The Summoner: (26 page)

“I think his security system is his reputation,” Nya said. “No one is daft enough to break into the house of a known Jujuman.”

“That’s my sense as well.”

“I want him. Get us inside.”

They scaled the wall and Grey set to work on the door. He pulled a short iron filing out of his pockets and hovered over the lock, fingers twitching. He soon had the door eased open. Nya squeezed his arm.

Grey closed and locked the door behind them.
Leave everything as intact as possible.

A thick stillness blanketed the inside of the house. After a few minutes, the room adumbrated enough for Grey and Nya to make out the banistered stairwell and the vague outline of the slender hallway and its two doorways. Grey pointed, and they crept up the wooden stairs to the second story.

Grey tried the first door. A guest bathroom. He closed the door and tried the next. Empty.

Grey eased the third door open. It was a Spartan room, with only a white twin bed and matching dresser. Fangwa’s boy servant lay perfectly still in the bed. Grey moved forward, sensing Nya’s presence behind him.

For a moment Grey thought the boy was awake, and then he felt a tingling work its way through his body. The boy lay face-up, his arms at his sides, a single sheet drawn in a line across his bare upper chest. His open eyes stared at the ceiling. The boy reminded Grey of a corpse, folded and arranged, lying in an open coffin.

Grey saw his eyes blink, saw his chest rise and fall in the shallow breath of sleep. Grey expelled the breath he’d been holding. The boy was alive, if that was what it could be called.

They backed out of the room, Grey vowing to do something to help the boy when he had the chance.

They climbed to the top floor. The house so far was suspiciously clean and sterile, as if the owner were trying too hard to present a face of civility. Or as if the entire house were the antechamber, the area of purification before the ritual began.

The first room was another bathroom. They reentered the second room on the third floor, the one in which they’d met with Dr. Fangwa. Except for the absence of chairs in the middle of the room, it looked the same, just as Grey had suspected it would.

The third room proved more interesting. A simple metal desk backed against the far wall, strewn with papers, pamphlets, and other office paraphernalia. Grey closed the door and flicked the light on. Light flared into the room like a sunspot. They cringed at the illumination of their intrusion, even though no one below could possibly have noticed.

Except for the desk and a framed diploma from the College of Medicine at the University of Lagos hanging on the wall behind it, the room was empty. Interesting. Fangwa was a real doctor after all.

Grey and Nya rifled through the papers on top of the desk; mostly tourist information on Nigeria. The desk had four drawers on each side, and they silently pored through the folders stuffed into the drawers, conscious of every second that passed, praying no one below would be disturbed.

Grey grimaced in silent frustration. Nothing. Too clean, too normal. Nya moved to the long middle drawer. She pulled out a crisp black folder and tugged at Grey’s arm.

The first thing inside was a certificate affirming Fangwa’s attaché appointment. Grey watched as she flipped through the rest. There were various government papers, visas and diplomatic letters, all concerning Fangwa’s appointment.

Nya closed the folder, disappointed. Grey sank into the leather desk chair. He rested his chin on his fist and swiveled. Grey put a foot out, stopping the motion. He leaned down and rifled through a cylindrical trash can on the floor in front of the wall, pulling out and inspecting each balled up piece of paper. Halfway through the process he stopped and held up a crumpled fax.

“That’s a Nigerian number,” Nya said. “Lagos, I think.”

Grey checked the date: December 14
^th
. Two days ago. A single line of type interrupted the field of white.

“Has it been found? Do not forget what is at stake.”

No signature. Grey looked at Nya; her confused eyes matched his own. Grey returned to the trash can and rummaged through the wads of paper until he found it: the copy page of the return fax, sent later in the evening on the 14
^th
.

“
I am close. It is almost time for my return. Rest assured I will never forget.
“

This fax was signed, in elaborate script, Dr. Olatunji Fangwa. The signature seemed odd, incongruously prominent after the single line of type. The signature was making a statement.

“Almost time for what?” Nya said. “What’s this about?”

