Nightcrawler: A Supernatural Thriller (The Books of Jericho Book 2)

by J. D. Oliva

  Chris Shane stood over a downed Ethan Jericho.

  LXXII

  As soon as Chris heard the gunshot from behind, he dove for the pool. He didn't know why he thought that would be a good move, but what else did he have to lose? Standing against a guy shooting a gun when all you've got is a steak knife, and a pair of needle-nose pliers, was a bad idea. Not that jumping in a pool to avoid gunfire was a good one, but sometimes you just react. Chris stayed under for as long as his breath could hold.

  He remembered the swimming lesson at the Leaning Tower YMCA in Niles, by his parent's house. As a kid, there were days when his father's drinking got to be too much. Chris would take the CTA bus to the Leaning Tower, put on his swim trunks, and jump in. He didn't go there to swim. He just let his body sink to the floor. There was nothing for him back home. Maybe it was better if he stayed under, holding his breath until his brain faded. He imagined his lungs filling with water, and then he'd float to the top, free from everything. But he chickened out every time his lungs started to burn. God wouldn't let him through the pearly gates if he did, or that's what he'd tell himself in those closing seconds. While he never achieved his goal, he got really good at holding his breath. It was always about controlling your breathing.

  Chris thought about those days under the water and let those same thoughts roll back through his head. It would be so much easier if his lungs filled and he let go. But like always, he couldn't. It wasn't the fear of God not letting him in this time. He knew that isn't going to happen now. This time, he needed a restart. Chris was under for about a minute before he finally surfaced.

  He didn't explode up to the top, but instead let himself come up slowly, letting his head slide up from underneath, like Captain Willard in Apocalypse Now. He saw Ethan moving toward Nashida with the Glock drawn. Chris came up the rest of the way. Once out of the water, he needed to find something that would make a sufficient weapon. Neither the knife or the pliers were going to help him here. Instead, he found a chair and made his move.

  He was surprised when the lights on the Beast sprung to life. They even stopped him for a second. He tried to look beyond the light, to see who was behind them, but couldn't. But he had an idea, especially when they shifted to high beams. With that, Chris sent the chair crashing into Jericho's head and drove the rest of it down on his prone body.

  Ethan's glasses broke, and the Glock hit the ground. Chris kicked it into the pool. Chris didn't want him dead. He wanted him back to normal, and without a gun, the playing field was a tad more level. Sure he had six inches and eighty pounds on Chris, but it was better than him having a gun. Jericho struggled back to his feet. Chris grabbed the front of his black Under Armor shirt and swept his foot under Jericho's. The old Coach Anello foot-sweep worked again. Ethan came down head first on the pavement, splitting the skin on the backside of his head open, not that they could tell behind the dreadlocks.

  Jericho bellowed on the ground for a moment before screaming, "Get this thing outta me!"

  Chris remembered what he saw a few days ago in that hotel room in St. Charles. He turned his attention to the left ear. With the harsh light of the high beams shining down, something slowly crept from Jericho's ear canal. A tiny, white head emerged and turned toward Chris. It looked more like the kind of grubs he used to find the backyard than a worm. With a thick, bulbous head and several tiny tendrils protruding from what might have been a mouth. Even though it didn't have eyes, they seemed to look right at Chris.

  "What the...?"

  It made a sound that Chris could only compare to an eek, before sliding back into Ethan's ear. A second later, the assassin sprung back to life. Chris, ready for another round, raised his hands like he did against Dennis Reed. Instead, Ethan Jericho turned around and ran through the hole his truck had torn in the gate.

  Chris lowered his head and followed, leaping over the crushed pick-up truck and mounds of debris. The Nightcrawler was on the run.

  LXXII

  Jericho ran as hard as he could down Linden Avenue toward the St. Louis Public Library. Chris Shane came closing in from behind. It had to be a strange sight to see a 5'9", 170 lbs. kid chasing a 6'2, 240-pound man through the streets. Jericho turned down a pathway to the backside of the brownstone library. As Chris made the turn, he was met with a clothesline from Jericho's arm that nearly tore his head off. Chris hit the ground hard.

