The Shadow Priest

by D. C. Alexander

"Copy of what photograph?" Pratt asked.

  "Of the Priest. The one Lucricia Burris gave to me. It was the only thing I kept from the file."

  "Why do you still have it?" Pratt asked.

  Arkin shrugged.

  "Because it was a thousand years ago and he doesn't care anymore," Morrison said, still grinning. "So what did he look like?"

  "The Priest?"

  "No, Mr. Bojangles. Yes, the Priest."

  Arkin raised his tumbler of bourbon up to the light, his now angry eyes studying the amber liquid as he swirled it in his glass. "He looked like Rasputin. A 6-foot-4, 240-pound Rasputin."

  *****

  An hour later, Morrison and Arkin were starting to get drunk, with Pratt dutifully keeping them company—more to keep an eye on them than anything else.

  "Hey, why don't we try to track down this Zhang Zhou guy?" Pratt asked, clearly excited that he came up with the idea.

  "Oh, Johnny boy." Morrison said. "Now you're going to insult Nate's intelligence?"

  "That's a good idea, John," Arkin said. "Except that about a year after we moved here, I tried to do just that."

  "Ha!" Morrison shouted. "See, Pratt? He couldn't let it drop!"

  "As soon as I was set up with MWA, I tried to run him down through all the usual databases. There were dozens of Zhang Zhous in the U.S. and Canada. Old ones, young ones, fat ones, thin ones. Tons and tons of information on them in our billions of dollars worth of law enforcement and intelligence computer networks. But could I find my Zhang Zhou? No, sir. Not in any of our vaunted databases. In fact, there were no traces of his ever having existed. It seems he dropped off the face of the earth with dazzlingly perfect timing," Arkin said, his voice seething with bitterness.

  Wondering at Arkin's tone, Pratt asked, "How did you end up in law enforcement anyway?"

  "Huh?"

  "He means, with all your pedigree, and connections, and law degree, and other special shit, how did you end up in a thankless, low-paying crap job like this? A job that makes you and all the rest of us so bitter." Morrison said.

  "Maybe I like the work."

  "That isn't why," Morrison said.

  "No. No, it isn't."

  "Why didn't you stay a lawyer?" Pratt asked.

  "Do you know what being a lawyer is like? It's like arguing about minutiae of the rules of Monopoly all day, every day, for the rest of your life, and you aren't even the one playing the game. You're the sorry schmuck sitting on a hard stool looking over someone's shoulder while everybody else plays. You're the custodian of other people's problems."

  "So why did you go to law school in the first place?"

  "Nobody knows what it's going to be like until they're doing it."

  "I didn't ask why you didn't not go. I asked why you did go."

  "Again with the grammar. You're making my head hurt."

  "And you went to law school because?"

  "Because, Pratt, when I was little, I was a nobody. No friends ever called me to come over and play. I had to call them. Ever since then, I've been trying to find ways to feel important."

  "You're screwing with me."

  "If you say so," Arkin said, grinning weakly. "Did you know my father was a named partner in a giant Manhattan law firm, and eventually a federal court judge?"

  "I did not."

  "Oh, yes. A very important man. Big-time power broker."

  Pratt nodded stupidly.

  "I'll tell you something he said to me on one of those rare days when he actually stooped to spend time with me. He said 'Nathanial, nobody in this world is worth the paper their diploma is printed on except a top lawyer from a top school in a top firm. Everybody else is just pretending, wishing they were the masters instead of the marionettes.'"

  "I see," Pratt said, for lack of anything better.

  "Of course, if I'd followed the career path he wanted me to take, joined his old firm and whatnot, I'd probably be a multimillionaire by now."

  "A miserable multimillionaire," Morrison said.

  "He shipped me off to boarding school when I was 12 years old."

  "Sounds like a dick."

  "Yes. You have to cut him some slack though. His own father was a Holocaust survivor whose sense of brotherly love for his fellow man was probably lessened by his experiences in a barb-wired rectangle of countryside northwest of Munich in the 1940s. So I imagine my father didn't have the happiest upbringing."

  Talking about it reminded Arkin of the profound sense of loss he felt not when his own father died, but when Sheffield had. Sheffield—the one person who really seemed to know Arkin, to understand where he was coming from and what he needed. For weeks after they'd found Sheffield's car in the river, Arkin had reeled in a rudderless despair and crushing sense of emptiness. In stark contrast, when he'd stood alongside the Manhattan hospital bed that held his dead father, he'd felt detached and emotionless, and wondered how soon he could leave without it looking improper. His father's body had struck him as little more than an inanimate object, no more important than the plain furniture of the hospital room.

  "You realize that in chasing the Priest, you're chasing another version of yourself, right?" Morrison said, his eyes glassy, a devilish smirk on his face.

  "Shut your hillbilly mouth."

  Pratt thought about ordering a fourth soda, decided against it. He was already bloated to the point of discomfort. "So how do you think they managed to lose the file?" he finally asked, eager to change the subject.

  "Don't jump to conclusions," Arkin said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Maybe someone lost the file, or maybe someone lost the file."

  "You mean maybe someone got rid of it on purpose?" Pratt asked.

  "Or is blocking access. Maybe keeping an eye on me too."

  "Come on, it's clear as day, Pratt," Morrison said. "The U.S. government is now in the business of blowing the heads off of two-bit lay preachers from Cortez, Colorado, because of the obvious danger they pose to global security. They've hired this phantom priest's group to do their dirty work. A lapsed Jesuit priest whose henchmen make Blackwater look like a bunch of clumsy altar boys. And now they're tracking Nate, their old nemesis, because y'all's inquiries are ringing old bells. They're having their unbelievably well-positioned flunky operators stymie your requests for files from the moldy sub-basement records room of DCI Headquarters because you and Nate are a threat to their great transnational conspiracy. Right? Am I on target, Nate? I love this shit. I think it's ready for talk radio."

