The Shadow Priest

by D. C. Alexander

  "Pratt, I'm not going to read it."

  "Why not?"

  "For the same reasons lawyers don't read legal novels and doctors don't read medical novels. And anyway, I don't read popular fiction."

  "It's a best seller."

  "Most best sellers are tripe. And I'll let you in on a dirty little secret. Some of the most popular best seller lists aren't even based on straight retail sales. They're products of corporate influence and rampant industry manipulation. Venerable illusions."

  "I'm trying to do you the favor of recommending a good book, and you're thanking me with a lecture on corruption in the publishing industry?"

  "I'm not going to read it."

  "Alright then. What do you read in your snobby circles?"

  "Literature," Arkin said in his best William F. Buckley, exaggerating each syllable.

  "Oh, pardon me, but would you have any Grey Poupon?"

  "Really, Pratt. Why do you read that crap? It's just cotton candy for your brain."

  "I like cotton candy."

  "You like war stories? Why don't you read War and Peace?"

  "Isn't that, like, 10,000 pages?"

  "It's epic. A masterpiece. The themes it addresses are timeless."

  "Like what?"

  "Like that a certain freedom lies in learning the limits of suffering and in the acceptance of death."

  Pratt huffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, that sounds great. Sounds like a fun read."

  "Suit yourself. Stay in your comfort zone of literary junk food, you Utah philistine yokel. Stay oblivious to the universe all around you. Just do me a favor and don't vote." A moment passed. Then Arkin grinned. "So how do they get out of the cave?"

  "I should refuse to tell you out of spite."

  "Come on."

  "There's an earthquake that opens a new shaft to the surface."

  Arkin rolled his eyes. "An earthquake? Really? Exquisite timing."

  "You're being sarcastic."

  "In my snobby literature circles, John, that's what we call deus ex machina."

  "Day of what?"

  "Deus. Deus ex machina. Latin for 'God out of the machine.' It's a plot device for authors who lack creativity. A difficult problem is suddenly and unexpectedly solved by something that comes out of nowhere. Like an amazingly well-timed earthquake that just happens to open an escape shaft for recon Marines trapped in an Afghan cave."

  "Maybe it was divine intervention."

  "Hence the expression deus ex machina. It's as if the author thought, 'wow, I've really written myself into a tight spot here. Now what? Oh, I know—I'll just have God fix everything.' It's too convenient. Too contrived. Lazy writing."

  "Whatever."

  A moment later, Arkin noticed Pratt casting repeated sidelong glances at him.

  "What now?"

  "Morrison calling you a law enforcement genius. I've been wanting to ask." Arkin didn't respond. "They were talking about you at last year's recurrent training at Tinker Air Force Base."

  "They?"

  "Some of the guys. A bunch of us were at lunch at some taco joint in town. They were talking about you like you were a legend."

  "They tend to exaggerate."

  "Said you broke every case ever assigned to you."

  "Like I said."

  "Said you were being groomed for a top slot, and that you were the director of ops' right-hand man."

  Arkin took a breath. "Sheffield and I were close. We had similar backgrounds. He liked that."

  "Similar backgrounds?"

  "We were both shoved off to boarding school by our overbearing fathers. We both went to Annapolis, 25 years apart anyway. We were both recon Marines, bored lawyers, and finally intelligence officers seconded to DCI from different departments of the Defense Intelligence Agency after 9/11."

  He might have added that Roland Sheffield, one-time DCI Director of Operations, deceased, had taken him under his wing from the day he was first interviewed. That they grew so close they went on joint family vacations. That Sheffield had stood in the Arkins' wedding. That he was possibly the first person in the world who had ever told Arkin he was proud of him. That aside from his wife, Hannah, Sheffield was the only person from whom Arkin was certain he had ever felt genuine affection.

  "They also said you were the only person in DCI to ever receive the National Intelligence, uh—."

  "National Intelligence Distinguished Service Medal."

  "Yeah."

  "It was a thousand years ago."

  "What did you have to do to get that?"

  "Have friends in high places."

  "Come on."

  "The nomination paperwork cited three cases I broke." Arkin shrugged.

  "Are you going to tell me what they were?"