  As Chris tried to collect himself, he realized they were in a darkened alley with very little street light. The Nightcrawler baited him right into the darkness.

  "The host wants to be rid of us, and we've come to realize that maybe this wasn't quite what we wanted. But there seems to be a suitable replacement right here. One that may blend into the background easier."

  Jericho grabbed Chris' body from off the floor and drove him face-first into the brick wall. Chris' nose cracked and shifted across his face as blood ran down out of his nostrils and the back of his throat. He struggled to catch his breath as fluid and snot-filled his throat. Jericho's arm tried to slide under his head like he was ready to strangle him. Chris tucked his chin, like any good fighter trying to avoid a chokehold, but Jericho was too strong and slid his wrist across Chris' Adam's apple. He was trapped between the brick wall and the human being with so much dense muscle that he may as well have been a brick wall too.

  "Perhaps, we'll only use you temporarily. You'll confess to your crimes, and when you're in prison, we'll find another, leaving you to rot away behind those bars. Isn't that what you've wanted? To spend the rest of your life inside of a cage?" Jericho chuckled.

  Chris looked down at the incomplete pentagram carved in the center of his hand. That's when he saw the black handle sticking out of his pocket. He'd almost forgotten about the gift from the meth-head. He reached down and pulled the steak knife from his pocket and drove it into Jericho's hip.

  The assassin screamed out and reached for the blade jammed into his side. Chris grabbed hold of Jericho's hand, and with enough space, he slid out from underneath the immense headhunter. Chris kept control of the wrist, like any good grappler, and with his free hand, pulled out the cuffs Nashida had inadvertently given him.

  Chris locked them around one wrist, but when he tried to shackle the other, Jericho fought back. Chris kept the locked hand behind Jericho's back with a hammerlock, while his free right hand slid underneath Jericho's neck. It was similar to the same grip Chris was trapped in seconds earlier. The difference being, while the Nightcrawler knew how to kill, Chris knew how to grapple.

  His free hand reached across and he wrapped his fingers inside Jericho's shirt. A standard rear-naked choke involved the offensive man locking his hand around his bicep, like the old sleeperhold. Chris didn't have a free hand, so he grabbed the only thing he could catch, the collar of Jericho's shirt. Chris took a deep breath, tightening his own body and pulling his hand across Jericho's throat, hoping to catch the vein running down his neck.

  The assassin flailed, driving Chris' body into the brick wall of the library, hoping to buck the gnat mounted to his back off. Chris clung to Jericho like a cowboy hanging on to the bull bursting from the shoot. Eight seconds would be too long here. Eventually, Jericho faded. It might not have been the best lock Chris ever secured, but it was enough when combined with Jericho's panicked erratic breathing. Ethan faded from consciousness.

  Chris only had a few seconds before Jericho was back up and kicking, surely more pissed off the ever. He locked Jericho's free hand into the cuffs, so they were bound behind his back. He laid Jericho's chest against the ground and reached into his other front pocket to remove the needle-nose pliers. Chris mounted Jericho's back and carefully plunged the nose into Jericho's ear canal.

  "What the fuck!" Jericho shouted as he came back to, realizing what was happening.

  Chris couldn't see what he was doing because Jericho started to buck again. He began opening and closing the pliers, hoping to catch hold of something. He closed down on the grips and heard a tiny eek sound. Chris tried to
pull the pliers from Jericho's ear, but the thing on the other end dug in. The harder Chris pulled, the more the creature fought. Jericho screamed out in pain as Chris tried to rip out the thing inside of his head. Jericho sprung up and finally bucked Chris from his back, but he held the pliers tight.

