The Summoning

by Bentley Little

  Sue smiled. "Was that going to be a lecture to your class?"

  "No. But it should've been."

  Their eyes met. It was now or never, she thought. She looked down at the scratch paper on which she'd written her lead. She was nervous, her heart beginning to pound, but the opportunity was here, had presented itself without her having to reach for it, and she forced herself to act. She looked up at him. "It is a vampire," she said.

  Her voice was meek, barely audible.

  "What? '

  She licked her lips. She wasn't sure if he didn't believe her or hadn't heard what she said, but she pressed on. "There is a vampire.

  We call it a cup hug/rngs/."

  This time he had heard. "Cup hugrngs.

  "It means 'vampire' in Cantonese." "And these vampires drink the sap of trees, too, I sup pose?"

  Sue reddened. "You read my story." .

  "Of course. I copy edited it."

  "Then, yes," she said. "As a matter of fact, they do." The editor chewed his lip for a moment, looking at her, thinking. Then he put down his pen and sighed. He stood, walked over to Sue's desk, and pulled up a chair, sitting down next to her. "Okay," he said. "I admit it. I'm not the skeptic I used to be." He crossed his legs. "I guess it's about time I heard this. Tell me about the cup hugirngsi.

  "" She looked at him. "This isn't a joke."

  "I know." Sue nodded. "Thank you," she said quietly. And she began to talk..

  When Sue arrived at the restaurant, both her parents and her grandmother were standing next to the front window, staring out toward the highway. The sight of their faces peering from between the taped signs advertising Egg Roll and Sweet and Sour Pork lunch specials filled her with a sinking feeling. There was none of the dread she associated with D/Lo Ling Gum, and she knew that if something truly important had happened, her father would have called her at the paper, but she could still tell that something was wrong, and instead of parking the station wagon in the back, she pulled up to the short side walk at the front of the restaurant.

  She hurried inside, the bell above the door tinkling as she pushed the door open. She addressed her father: "What is it? What is wrong?"

  ']John is late. He was supposed to be here half an hour ago."

  There were two diners in the restaurant, eating a late lunch or an early dinner at the far table, and they looked up, frowning, at the sound of the Chinese words ...... Her grandmother's voice betrayed no emotion, but her eyes were troubled. "It is not safe today. Not even in the daytime."

  Sue looked from her grandmother to her mother and father. "I'll look for him."

  "I will go," her father said.

  "I want to go too."

  Her mother shook her head, but her grandmother nodded. "All right," her father said.

  Sue dropped her notebook on the nearest table. "I'm sure he's fine. He probably just stayed after school for something. I don't think anything's happened to him."

  Neither her parents nor her grandmother responded. They pulled out of the parking lot a few minutes later, her father driving, and followed in reverse the path John usually took home from school. They cruised slowly through the parking lot of Basha's, Sue peeking down the trail that led through the vacant land between the shopping center and the restaurant. They even drove past Dairy Queen and the liquor store, in case he'd stopped off to get something to eat or drinL But there was no sign of John, no sign of any students.

  Something had happened. They drove up Ocotillo toward the junior high.

  The school was hosting an afternoon home game against Globe, and the sound of cheering from the football field carried clearly in the cool desert air. It surprised Sue that real life was still continuing for some people in town, that they knew or cared nothing about the cup hugirngsi, and though she knew that ignorance was not really bliss, that not being aware of the situation and failing to take proper precautions was more likely to lead to death than happiness, she could not help envying those people their innocence.

  Her father pulled into the school parking lot. There were two dingy buses and some cars parked here, but by no means as many vehicles as usual. The cup hugirngsi had had an effect. Could John have gone to the game? She didn't think it likely. He didn't like sports, had never before been to any school activity at all, and if he wanted to go somewhere with friends after school he always called. Still, she mentioned it to her father, who promptly pulled into one of the parking slots. "We will look for him," he said. "Maybe he is here."

