The Summoner: (8 page)

“Where?” Grey said.

“I’ve worked in Africa on many an occasion, and have numerous sources. When a man such as this appears… let’s just say there are certain people who take notice.”

“Have you found someone can ID him?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Do you think he’s Zimbabwean?” Nya said.

“I find that highly unlikely,” Professor Radek said. “The man we’re looking for is a babalawo of extreme power and influence—not a newcomer to Juju. I’d guess he learned his craft in Yorubaland.”

“Then why Zimbabwe?” Grey said. “Why would a prominent Juju priest leave Nigeria in the first place, and why come here?”

“Two reasons, I suspect. The first involves ignorance of the religion. Zimbabweans don’t understand true Juju, and wouldn’t suspect that what this man is doing is not an accepted part of Juju—which it isn’t. I’ll speak of this in a moment. Imagine a missionary from the Catholic Church traveling to a primitive people in New Guinea, spreading his own version of Christianity, with a few sinister twists. He’d have free reign to… indulge himself.”

“And the second?” Nya said.

“Vulnerability of the populace. Misery, political oppression, hunger, loss of hope, a failing belief-system—these are classic conditions for fomentation of a cult. People are turning to Juju in Zimbabwe because they seek to regain some measure of control over their lives, and Juju offers this.”

Nya looked away, and Viktor laid a hand on her arm. “It happens in the Americas and Europe as often as in Africa.”

Grey said, “What about Addison? He doesn’t fit the model.”

“Perhaps he attended as a tourist, for the novelty of it, but I suspect it was more than simple curiosity. Perhaps there was an earlier connection between Addison and this babalawo.”

“I’m looking into that. Back to the first reason, about whatever it is the
N’anga’s
doing that’s not an accepted part of Juju.”

Viktor turned his head towards the balcony. Grey couldn’t tell if he was looking for something or gathering his thoughts. “We spoke,” he said, turning back to the room, “of Jujumen who pervert Juju and perform terrible rituals for their own power or monetary gain. Such practices are disfavored, even reviled, but what’s arisen in Zimbabwe, this cult of the
N’anga
—I’m told it’s something else entirely. An abomination.”

“Tell us,” Nya said, almost in a whisper.

“The belief that there are means by which man can alter the course of nature is very real among the Yoruba. Such magical beliefs and practices are central to the adherent’s worldview.”

Grey saw Viktor notice the frown that passed across his face.

“One man’s superstition, Dominic—”

“I prefer Grey.”

Viktor inclined his head, “Is another man’s religion. Juju charms and spells, the miracles of Christ and Mohammed, prayer, belief in angels and saints and Orisas—these are simply supernatural or magical concepts infused with the austere name of religion. Is not all spiritual belief—belief in God or the equivalent—outside the purview of science, and thus supernatural or magical?”

Grey shrugged. “Sure.”

Viktor wagged a finger. “Don’t forget—what belief system you or I subscribe to is of no concern. This investigation concerns what this man and his followers believe, and how that might have affected Addison.”

Grey took a calming internal breath. As far as he was concerned, religion, superstition, magic, spirituality, whatever other cute semantic nicknames people gave their metaphysical speculations—it all amounted to a lot of false hope and wasted time at best, injustice and misery at worst. But Viktor was right. This was about William Addison, not him. If his disappearance concerned Juju and people like Doctor Fangwa, he needed to know what he was dealing with.

Viktor continued, “Many primitive religions, and some modern ones, subscribed to a practice termed “practical magic,” the belief that man can take specific actions that allow access to the spiritual realm, thus circumventing science and affecting the natural world in a direct, or practical, manner. Yoruba babalawos are both priests and magicians. While all babalawos use certain core practices—simple charms, spells, and rituals—many also specialize in more arcane practices, such as divination, necromancy, spiritual possession, homeopathic and contagious magic.”

“I get what you said about magic being outside of science,” Grey said, “which is a clever way of allowing for the possibility of magic without really subscribing to it.” Viktor smiled faintly. “But isn’t it easy enough to prove these Juju spells aren’t working? How can a whole culture, a religion, evolve around something that isn’t real?”