  Chris hit the asphalt hard, but mace sure to hold on to the pliers. Trapped in the incisors was a fat, white grub. Its head was a strange orangish shade with tendrils that looked a lot more like sharp teeth than he realized. The Nightcrawler, the real Nightcrawler, also had six spiny arms under its head. They were all reaching out to him. Just looking at the creature terrified him. Chris let go of the pliers, and the grub latched onto his shirt and started climbing. Like anyone that ever had a strange bug crawling on them at some Fourth of July picnic, Chris swatted at his chest, trying to knock the insect off his shirt.

  "Shit!"

  The creature landed on the street. It looked up toward Chris and tried to scatter away and lose itself in the trash and street garbage. But before it escaped, a single size fourteen combat boot came crashing down on top of it. He drug his foot along the pavement, grinding the fat, white bug against the harsh stone until it was nothing more than a thin white-and-red-colored streak.

  Jericho, with his hands still locked together, kept grinding his foot against the ground like he refused to believe it was finally dead.

  Jericho finally stopped, and while trying to catch his breath, asked, "What the fuck just happened?"

  LXXIII

  Jericho looked down at the insignificant little streak that, only a few seconds ago, tried to destroy him. Then he gazed over his shoulder at the hands shackled behind his back. Everything came back to him. Every act, every decision. Like watching an old home movie from inside your brain. You were doing everything, but powerless to stop anything. Exactly the way Anne Casten described it in their prison conversation five years ago.

  "Are you okay?" Chris asked.

  Jericho didn't know how to answer. But as he stared at the kid, he had to admit, he was impressed. He'd always figured what happened in the little house on Chicago's northwest side last Christmas had more to do with the thing they were fighting, and less about the kid. But maybe not? Maybe Chris Shane's got something even he dismissed. He just needs a little direction.

  "Don't we all," Jericho whispered to himself.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  The police sirens rang out again. Even Jericho had a hard time trying to figure his way out of this one.

  "Need me to get you outta those cuffs? I got a cool trick."

  "No!" Jericho lunged back.

  "Chill out! It's over. We won."

  "Is it? You think we won? We ain't win shit. Everything I've worked for is gone. All this destruction, it's on me."

  Chris didn't get it. How could he?

  "But it wasn't really you."

  "You think the St. Louis PD or that FBI agent are gonna believe in an evil mind-control worm? Even if they do, there's a whole lotta other shit I've done that they won't forgive."

  "But the last time—"

  "This is so much worse, kid. So much worse."

  "Who's back there!" a voice shouted.

  Chris pulled Jericho behind a dumpster. A couple of cops searched every alleyway and corner, looking for a big, black man with dreadlocks. There's no way out of this.

  They ducked down, while two cops, one short and stocky, one tall and lean walked by. They almost looked like the number ten as they shuffled down the alley behind the St. Louis Public Library. Jericho and Chris stayed quiet until the police officers made their way out of the backstreet.

  When the peeked up, making sure the alley was clear, Jericho knew there was no other way.

  "What are we gonna do?" Chris whispered.

  "Ain't no, we."

  Chris turned back, assuming Jericho meant he was going to bail and leave him alone to figure things out.

  "Hey, man. You aren't leaving me here alone to figure this out on my own."

  "That's not what I mean. You tell the FBI the truth. Or enough of the truth, anyway. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time and got sucked into whatever scheme me and Anderson cooked up. You didn't know; you were trying to stay alive. They'll never find out what our plan was cause Anderson's dead, and so am I."

  "Wait, what?"

  "It's the only way out, kid. My business, my reputation, everything I am revolves around being a ghost. This is far from being a ghost. I gotta die."

  He grabbed Jericho by the shirt and pulled him in. He's got balls; can't argue that.

  "What did you mean, die?"

  "Remember the book I gave you? The Hagakure?" The kid nodded. "Seppuku." The kid shook his head. "It's my turn. This is how I finish business this time."

  "How do I explain everything to them?"