“No idea. Clearly Fangwa’s appointment is a front, as we suspected. Let’s discuss it later. We’re going to have to go downstairs.”

She took a deep breath. “I know.”

He pocketed the two pieces of paper. He ran through the rest of the trash, found nothing else of interest, and they rearranged the desk.

They padded to the bottom level. Nya stepped towards the first door, but Grey held her back. He took her hand and led her down the hallway, moving with exaggerated slowness past the two doors, right to the paneled wall where the hallway ended. He put his mouth next to her ear.

“Does anything about this hallway seem different to you?”

“Is it shorter? What’re you thinking?”

“The same. I’m also wondering why there aren’t three doors on this level, and where the kitchen is.” He probed the wall for a few long minutes. “If it’s false, the control must be somewhere else. I’m guessing it’s in one of these two rooms.”

Neither spoke for a moment, and Grey peered down the darkened hallway. “We have to take a chance,” Grey said. “Fangwa has to do his dirty work somewhere.”

He started forward. Nya moved to follow, her hand clutching his shirt. He stopped her. “Wait here. If I find a control, and it makes too much noise, run to the car. I’ll be right behind you.”

Grey left her and slunk to the first door. He turned the handle, held his breath… and found another bathroom.

He exhaled and closed the door. He twisted the handle of the second door ever so slowly, cracked the door open, and stepped inside. Another bedroom, identical to the boy’s room: matching white dresser and bed, and nothing else. The bed was empty.

Grey’s second exhalation caught in his throat.
Where was Fangwa
? Maybe he was still out and about in the city. Or perhaps he was at a ceremony—that made the most sense. They’d found the
N’anga’s
lair, and they’d found it while he was away performing his unholy work.

Which meant he could return at any time.

Grey searched the bed and dresser; nothing of interest. Hidden behind the headboard he found a small metal switch. He’d already seen a light switch by the door. This had to be it.

He flipped it and tensed. Nothing happened.

He left and closed the door. He moved down the hallway, then felt a prickle of satisfaction. At the end of the hallway where Nya waited, the wall had slid halfway open, revealing a five-foot wide open space with a tile floor. There was another wall a few feet behind it, the true end of the hallway.

As Grey drew closer he noticed, on the right side of the revealed space, a doorknob gleaming in the darkness.

The third door.

40

T
hey stepped into the hidden space and stood by the door. “The second door is Fangwa’s bedroom,” Grey whispered, “only Fangwa’s not in there. There’s no light coming from underneath this door, so I’m guessing he’s out putting people inside magic circles.”

Grey tried the door. Locked. He bent again and tangled with the lock, wasting more precious seconds. After another
snip-snap
he straightened and opened the door.

He ushered Nya inside and closed the door behind them, then flipped a light switch by the door. The room they’d been searching for lay before them, its gruesome contents illuminated by the garish glow of a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. A strong, sickly-sweet odor pervaded the room, a mixture between the cloying smell of a funeral parlor and the decaying, preservative-laced stench of a biology lab.

A metal table dominated the center of the room, half of it laden with jars of what looked like formaldehyde, the other half strewn with various cutting instruments. Two wooden tables were on either side of it, covered with nick-marks and dark stains. Boxes and crates stood in neat stacks along the wall opposite the door. Shelves lined the two walls on either side of them, stocked with glass jars and other containers of varying size and material.

Human body parts swimming in preservatives filled the glass jars: eyes, hearts, tongues, and other organs and things Grey didn’t care to dwell on. Nya covered her mouth with her hand and turned away.

“Viktor warned us,” Grey said. “These must be Fangwa’s
products
.” He circled the room. “These labels, Nya—they’re some of the same words I overheard in Lucky’s club. The same ones we saw in his wallet. Lucky supplies the parts, and Fangwa… does whatever it is a babalawo does with them.” Grey went to one of the larger crates and pried it open. “Look at this.”

It was a dead monkey, sealed in an airtight bag. Grey swept his arms across the room. “Is this enough evidence for you?”

Nya didn’t answer. She was shaking and leaning against the door for support. Grey went to her. He knew what she must be thinking.