“You might be surprised how your concept of reality can change as it encounters new paradigms. The Yoruba babalawos have been developing and perfecting their rituals for thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of years. What we call magic is their science.”

“So you do believe in magic.”

“Magic is a misleading word, and a limiting one. Cultural anthropologists have reported that babalawos have an amazing degree of “success” with their spells—so much so that these scientists could provide no other rational explanation than that the spells had worked. There are credible accounts of numerous ailments cured by babalawos, paraplegics made to walk, even cancer disappearing. And the adverse: the instantaneous appearance of sores, inducement of blindness and paralysis. Some of these occurrences,” Viktor added, with a pause and a faraway look in his eyes that Grey couldn’t decipher, “I myself have witnessed.”

Nya was looking uneasily at Viktor. Grey took a sip of wine to conceal his annoyance. He wondered what Viktor considered a credible account.

“I don’t believe in the spells of the babalawos in the sense that you mean,” Viktor said. “But understand the human mind is a very powerful tool. I do believe there are occurrences in this world, realms of the mind, that are as yet unexplained.”

Grey held a hand out, palm up. “I’ll humor the discussion.”

Viktor leaned back and assumed his classroom voice. “All babalawos claim communion with spiritual entities—Orisas, ancestors, and the like. But what the
N’anga
is reputed to be doing goes a step beyond simple communication with supernatural beings. It appears the
N’anga
specializes in a rare form of magic, one which involves bringing these beings, albeit briefly and constrained, to our world.”

Grey ran a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to be open-minded, but I think you’ve pushed the limits of my imagination a bit too far tonight, Professor. And not to sound like Harris, but how does any of this help us find Addison?”

“I’m not yet sure. Those who claim to bring forth entities are typically practitioners of the black arts or mediums—two groups plagued by charlatans. The only commonalities to the practice of which I’m aware is that the summoned entity is restrained within a limited space, such as a pentagram or a circle, and the entity remains under the control of the priest or magician for a short amount of time. It does sound like what Ms. Chakawa has described is a type of summoning ritual.”

“What’s he supposed to be… summoning?” Grey said.

“It could be a number of things. An Orisa, an ancestor—ancestor worship is integral to Juju.”

“Why would anyone want to do such a thing?” Nya said.

“For the same reasons any religious ritual or ceremony is performed. Health, knowledge, wealth, power, safety.”

“You said most Yoruba would view this as an abomination,” Grey said. “Why?”

“Babalawos bridge the gap between humans and the Orisas—they alone have the power to communicate with spiritual entities. It’s akin to the Catholic notion of the priest serving as intermediary. However, babalawos
petition
the Orisas. They do not command, and they certainly don’t summon. Actually bringing an ancestor or an Orisa to this world would be as abhorrent to a Yoruba as it would to a Catholic. Imagine the Virgin Mary dragged here against her will, forced into a rotten corpse or an enchanted circle to serve the purposes of a rogue priest.”

Grey visualized it. “I see what you mean,” he said, and Nya murmured her assent.

“If this is truly what the
N’anga
purports to do at his ceremonies,” Viktor said, “I can see why he chose someplace far away from Yorubaland. Such a desecration would never be tolerated there.”

“What the hell was Addison doing in the middle of all this?” Grey said rhetorically.

“Why did Doctor Fangwa lie to us?” Nya asked. “He claims he doesn’t know anything about it.”

“As I said, no Juju ritual I know of involves the actual summoning of entities. He might be unaware of what’s occurring.”

“I think he’s aware,” Grey said softly.

“We don’t have time to waste on speculation,” Viktor said. “We need to know what this babalawo is doing at these ceremonies, and we need to know how it relates, if at all, to the disappearance of Mr. Addison.”

“What do you propose we do?” Nya asked.

“We find out when and where he’ll conduct his next ceremony, and we see for ourselves.”

11

N
ya drove Grey to his apartment in silence, and muttered a formulaic goodbye as Grey stepped onto the curb. She’d been even quieter than normal since their meeting with Dr. Fangwa. Grey had to admit the man unnerved him as well, and he wasn’t easily rattled. Something about him was just
wrong
. It seemed unlikely a cultural attaché could lead a double life as a renegade Juju priest, but again, Doctor Fangwa was about as representative of the typical cultural attaché as Nya was of the traditional Shona housewife.

