The Book of 21
Page 27
“Wrong again, John,” he sighed.
He took another sip of coffee while his mind involuntarily wandered back over the events that had transpired since that day in the church.
The half-delirious words he uttered right before he passed out, had probably saved his life. “They thought there was something here they could use to blackmail the church,” was reiterated by Fanelli to the commissioner’s snooping press secretary, and the commissioner passed it along to the press. The words were enough to explain the situation away as a bunch of weirdoes who dreamed that they could get something of value, and left no worries about the fact that the book was gone.
Though he later said the book was there, the brass contended that he must have a faulty memory caused by his loss of blood and the resulting lapse of consciousness. Given Mezzalura’s speech about the ability of certain parties to make people look foolish, he figured it was wise not to push the issue too much. The book was gone; continuing to insist that it existed proved little, and insistence without proof would only land him in the camp of loony conspiracy theorists he saw on the science fiction channel.
For about a month, he considered whether he should go after them, find the book, and expose their sorry circle of extortion and murder. The problem with this path was that he had no idea who even had the thing now. The trail was cold; there was nowhere to start.
Moreover, he never knew what the odd Phrygian glyphs in the book actually meant. Though the book could be an artifact that really gave the bearer some sort of power, he doubted that. If it was anything related to the old tale, it was probably just the written version of the story. He knew some books had a way of taking on a larger meaning than they actually possessed, and vengeance had a way of biting one in the ass. He lacked the desire to put his life on the line again for some old folktale; if some group was too stupid to expose their own blackmailers, then he would let them pay the price.
Internal Affairs, however, did not walk away from the situation as quickly. Upon investigating Shalby’s actions, they found links to another cop. With Internal Affairs tracking down cops inside the department, and Homicide tracing Mezzalura’s associates, Philadelphia finally had its witch hunt. John often wondered, though, whether the accused were actually dirty or just the target of someone else’s projected guilt.
After a few months of watching things unfold, and John showing a lack of action toward exposing the book, the department presented him with a sudden offer of cash settlement for his “wrongful” suspension. They claimed it was only fair, since his suspension left in harm’s way. He wondered whether it might simply be hush money, but since he had already decided to keep his mouth shut, he took the check. It amounted to about three times his yearly salary. He promptly tendered his resignation and decided to find a way of life that he actually enjoyed, instead of coming back to a profession that he took because of a childhood vendetta.
He was done with playing policeman; he had spent most of his adult life holding other people responsible and putting his life on the line in the course of this duty. Now he wondered why he had let himself do it for so long. The job seldom earned him any thanks. Moreover, while it let him make sure that others were protected to create and do things with their life, it left him without any accomplishments of his own. He had enough of that life; enough of people calling him a pig for holding them responsible and protecting the public while his own hopes and dreams were slowly eroded away by time.
After leaving the force, he tried his best to avoid thinking about that world and started writing. While the practice was initially for therapeutic purposes, he soon realized that he found something he liked to do. He found himself spending more time typing than he probably should, and when not writing, he was thinking about it. Now he sat with his first manuscript complete, except for the title.
He opened the computer and stared again at the manuscript page. Too many possibilities, and too little direction, just like those days a year ago.
Taking another sip of coffee caused the words “weak dishwater” to pop into his mind. That reminded him of Harry’s tirade over a cup of coffee, just after John awoke in the hospital. He never did figure out just what set Harry off. He shook the idea from his mind and tried to focus when a priest sat next to him and ordered a cup of coffee to go.
The priest casually eyed John’s laptop and asked, “Are you a writer?”
“I’m trying to be, Father. By the way, you may want to rethink the order for coffee.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine. After all, we all have our trials in life,” the priest chuckled. “As for your profession, these are tough times to be on your own. In times like these, we see many people cling to their faith, and many people strike out on crazy and inane endeavors to give themselves peace.”
John took a sip of the ugly coffee, and calmly asked, “What are you saying, Father?”
“Just that the church may provide some solace if you find yourself at a crossroads.” The priest paused to take a Styrofoam cup of coffee from Effie and pay her. He then turned back to John and said, “Feel free to come to the church if you ever feel you are in need. We always welcome friends.”
John watched the priest leave and wondered whether the good Father was really just trying to be helpful, or if there was another message that he should hear. He tried to let it drop, deciding he had pondered enough cryptic double-talk for this lifetime, but still, the priest’s words ate at him.
For a few minutes, he debated whether he should pull this trigger. If the good Father knew what John was about to do, he might not be considered such a friend. If the priest had a deeper meaning behind his words, the one act that made John happy might cost him this olive branch. He smiled, and knew he could do without the worry.
He knew that clinging to promises of help and safety might really be less secure than braving the fire. In the end, those promises might lead to larger risk—even risk to his life—over something that meant nothing to him. He needed to do this, and finally have something to show for his life. He needed to create and make his own way, and take the risk that came with that.
He would unleash the old gods—at least in his own life. He would start feeling both the highs, and the lows, that came with that type of freedom. He opened his laptop, and typed the title: The Book of 21.
About the Author
Todd Ohl lives in the Washington DC metropolitan area. The Book of 21 is his first novel. For more information, please visit http://www.toddohl.com.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: The Den
Chapter 2: A Stop for Breakfast
Chapter 3: The Ivory Tower
Chapter 4: A Letter from Beyond
Chapter 5: The Chase
Chapter 6: Hallman’s Apartment
Chapter 7: Rue to the Morgue
Chapter 8: The Roundhouse
Chapter 9: Tea Time
Chapter 10: Home, Sweet Home
Chapter 11: On the Town
Chapter 12: A Rude Awakening
Chapter 13: Back to Work
Chapter 14: Fanelli’s Vigil
Chapter 15: The Light of the Moon
Chapter 16: John Exits, Stage Left
Chapter 17: Heading Home
Chapter 18: Putting on the Ritz
Chapter 19: Harry Loses His Cool
Chapter 20: Calling All Cars
Chapter 21: The Altar
Chapter 22: The Ride
Chapter 23: Time for Thought
Chapter 24: Morning Mail
Chapter 25: Monkeyshines
Chapter 26: Two Can Play That Game
Chapter 27: Reaching Out
Chapter 28: A Visit to Ben
Chapter 29: On the Road Again
Chapter 30: Harry Goes to Work
Chapter 31: A Shopping Trip
Chapter 32: Good Luck
Chapter 33: A Stop for Pants
Chapter 34: A Drive to Fields
Chapter 35: Grave Digg
ing
Chapter 36: The Shell Game
Chapter 37: A Stop at the House of God
Chapter 38: Geolocation, Geolocation
Chapter 39: The Door That No Man Openeth
Chapter 40: The Back Door
Chapter 41: Back to the Old Grind
Chapter 42: The Problem at the Front
Chapter 43: To the Apse
Chapter 44: A Call from God
Chapter 45: Exorcising the Rat
Chapter 46: Bats in the Belfry
Epilogue
About the Author