Bentley Little - The Summoning

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.