She composed herself, twisting her mouth into a line of determination. She took a tiny digital camera out of her pocket and took pictures of the room. She ended with a small video of the entire scene.

She patted the camera, grim. “
This
is evidence. Tomorrow we’ll-”

Nya froze mid-sentence as a sequence of unmistakable sounds reverberated through the tomblike silence of the house: the engine of a car shutting down, followed by a car door opening and closing.

Grey shut off the light as they raced out of the room. He darted into the bedroom and flipped the switch to the false wall. When he reentered the hallway he heard footsteps approaching from outside.

Thank God for the lack of windows in here
. Grey saw the false wall sliding into place, and they climbed the stairs on the balls of their feet, every muscle tensed, to the second floor. They retreated to the far end of the landing.

The lock on the front door snicked.

They couldn’t be seen unless someone went upstairs. Grey would feel better hidden in one of the rooms, but they couldn’t risk any more noise.

The front door opened and closed. Whoever had opened the door paused, and Grey and Nya suffered through a prolonged silence.

Click-clack
.

A trickle of sweat dripped from Grey’s forehead onto his nose. Fangwa was down there, standing in the dark. What was he doing? Had they made a mistake, left something out of place?

He heard Fangwa shuffle forward a few steps, then stop at the bottom of the stairwell. Nya squeezed his hand. Fangwa couldn’t see them, but Grey pressed into the wall, willing them invisible.

Grey wanted nothing more than to rush down the stairs and arrest Fangwa, and damn the consequences. But now wasn’t the time. They’d have to explain why they’d broken into the house of a foreign dignitary, and then they’d have to deal with diplomatic immunity and whatever laws governed illegal evidence-gathering. They didn’t want to lose Fangwa to technicalities.

No, they’d have to trap Fangwa. Lure him into the open, maybe use Lucky to catch him in one of his
transactions
.

There was also a part of Grey that wasn’t eager to confront Fangwa. Not a physical fear, but the kind of aversion one has to touching a dead thing. The skeletal doctor rubbed a nerve deep inside Grey, chipped away at his basic understanding of what was and was not acceptable in human society.

Click-clack
.

What was he doing?
Move
, dammit. Go to your chamber of horrors and click-clack your skinny tongue until it falls off. Just don’t come up these stairs.

He could feel Nya trembling as she clutched his arm; he could only imagine what she was going through, the desire she must have to avenge her father.

Fangwa moved away from the bottom of the stairwell. They heard a door open and then close. Grey risked a glance, and saw a glow of light emanating from underneath the bedroom doorway. A few minutes later the light switched off.

Grey waited a bit longer, then took Nya’s hand as they tiptoed down the stairs. Grey hovered over the lock on the front door to muffle the sound, but it still clicked, causing them to wince.

They slipped through the door, closed it behind them, and sprinted into the darkness.

Grey looked back once, just before they entered a hedge that would lead them to the next street over and back to the car.

The light in Fangwa’s bedroom was on again. The curtains had been drawn, and through the window he saw the ghoulish silhouette of the Doctor. It was too far away to be sure, but from the way Fangwa’s body was angled, Grey would have sworn Dr. Fangwa was watching them flee.

41

T
hey didn’t speak until they’d put Fangwa’s townhouse far behind them, speeding towards Nya’s home in the grasp of deepest night.

“Are you sure we’re not being followed?” Nya said. “Should I drive around a bit?”

“We’re fine.” Grey removed his gloves. Two things Grey knew for certain: Fangwa had decided not to follow them tonight, and they couldn’t do anything about what they’d seen until the morning.

They arrived at Nya’s house, weary in body and mind, and filed inside. Grey followed Nya into the sitting room, and she brought two cups of tea. They sipped greedily, as if to hasten the calming properties of the herbal beverage. Nya set her camera beside her, staring at it as at a diseased thing.

“How are we going to present this?” Grey said.

“Thanks to the fiasco at Lucky’s, it will be a task, even with these pictures. Not to mention the problem of our illegal entry. I need a few days to pull this together.”