  "For one, I led a team that broke up a ring of Yemenis who were planning a MANPADS attack at Andrews Air Force Base, presumably targeting Air Force One."

  "MANPADS"?

  "Manned portable air defense systems. In this case, the SA-7 Grail, a Soviet-era shoulder-fired antiaircraft missile they'd gotten hold of from a corrupt supply sergeant in the Czech Republic. Lucky for us, the first one they got had a dead thermal battery, and they hadn't been able to find a new one by the time we rolled them up."

  "What were the other two cases?"

  "One involved a group of white supremacists out in Appomattox, Virginia, who were planning to detonate a car bomb at the Holocaust Museum in D.C. Then I bagged a guy who worked at DARPA—the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—who was trying to sell information about a breakthrough surveillance technology to the Iranians—a technology we could use to closely monitor the progress of their nuclear weapons program."

  "What was the technology?"

  "I could tell you. . . ."

  "Forget I asked."

  For a few minutes, they drove on in silence. Pratt looked increasingly ill at ease. "So what happened?" he finally asked.

  "With what?"

  "How did you end up assigned to Durango instead of a corner office on the seventh floor of headquarters? Why didn't you replace Roland Sheffield as director of ops after he died? And why did you quit DCI?"

  Arkin's expression hardened. "You surprise me, John Pratt."

  "I'm sorry. Forget it."

  "No, it's alright. Like I said, it was a thousand years ago. I'm just surprised you've taken this long to ask. We've known each other for years. We work in the same building, and you work for my former agency."

  "I didn't think it was my place."

  "You're so proper," Arkin said, smiling weakly.

  Pratt reconsidered for a moment. "So what happened?"

  Arkin's eyes stared straight ahead, down the highway. He sighed. "Politics. Politics happened."

  "Politics?"

  "And a failure of character. It's a long story."

  Arkin was rescued by the ring of his phone. It was Morrison.

  "Hey, did you get that call?"

  "Call?"

  "Turn your radio on. One-fifty-five decimal five-thirty-five. County dispatch says Mesa Verde Park Police are 10-7 after chasing a couple of drunk assholes in a black Dodge Charger who just took a few errant shots at a fellow camper at Morefield. Last seen headed for the main entrance at high speed. You might be able to intercept."

  "Why not." Arkin hung up. "Pratt, reach under your seat and grab my radio, would you?"

  "Need me to plug it in?"

  "I'll do that. You just drive."

  "What's up?"

  "How's your blood pressure?"

  "What?"

  "When's the last time you did a high-speed vehicle pursuit?"

  A smile broke out on Pratt's face. "You pullin' my leg?"

  "We'll see."

  "Oh, shit yeah!"

  "You Mormons aren't supposed to swear."

  Arkin attached the radio to the dashboard bracket, plugged it in, and tuned it to 155.535 MHz. Just as he did, they heard a radio call from a Montezuma County Sheriff's Office helicopter reporting t
he position of the suspect vehicle.

  "That's only a mile ahead of us," Arkin said. "Hit it, Opie." As the car accelerated, Arkin reached into the back seat, pulled a red and blue police light bar from a plastic utility box, and mounted it on a receiver frame on the dashboard. He turned them on a flash setting, then grabbed the radio mic. "Montezuma dispatch, unmarked unit, a dark blue Crown Victoria, dash lights on, is in pursuit eastbound US-160, just passing County Road 44, closing at 115 miles per hour. Air unit in sight."

  "Copy that. Be advised, county unit intends to deploy a spike strip at the Highway 140 junction at Hesperus."

  "Copy spike strip at Hesperus."

  "Did you hear that?" Arkin asked Pratt. "That means you have about 14 miles to bag this guy, or you don't get credit."

  "I'll get the son of a bitch."

  "There you go again with the cuss words. You're going to have to wear your cilice to bed tonight to make atonement."

  "You're thinking of Opus Dei."

  "It's all the same to me."

  "Which is just one of the reasons you're going to burn in hell."

  "Great."

  "There he is," Pratt said, pointing through the windshield at the black Charger coming into view, driving along at what looked to be the speed limit, give or take.