  There was more wish than conviction in his voice, and that note of nearly desperate hope made everything slid demy hit home. Her brother might really be dead. Or kidnapped, taken to the cup hug/rngss lair.

  She might never again see him alive.

  She felt not angry, not scared, but drained, tired. "Sue."

  The voice was a whisper, faint but audible. It had come from somewhere close, but if it had been spoken a moment sooner, while the football crowd was cheering, she would not have heard it.

  Her father was already walking up the crooked concrete steps that led to the gym and football field. She wanted to call out to him but dared not, for fear of missing the voice if it spoke again. She stood next to the car, unmoving

  "Sue!" The call came again, weak and whispery and somehow familiar.

  Frowning, she turned toward the Dumpsters pushed against the low brick wall a few parking spaces away. She thought she saw movement in the shadows between the blue metal sides of the twin bins, and she started cautiously forward.

  "Sue!"

  It was John. She could see him now, leaning against the side of the closest Dumpster.

  "Father!" she called. She did not wait to see if he'd heard her but rushed between the metal bins. John was sitting up but was curled into an almost fetal position, his head nearly touching his knees. His face was purple and red, the skin around his mouth and eyes bruised and swollen, his nose and hands bloody. There was drying blood on his ripped shirt, and his pants were open, the snap torn off. She knelt down next to him, filled with a gut-wrenching hurt that made her want to cry, made her want to hit someone, made her wish this had happened to her instead. She had never before seen any member of her family injured or in serious pain, and the experience made her feel sick inside. "What happened?" she asked.

  John's voice was again a whisper, and she realized that he could barely move his puffy lips. "They beat me up. They said God told them to do it. They said God doesn't like... Chinese people."

  Her father hurried around her, knelt next to John, -reached under his arms, and pulled him into a straighter sitting position. "Chink," her father said in English. "They say 'chink." " It was a statement not a question. John nodded.

  Sue thought of Pastor Wheeler and she felt cold. "Who was it?" she asked.

  ""Ids from my P.E. class. Butch, J.D." Rick, and Maria."

  He started to cry. "And Russ and Kim and Mr. Peters." ""Your teacher?"

  He nodded, wiping his eyes, wincing from the pain as his fingers pressed against his bruises.

  The shouts of the football crowd no longer seemed so normal, no longer so benign.

  "Do your arms feel broken?" her father, asked in Cantonese. "Are your" legs okay? Can you walk?" uodded. Thirsty," he said. "I'm thirsty."

  We'll take you home."

  Maybe we should take him to the hospital," Sue suggested.

  "Your grandmother can take care of him. I do not trust the hospital now."

  Sue nodded. Her father's paranoid certainty frightened her. Despite all she'd said to her grandmother about wanting the family to open up, communicate, talk more, she found that she longed for the days when her father was an unflappable rock. It reassured her when her parents were calm islands in an otherwise stormy sea. It might not be honest for her parents to keep their knowledge, doubts, and fears from her, but it made her feel more confident when she knew she had solid support at home. i Now they were all adrift. And it scared her.

  Her father gave her the keys, told her t
o drive, and she hurried over to the car, backing it up next to the Dumpsters. Her father helped John into the backseat, sat down next to him, and Sue pulled out of the parking lot.

  "Are we going home or to the restaurant?" Sue asked.

  "The restaurant," her father said. "We'll pick up your grandmother and then go home."

  "I'm cold." John's voice was low, and she had to listen carefully to hear it.

  "Roll up the windows," her father ordered.

  Sue did so, pressing down on the armrest console that controlled the entire car. She slowed, signaled, pulled onto the highway. "Why did they beat you up?" she asked her brother. "Was there a reason?"

  "I told you," he whispered. "They said God didn't like Chinese people."

  "That's it? You didn't get into an argument or anything first?"

  "Mr. Peters told me to stop wearing jade."

  Sue looked at her brother in the rearview mirror. "You didn' tn

  "They stole my ring."

  Sue's mouth went dry. "We'll find more jade," her father said quickly, as if to reassure himself. "He'll be okay."