  Jericho laughed. Maybe the first real laugh he'd had in a while. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the fact that he'd finally be get to see the glorious samurai end he dreamed of since falling into the business. Maybe it was something else.

  "Tell the truth. I realized what I'd done and decided to take the coward's way out. They don't gotta know about worms and shit."

  Chris was starting to get it. He wiped the blood from his nose, trying to process the whole thing. Neither of them was overly emotional, and neither expected the other to tear up. Instead, they did the thing insecure men do when faced with an emotional moment: they nodded at each other and pretended to understand.

  "What do I do?" Chris shook his head.

  "Start fresh."

  Jericho smiled as he looked into Chris Shane's eyes. Chris tilted his head like a confused dog. He must have gotten his first real look at those faded gray eyes. Or maybe he wondered how Jericho was going to do it.

  Jericho kept smiling and pushed on his top left canine tooth with his tongue. The tooth popped right out. The crazy bastard had a poison pill built into his body the whole time. Jericho let it roll into his molars before biting down on the hidden capsule.

  "One last thing," Jericho said.

  Chris turned back around.

  "The old man woulda been proud."

  Chris nodded again and walked out of the alley. He heard the sound of Jericho's body crashing to the ground, but didn't want to watch it happen.

  Smart kid.

  Damn right.

  LXXIV

  Chris had a hard time trying to figure out what to do next.

  The St. Louis police found him as soon as he walked out of that alleyway. He did what he as told and explained just enough to the police and the FBI, showing them the body of Ethan Jericho. Chris couldn’t bare to look at the body himself. Maybe it was because he knew what would happen to Jericho now. He was still struggling with his own faith, but he knew where a man like Jericho belonged.

  Chris and Jamie hugged each other again. Hard to believe they only met yesterday.

  “Oww wow,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I broke my wrist.”

  Chris laughed.

  “Wow, you’re a dick.”

  “No, it's,” he pointed to his face. “I broke my nose.”

  “We’re beat to shit!” she laughed back.

  Even beat up, she was gorogeous. He wanted to kiss her and was pretty sure she would let him. But that’s a bad idea. They’re both pretty screwed up. Both of them needed a lifetime of therapy and it wouldn’t be fair to make her share in his bullshit, same way it wasn't fair of her. Chris saw what happened when people with too much baggage tried to have a normal relationship. That reminded him, he should probably call his Mom.

  Chris talked to Nashida. He wasn’t a bad a guy, just a dude trying to do his job. Nashida told him that he doubted the FBI would hold the coleslaw thing against him in light of everything. That’s good. Chris wanted to put this whole thing away, as soon as possible.

  Both he and Jamie spent hours answering questions, making sure the words worm and Nightcrawler never came ou
t of either of their mouths. Chris wondered what Nashida really knew. Did he believe in all this craziness? Probably not. He was far too straight-laced.

  After three hours of interviews, Chris and Jamie were released. The police drove the two of them to her uncle’s house in the Central West End.

  “You can stay here as long as you need,” Jamie said.

  “Thanks, but I’ll probably head out tomorrow morning. I've got stuff in Chicago to figure out. And, I guess back in California too.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  They smiled in an uncomfortable silence and did share one kiss.

  Chris spent the night. They shared the same bed, probably more out of the fear of being alone more than anything. Even if they wanted to do more, they were both too beat up and tired. Maybe some other time.

  Chris woke up first. Seeing her lying in that bed, he thought about changing his mind and staying in St. Louis. He could enroll at SLU and figure out just what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life. Meting her might make all this worth it.

  BBZZZTT—

  BBZZZTT—

  BBZZZTT—

  Chris rolled to the other side of the bed and picked up the phone. For some reason he thought it’d be some strange, unrecognizable number that might be from a dead man. But it wasn’t. It was just his Mom calling him back. Chris hit ignore and rolled back over to look at Jamie. Seeing her still asleep reminded him why he had to go. He couldn’t be Jackson Shane. He kissed her one last time on the forehead, wishing for another man’s life.