jaw clench, the muscles in his face tightening. "So you want me to pretend that Terry Clifford wasn't murdered, that he's still happily working at your stable and nothing out of the ordinary has occurred."
Hollis smiled. "You're twisting my words, son. All I'm saying is don't blow this out of proportion. Don't give people another excuse to criticize our town. I mean, hell, how do you think it makes your brother look if your paper makes it sound like a damn psycho's running around killing people?"
I "And draining their bodies of blood."
"There you go again, talking like a tabloid. All I'm doing is suggesting that you treat Terry's passage with some respect. Inform people that he died, just don't go into the, grisly details."
I didn't go into the grisly details." You did from where I stand."
I'm a reporter. It's my job to tell the truth. If it makes you feel any better, it's October and the tourist season is over and by next summer everyone will have forgotten all about this."
"Oh, no, they won't."
Rich ran an exasperated hand through his hair. "Who reads the paper except locals? They're not the ones coming to your ranch. Jesus, I don't
know why I'm even arguing this point. I run a newspaper, crummy as it is, and when news happens I'm going to report it. Period."
Hollis's voice became a little less folksy, the tone hardening. "The First Amendment does not give you the right to damage my business."
"I'm not trying to damage your business. I'm simply reporting the facts. Look, I can get plenty of reliable sources willing to go on record saying that a vampire killed Clifford, Torres, and those two kids. You want me to do that?"
"Reliable sources? Like who? Your dipshit brother?"
Rich stiffened. "Get out of this office," he ordered. "Now."
Hollis started walking. "I'm pulling all of my advertising from this rag."
"Go right ahead." The editor stood unmoving, watching him leave. Sue tried to return to work on her article, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Rich remain standing in the middle of the newsroom. She looked up, cleared her throat in an effort to get his attention. He turned to face her. "Are you going to be able to keep going?" she asked. "Without his advertising, I mean?"
He waved his hand dismissively. "We'll survive. Hollis has always had an inflated sense of his own importance. The ranch does support a lot of businesses around here, but not us. If Basha's pulled out we'd be in big trouble, but the Rocking DID?" He snorted. "Hollis has always been a miser about advertising in The Gazette. We'll live without his fifty bucks a week."
"Good."
Rich walked back to his desk. ""It just depresses me that the man would even try to tell me what to print and what not to print." He shook his head. "Most people don't believe in freedom of the press.
Not really. They think they do, but they don't. People like to hear or read things that they agree with. They want their own views promoted as fact and don't want equal time given to their opposition.
They want only their side given. But the presentation of facts is never wrong. Remember that, if you remember nothing else. It is the journalist's responsibility to be oh jective. When you start printing only one side of a story, when you start limiting people's access to facts, telling them by your presentation and emphasis what to believe, what is truth, then you are not doing your job."
The Summoning Page 28