  They drove the rest of the way in silence, the only sound in the car John's loud, ragged breathing.

  There were no customers at the restaurant when they arrived, and both her mother and grandmother were waiting outside, in front of the building. Sue hopped out of the car and opened the door for her father who gently helped John out. "He was beaten up," he said. "They took his jade."

  "Leave him there!" her grandmother ordered. "We must get him home.

  Now. The influence is strong. We must find him jade and cover his window with willow branches for protection."

  "He can have my jade," Sue said.

  "I'm not wearing a necklace," John croaked.

  "I have a piece of jade in my dresser," her grandmother said.

  "I'll take an earring."

  Sue found herself smiling in spite of the circumstances. ""No matter what happened to you, you're still a jerk."

  "I'll close the restaurant and put up a sign," her father said.

  Sue stared at him. The restaurant had never before closed on a day other than Monday. Not even illness had been able to alter its hours.

  Her grandmother nodded. "Let's get him home." i Complaints against the church had reached a fever pitch in the past two days, ever since the three truckloads of new materials had arrived from Globe, and though he'd been dreading it, putting it off, Robert knew that he had to go out to the church this morning and have an other talk with Wheeler.

  He stopped by the Donut Hut for breakfast, grabbing a glazed and a coffee before heading over to the station.

  He pulled into the parking lot the same time as Father

  Martinez. "Chief Carter! I need to speak to you!"

  Robert slammed the door of the cruiser and swallowed his last bite of doughnut, washing it down with the dregs of the coffee as the Catholic priest hurried toward him across the dirt. He nodded at the clergyman.

  "What can I do for you, Father?"

  The priest was obviously agitated, his face red and sweating, and he had a difficult time catching his breath as he stood before Robert. He put one hand over his chest, held the other up in a wait-a-minute gesture, then bent over to breathe. He stood like that for a moment, then straightened.

  "What is it, Father?"

  The priest breathed deeply. "The black church."

  Robert nodded noncommittally, carefully keeping his expression blank, neutral. He'd been wondering when this would come up. He'd expected the leaders of the traditional denominations to come forth sooner. He'd known that they would have problems with Wheeler's church--religious problems, not noise or nuisance problems---and when he'd seen that black paint being slopped on, he'd expected an outcry.

  He was surprised that it was Father Martinez, though, who was standing before him. The Catholic priest was one of the more liberal and tolerant clergymen in town, and he would have thought that the Baptist or Pentecostal preachers would be the ones to object most strongly and be first with their vocal opposition.

  Father Martinez looked into his eyes. "This is the work of the devil."

  Robert shifted uncomfortably. "Come on, Father. I know this isn't your cup of tea. It's not mine either, for that matter. But Wheeler's got a right to his own beliefs."

  "It's not just his beliefs," the priest said. His gaze was unwavering.

  "I saw him talking to one of the minions of Satan."

  "Now, Father .. ."

  "I'm not just speaking figuratively or metaphorically. I saw him addressing a demon. Literally. Standing there speaking to one of Satan's brethren." His voice dropped. "And calling it the name of the Lord."

  The hair on Robert's arms and the back of his neck bristled, propelled by a rash of goose bumps that were not caused by the chill morning air.

  "That black church is a blasphemy," the priest said. "I won't deny it.

  But I recognize its right to exist. I also understand that Mr. Wheeler has been claiming to have spoken with Jesus Christ; some members of my congregation have even gone over to his church because of this claim.

  It offends me and angers me, but, again, that is his right. I will not be the one to pass judgment on his deeds.

  "But a tolerance of the beliefs of others, no matter how warped or obscene they may be, does not mean that I can sit passively by while the will of Satan is carried out in front of me. It is my duty as a priest, as a Catholic, and as a human being to combat evil."

  "What do you think you saw?"

  "It is not what I think I saw, it is what I know I saw. I was walking to St. Mary's this morning, before dawn, as I always do, and when I passed by the black church I heard voices. Two of them; Mr. Wheeler's and a strange, whiny voice. The whiny voice said something I couldn't make out, then Mr. Wheeler said, "You are the way and the light."

