Linda Robertson - Vicious Circle

“Persephone?” Nana prompted.

“There’s cornflakes. Or toaster waffles.”

Poopsie bounded in and pulled up short, somehow managing to skid despite the carpet. He thumped down on his backside. Everything in the upstairs of my house shook. The crystal frame beside my bed clunked down on its back, the loose hinge having given way despite the doily.

I twisted to right it and paused, looking again at my father, at his Anubis amulet. I studied the sport coat he wore, searching for telltale signs of a pistol underneath. I tried to, but couldn’t, detect where a shoulder holster might be hidden.

“Fine.” Nana walked away. “Hope you don’t expect me to eat boxed food every morning. Even the nursing home fixed real food.”

Poopsie sat where he’d landed, panting. “You have to be more careful if you’re going to stay here,” I said. He gave a little bark and was up bounding after Nana and, from the sound of it, crowding past her on the stairs.

I grabbed last year’s phone book from the low drawer on the bedside table; I kept the newer book on my desk downstairs by the kitchen phone. Flipping through the yellow pages’ “Churches & Places of Worship” section, I found what I was looking for in a sizeable, poorly designed ad: The Church of God Almighty, Reverend Samson D. Kline, Pastor.

That poor little girl deserved justice. “For Beverley,” I whispered as I dialed.

“They wanted it and they got it. Damn them all!”

In a Hooters booth, sitting across from Samson D. Kline, I couldn’t help staring at him. The fundamentalist preacher and local televangelist wore a light blue polyester suit with a white shirt. A Donald Trump comb-over sat like a thin gray dollop atop his head. Drooping jowls wiggled on either side of a bulging double chin from which his boring black tie descended. His piggish dark eyes gave him the look of someone constantly attempting to cry, but never succeeding.

“Them homosexuals”—he pronounced it hom-o-sectshuls in precise syllables inflected with a deep-rooted southern drawl—“they wanted equality. Tolerance. Just one homo with clout in Hollywood, and the right words licked into the right ears, and everyone obeyed, eagerly climbin’ on the butt-fuckin’ bandwagon. That modern Babylon made sitcoms about them. Humanized them, as if their practices weren’t profane abominations of God’s holy plan! They taught all the boobs watching the boob tube to react with pity and understanding for these destroyers of the Western world.”

Since we were sitting in Hooters, the word “boob” attracted more attention than it would have if we’d been elsewhere. Men at other tables were starting to stare at him—it took something as downright bizarre as Reverend Kline to get men to look at anything but the waitresses in this place.

“Made daytime talk show hosts of them to make sure that American housewives would be converted to this new tolerance—” His voice started to rise again.

“Mis-ter Kline.” I cut him off with a sharp tone. “This is Hooters.” I gestured around the restaurant. “When you suggested that we meet here, I assumed you knew—”

“You know what they say about assuming.”

“—I assumed you knew it was a restaurant, but obviously you don’t, so let me clarify: that side of the table is not a pulpit, and I didn’t ask for an interview in order to be converted.” I thought, but didn’t add, you hypocritical bastard.

“But that’s my new campaign. Isn’t that what this interview’s all about?”

I smiled. “I apologize if you assumed it was.”

My round-bellied guest let out a Scotch-laced sigh, and his eyes followed a waitress carrying a tray across the room. “You want to hear about how I lost my network broadcast, don’t you?” His expression became pained. “About the video. Won’t you people ever stop? It was research! I swear! I wanted to understand them perverts, in order to convert them!” His pasty skin started to get blotchy as the passion of his words grew. He thumped the table. “I was used, made a spectacle of…became part of that whole humanizing scheme. The devil’s revenge is cruel against those who do the good work.” He sucked the last of the Scotch off the melting ice cubes in his glass. “What kind of story are you writing?”

It took me a heartbeat to recover from the well-practiced tirade and respond to his question. “I’m not writing a story.”

“You said you was a journalist and wanted to ask me some questions.” It came out quest-yuns.

“I am a journalist, but this is not an interview.”

He squinted. “Then what do you want?”

I wanted answers, so I had to put up with his bigoted crap to some extent. For Beverley’s sake, I told myself again. If I was going after a vampire, I had to know everything I could, gain every advantage I could.

I took a hundred-dollar bill from the little purse on my lap. If not for the promise of Vivian’s cash coming this afternoon, this would have really hurt my budget—especially after providing for all of Poopsie’s canine needs. Nonchalantly, I laid it on the table. It was crisp and flat, a new bill. I pushed it toward him, but kept my finger on my end of it.

His eyes lit up, then darkened. On the phone I’d only offered him a fifty-dollar “donation.” Seeing the Benjamin, he knew this was going to be bad. “Tell me about…Goliath.”

One eye squinted up suspiciously, but his blotched skin paled. “You’re a devil, young lady.” His mouth twitched. “And you offer too little for my soul.”

“Mr. Kline—”

He leaned forward and snatched the bill away, crumpling it into his chubby fist. His face pinched, and his eyes squeezed shut. He took a deep breath and released the Scotch fumes in my direction again. But this time the smell had a hint of antiseptic to it, like that of a hospital about to burst into flames.

“The shrink my parents took me to, years after the abduction, did a regression on me. Menessos, that…that…bastard was there. As he is now. Unchanged. Fucking vampire. Worse than the perverts, the undead! And any of them in power of others, so much worse….” His voice went all little-boy scared; then he recovered. “He lured my brother away with false promises. Lured him right out the window. His words were like candy to Goliath.” His pious look faltered; he snorted and sat back.

Menessos? Who was Menessos? “What did he say?”

“He promised to teach my brother, tutor him. To make him powerful and…immortal.” His eyes darted up; his expression instantly became an angry stare. “You’d love to be one of those freaks, wouldn’t you? That’s what this is about.”

“No, I wouldn’t and no, it isn’t. Absolutely not.” Of course I thought people who watched his show and followed his bizarre beliefs were almost as freakish as vampires. Most of his followers would have done better with regular doses of lithium than regular doses of him.

“The gleam in your eyes says different.” He paused. “You’re walking into the garden, little girl, with your belly just rumblin’ for an apple.”

“My beliefs happen to be other than your own, but I’ve always thought the Garden of Eden story would have been much better if Eve wasn’t portrayed as such a mindless character manipulated by suggestion. I mean, if she were a little bolder, more resourceful and confident, why, she and Adam might’ve had snake for dinner instead.”

He stared at me, seemingly confused. I’d spoken just fast enough to keep him from interrupting. Perhaps he’d never entertained the thought that Eve could have been bold. He said, “So you don’t want to become a vampire?”

“No. My purpose is other than that, Mr. Kline. I assure you.”