  "Keep both your hands on the wheel there, Junior."

  As the driver of the Charger spotted the police lights speeding toward him from behind, a blue puff of oil smoke in his exhaust gave away his intent to run, and the chase was on.

  "You remember how to do a PIT maneuver?"

  "I think so."

  "Get up alongside him until your front wheel is just behind his back wheel. Ease over until you make contact. Then, when you're happy with your alignment, go hard over. As soon as he starts to lose it, tap your brakes and back off."

  "Right."

  "Don't wreck my car."

  Pratt smiled. As they slowly closed the distance to the fleeing Charger, Arkin pulled a short-barreled Remington 870 shotgun from a rack behind the front seat and began loading it, alternating between 00 buckshot and slugs. Soon, Pratt was steering the front end of the Crown Victoria into the aft end of his quarry. The Charger turned sideways, finally skidding backward and disappearing in a cloud of dust. Pratt brought the Ford to a screeching stop, its nose pointing directly toward the Charger, now off the side of the road, two of its tires stuck in a ditch. Arkin and Pratt threw their doors open and aimed their guns through the gaps between the doors and body of the car as Arkin yelled out commands to the driver and passenger. Complying, the driver dropped his keys out his window. Slowly, the dazed-looking, dust-covered occupants emerged from the vehicle, turned several standing 360s, arms raised, as Arkin visually searched them for weapons, then obeyed Arkin's commands to assume a prone position, face down on the road with their arms out, palms up, legs splayed, and feet pointed outward. Arkin cuffed them and searched them for weapons as Pratt, grinning from ear to ear, covered him with his .45 from the six o'clock position. Panting, his body still quivering, Pratt muttered, "That was fffff—that was awesome."

  "Good job not swearing. But don't forget to breathe, cowboy. And keep your finger outside that trigger guard. I only need one anus."

  "Fucking awesome."

  *****

  Having handed their captives over to county officers, they headed back into Durango—an Old West mining and railroad town turned mecca for all things outdoors, situated on the edge of the San Juan Range and straddling the scenic Animas River. A town half-frozen in time, many of the buildings on its picturesque main street dating to the 1800s.

  After a brief stop for lunch, and several congratulatory backslaps later, Arkin, Pratt and Morrison were loading three magazines apiece with frangible .40 caliber practice rounds. They had the dusty, outdoor range to themselves, and Pratt had already hung fresh targets. They planned to shoot the standard FLETC course of fire three times, then the shotgun course once. The late afternoon sun glinted off riffles in the Animas River, sliding along down in the valley to their left. The air was dry and unseasonably warm, the musky scent of the high country autumn hanging in the air.

  "We gonna make this interesting?" Morrison asked. "I'm wearing my lucky briefs."

  "You wear briefs?" Pratt said.

  "He's from Mississippi," Arkin said.

  "What does my being from Mississippi have to do with it?"

  "There's no simple enough way to explain that to you."

  Morrison smiled. "Schmuck. Usual wager?" Morrison asked as he slid his full magazines into the holders of his duty belt. "Loser buys the case of beer?"

  "Pratt's LDS," Arkin said, playing along.

  "Oh, right. Grape soda then?"

  Pratt, his earmuffs already on, smiled as he flipped Morrison off from two stalls down. "Come on," he half shouted, deaf as he was wearing his ear protection. "Let's put some lead downrange."

  "Shooters, are you loaded for duty-carry?" called the range master through the speakers from the control booth. They each gave a thumbs-up. "Two shots to center mass, one to the head. Shooters ready."

  The targets turned 90 degrees to face them. Arkin drew his service sidearm, a Sig Sauer P229, extended his arms, fired three shots, and re-holstered, all in well-practiced movements made fluid by muscle memory. Over the next several minutes, they ran through the entire certification course of fire, shooting in different bursts, from ranges of 5, 15, and 25 yards, practicing emergency reloads, firing from the waist, and firing from a regular frontal stance. When the first round was complete, they removed their ear protection and the range master ran the targets back to the firing line so they could tally up their scores. Morrison rated "expert" on the FLETC scale. In fact, he hadn't missed a single shot. Arkin, who usually had perfect scores as well, had two shots hit outside the 5-ring.