  "I couldn't ignore that. I was near the point where the new part of the church comes close to the sidewalk, and I saw a crack of green light escaping from between two sections of wall. I walked over and peeked in.

  "The demon was the source of the light. It was bathed in a greenish glow, and Wheeler was kneeling before it, praying to it. He was addressing the demon as "Jesus," and there was rapture on his face, but the demon was not even looking at him. It was staring at me, through the crack in the wall, from across the room." Father Martinez shuddered. "And it smiled at me." "What did it look like?"

  "It was greasy. It was short, dwarfish, and horribly deformed. It looked .. . It reminded me of something I used to dream about as a child, a monster from a movie." He shook his head. "I ran all the way to the churchmmy church, St. Mary's---and locked myself in. I prayed for strength and guidance. I prayed for three straight hours. Then I came here to see you."

  Robert nodded understandingly, though he had no idea what he was supposed to be thinking or feeling. He did not believe Father Martinez was lying, but the priest's story did not seem real to him. He felt disassociated from what he had been told, as though he had been listening to someone recount the. plot of a book or a movie, and he had to force himself to pretend to take the priest seriously "Look," he said, "I'm going over to talk to Wheeler this morning. You're welcome to come along and ask him about this." demon."

  "Oh, no. I couldn't go back there." '

  "Well, what do you want me to do then?"

  "Kill him."

  Robert blinked. "What?

  "Kill Mr. Wheeler. Waste the fucker. Then cut off his head."

  Robert stared at Father Martinez, completely at a loss for words. He would have thought he'd imagined what he just heard were it not for the unwavering eyes and the earnest and deadly serious look on the priest's face.

  "You can bring his head to me on a plate."

  Robert stiffened. "If this is a joke--" "The minions of Satan are no joke." He didn't know what to say, how to reply.

  "You can shoot him if you have to. But the most important thing is to cut off his head. You have to cut off his
head." o

  Robert stared at the priest. "Father, I'm afraid this conversation is over. I don't know whether or not you're serious about this, but if you are, you need help. And not the kind of help the police can give you."

  "You're with him" the priest yelled, and his voice was a shocked accusation. "You're part of it! You're consorting with the devil!"

  Robert had started to turn toward the station, but he suddenly whirled around. "If you don't leave now, I will be forced to place you under arrest. Do you understand me? I am going to talk to Pastor Wheeler this morning. I will ask about your demon if you want. But if no laws have been broken, there will be no action taken. And there will certainly be no killing." He glared at Father

  Martinez until the priest turned away, then turned and continued across the dirt to the station door.. The Medusa Syndrome.

  He would have to call Jacobson, see if the psychiatrist had discovered what Mike Vigil had seen.

  And he would have to re-ask Woods's question about the vampire.

  Two hours later, Robert pulled up in front of Wheeler's church.

  He got out of the car and, hitching up his belt, sauntered over to where permits for the renovation were displayed on a bracketed black post. He scanned the carbon sheets of official paper, shaking his head. Everything appeared to be in order, but he could not figure out how approval from the county planning commission had been granted so quickly. Hell, he'd had a request in for an expansion of the old jail building for two months, and even though the police department was a government agency and its requests were supposedly expedited, the matter had still not come up before the commission. "God's will."

  Robert jerked his head up to see the Pastor Wheeler staring down at him from the church steps. The words, so closely paralleling an answer to his thoughts, made it almost seem as if the preacher were reading his mind. Wheeler smiled.

  That smile made Robert uncomfortable. He had always found the preacher smugly self-satisfied and annoyingly condescending, but there was something else in that smile now. A cruel hardness, a hint of willful malevolence. It was as if Wheeler felt he no longer had to worry about the laws and mores of the material world, as if he was not only convinced that he possessed The Truth but had received concrete assurance that God was acting as his personal bodyguard.