Something also wasn’t right about Nya’s involvement in the case. She was far too concerned about the workings of a fringe religious group and a retired American diplomat. She had an interest in the outcome, Grey sensed, unrelated to her position in the government.

• • •

Grey noticed the smell as soon as he stepped inside. He couldn’t quite place it—wet dog, maybe, although tinged with something else. Something putrid.

The kitchen light was on. He never left the lights on.

The apartment was silent, but someone had been here, or was here right now. He tensed and padded into the kitchen. He eased a butcher knife out of the cupboard and gripped it in his left hand, thumb bracing the hilt, blade pointing to the left and hidden behind his forearm. He moved cat-like to the empty living room, then towards the bedroom. The bedroom door was closed, and the smell was growing stronger.

He crouched and prepared to open the door, ready to spring inside or step back as the situation dictated. It took three seconds for the average man to draw, enable, and point a gun. Three seconds was an eternity in close quarters. Even if the man was on his guard, Grey doubted the intruder could get an accurate shot off before he reached him. If there were two or more, then he could still get out of the apartment if needed.

Or he could get behind the first one and go to work.

He maintained his crouch as he entered. His eyes went high and then low, then whipped about the room before he straightened. He didn’t see anyone.

But he gagged at what he did see.

The nauseous stench of dead flesh bored into him, flooded his other senses into submission. He covered his mouth and nose with one arm, and his eyes fixed on the scene before him. His bed lay where it always did, headboard against the wall opposite the door. Normality, rationality, ended there.

At each corner of the bed a black candle rested on a thin piece of wood, guttural sputters revealing a grotesque sight. Fresh dirt covered the surface of the bed. A vervet monkey lay on its back, the mound of earth around it stained dull with blood.

The monkey had been positioned to look serene: arms folded across its chest, legs together and straight, arranged as a corpse inside a coffin. Grey moved closer, and the illusion of serenity shattered.

Empty sockets stared back at Grey. The eyes had been plucked, leaving a blood-encrusted hole where each orb should have been. The ears and nose had been sliced off, the throat slit. Rigor mortis in the jaw had locked the tiny mouth in a silent scream.

Something protruded from its mouth, and Grey bent to look. He stumbled backwards, stomach turning.

The monkey’s mouth had been stuffed with its own genitalia.

The inspection was over; he didn’t know or care what other tortures the poor animal had suffered. He went to the balcony and gulped in the night air. He clenched the railing until his knuckles turned white.

A cold rage coursed through him. Someone had tortured and slaughtered an innocent animal, and they’d done it in his apartment. On his
bed
.

The gauntlet had been thrown.

He just didn’t know who had thrown it.

12

T
he sharpness of the cerulean sky pierced Grey’s soul, the promises offered by the pale dawn light almost veiling the memory of the night before.

Almost.

Grey had scoured his apartment and found no sign of anything else amiss. He’d taken his bedding and its gruesome contents to the dumpster, scrubbed his bedroom, and then stood on the balcony as the smell drifted away in the cool night breeze.

Calling the local police would be pointless; it could be weeks before they responded to the complaint. The questions at hand were who was to blame, and what Grey was going to do about it.

Who knew about the investigation, outside of the Embassy? Nya, Professor Radek, Ms. Chakawa, and Doctor Fangwa. The suspect among those four was obvious. He supposed the local police knew as well, and someone else might have found out about it, but until more information came to light, speculation was useless. Fangwa would be hearing from Grey very soon. Very soon indeed.

There was also Lucky. He struck Grey as a self-serving businessman rather than a diabolical priest, but judging from the reaction of the people at his club at the mention of the word
N’anga,
Lucky and his crew were at the very least aware of the cult.

The gruesome message in his bedroom convinced him something sinister had befallen William Addison, and he paced the balcony. He’d already called Nya and gotten her voicemail. He needed to walk off his anger. After a quick breakfast he headed into the city, taking the long way to work.