  "What the hell is wrong with you today?" Morrison asked, looking at Arkin's target over his shoulder.

  "Preoccupied, I guess."

  "Preoccupied, my ass. Just once, let me hear you say it."

  "Say what?"

  "That I'm the better shooter."

  "Keep smoking that crack. Delusion is bliss."

  "Say it."

  "I'm sorry. I can't lie for the sake of your fragile self-esteem."

  "Whatever. You're buying the grape soda."

  "No, he still beat me by at least 20 points," Pratt said, totaling up his score to learn he rated "sharpshooter."

  Morrison took a peek at Pratt's target. He'd fired a tight grouping, but it was centered slightly below and to the left of the 5-ring. "You're jerking the trigger."

  "I know I'm jerking the trigger."

  "You're not breathing through your eyelids."

  "Shut up."

  They shot their next three courses of fire, then fooled around with their remaining ammunition—Arkin at one point losing a bet, for a case of beer, that Morrison couldn't hit a nickel they'd taped to a target with one shot of a 12-gauge slug at 15 yards.

  "Should we shoot a course with the AR-15s?" Pratt asked as things began to wind down.

  "You pervert," Arkin said.

  "Didn't bring the AR-15s today," Morrison said.

  "Why not? I love those things."

  "Didn't want any of your white lipstick to get on them. Anyway, we're practicing entries next Wednesday in Farmington. You'll get your jollies shooting the MP-5."

  "Awesome."

  Arkin smiled. "Gun freaks."

  "Right," Morrison said. "Like you aren't."

  SIX

  By sunset, the trio was turning off the highway, up the long hill toward Arkin's house. A large, gaudy sign marked the entrance of the woodsy development of relatively new homes set on 10-acre parcels.

  "Why do they call your neighborhood 'Beaver Hill'?" Pratt asked.

  "Because of all the giraffes."

  "Really, though. I've never seen one beaver here."

  "I don't know, John. I'll look into it."

  They pulled into the recently
leveled gravel driveway of Arkin's flawlessly maintained craftsman bungalow. The home was surrounded by a Japanese-style garden of manicured bamboo, red maple, and pine trees, with a stone Toro lantern set among pathways of white sand, pebbles, and steppingstones. As they approached the house along the walkway, the tracks of a dog or large coyote drew Arkin's attention to the otherwise perfectly-raked white sand.

  "Shit."

  "What's wrong?" Pratt asked.

  "I need to go get the rake."

  "What did I tell you about people's yards, Pratt?" Morrison said.

  It took Pratt a moment to figure out what Arkin was bothered by. "What's the deal?" he asked. "Does everything have to be perfect all the time?"

  "Since you ask, this is a Japanese garden, incorporating elements of the Chaniwa and Karesansui styles."

  "Obviously," Morrison said.

  "The raked sand simulates water, but if the grain is disrupted it ruins the effect."

  "It's awfully orderly," Morrison said.

  "What are you trying to tell me?"

  "It's boring."

  "Well, fuck you very much Morrison. Cold beer is in the basement fridge."

  As he went around the side of the house to retrieve his imported Japanese rake, he heard Morrison shout, "Hey, good looking!" to his wife, Hannah, after he'd knocked and opened the front door without waiting.

  After erasing the offending tracks and returning his rake to its proper rack in the garden shed, Arkin came around the corner to find Pratt reading his book on the front porch as he waited for everyone to join him. As Arkin climbed the steps, Hannah came out the front door. "I think Morrison is fouling our bathroom," she said with a repulsed expression.

  Arkin couldn't put a finger on exactly why he thought so, but to his watchful eye, she looked worse. Maybe her skin had grown a touch sallow, or maybe she'd lost more volume in her eyebrows. He wasn't sure. But it worried him.

  As Hannah handed a glass of lemonade to Pratt, she asked him, "What are you reading?"

  "It's called Khyber Recon. It's about—"

  "Ah! Spare me."

  "You too? You're just like your husband."

  "I'll slap you if you're going to insult me on my own front porch," Hannah said with a wink.

  "She will," Arkin said, plopping down into a rocker.