  "Go ahead and exaggerate. But you're the one who said you picked up on the surveillance earlier."

  "I said I had a feeling, Nate. A tingle. Nothing definite."

  "Fine. But turncoats and rogue operators with their own agendas aren't unheard of in the intelligence fraternity."

  "So then why don't they just kill you too?" Pratt asked. "Why go to all the trouble to hide files and surveil you if you're a threat to them?"

  "That's the smartest thing you've said all week," Morrison said.

  "But I'm not really a threat yet." Arkin said. "I mean, I don't know anything useful, do I? And as for the presumed surveillance, maybe they're still trying to ascertain whether or not I do know anything."

  "Still," Pratt said. "Why wait around for you to turn over the right rock when you're obviously hell-bent?"

  "Maybe they're reluctant."

  "Why would they be?"

  Arkin shrugged his shoulders. "An excellent question. Maybe they don't want any more attention. Or maybe it's something more complicated, like a philosophical issue for them. A moral code. A desire to avoid killing unless they believe it is absolutely necessary. Think about it. If these guys are assassinating fledgling extremists—murderous despots of the future, or whatever—then they're trying to do good, quote-unquote. There's a philanthropic ethos to their endeavor, however twisted it may be."

  "Yeah, that's it," Morrison said. "It's because they love you. Lord alive. This just keeps getting better. Exhale and step a
way from the bong, Nate."

  "No offense," Pratt added, "but it all sounds pretty far-fetched."

  Arkin sipped his drink. "Maybe. But I'll say this. There is a curious regularity with which people who have any interest in the Priest case seem to get doors slammed in their faces or rugs pulled out from under them." Arkin's eyes burned with intensity.

  "Look at you," Morrison said. "It was years and years ago, and you're still wrapped around the axle over this shit."

  Arkin glared at him. "We can't all be you."

  "You can try. None of it means shit in the end, but you've heard me say that before."

  "Ad nauseum."

  "Why are you so cynical about our work?" Pratt asked Morrison.

  "Here comes a Morrison rant," Arkin muttered.

  "Pratt, bless your heart. It's the same shit, over and over again. Don't you see that yet? All you have to do is change the names of the countries, the religions, the political or social ideologies, the law firms, or whatever. A never-ending cycle of horrors. Always led or driven by head cases desperately seeking ways to fix their crap self-esteems, fill bottomless holes in their love-deprived limbic systems, or delude themselves out of their above-average terror of post-death oblivion, no matter what their pamphlets or banners or sacred texts say. Well I don't buy in. It's all a bunch of irrational, egocentric bullshit."

  "Limbic system?" Pratt said.

  "You should learn to read, Opie."

  "And you're saying all religions are the same?"

  "In the context of what I'm talking about here, they're heartbreakingly identical."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "The alleged gift is always the same, Pratt. It just comes in different wrapping."

  "Maybe you're the one who should learn to read. And why are you always ragging on religion?"

  "Because it needlessly divides people. People who are, where it actually matters, all the same. People who are all driven by the same things and headed for the same dark place, whether they want to believe it or not."

  Arkin rolled his eyes as he and Pratt waited for more. "Wait, was that it?" Arkin asked. "Was that the whole rant? Hallelujah!"

  "So then what do you believe in?" Pratt asked Morrison.

  "Food and shelter."

  "Come on. Really now."

  Morrison looked genuinely thoughtful for a moment. "An absence of anxiety, I guess. After all, all any of us really want, deep down, is just to be able to sleep at night, right? To not be afraid. The rest of it's just frosting."

  "That's impressive philosophy coming from someone who's as drunk as you are," Arkin said.

  "I'm the smartest guy I know. You should listen to me more."

  "You think about this stuff too much," Pratt said. "It's messing with your head."

  "Well, maybe I'm not quite as unconcerned with my helplessness as you've fooled yourself into being with yours."

  "I'm not helpless," Pratt said.

  "We can always hope." Morrison turned to Arkin. "Come out to the Uncompaghre with me this weekend. Unplug. It will help you put things back into proper perspective. I'll saddle up both horses."

  "Hannah needs me here."

  "What do you do out there anyway?" Pratt asked.

  "Quiet my mind, I suppose." Morrison turned his head as his eyes followed the progress of two short-skirted women toward the restroom. "Sometimes I don't really know what I'm doing out there. Maybe hoping some messenger will come down from the skies and tell me that I don't need to be afraid."

  "What are you afraid of?"

  "Nothing."

  "You aren't making sense. You're afraid, but of nothing?"

  "Exactly. That's it exactly. Just like you, John. Just like everyone. Afraid of the big nothing. Or the nothingness, I guess. Does that make more sense? Usually my diction improves as I drink. Tonight maybe not so much."

  "Morrison, sometimes—" Pratt let his statement hang. "But if you're looking for messengers from the skies, then you believe in something after all."

  "No. See, that's the joke. The longer I'm out there, the more I realize I'm on my own. It's just me, alone, under the endless, empty, uncaring universe." He shrugged. "There's a big difference, young Pratt, between hope and faith."

  *****

  They ordered one last round—Pratt switching from soda to, of all things, milk.

  "Listen," Morrison said to Arkin. "I'm going to keep an eye on your house tonight."

  "You're what?"

  "I'm going to watch over your house. Counter-surveillance. Then we'll get to the bottom of whether or not somebody is watching you."

  "Why would somebody be watching Nate's house?" Pratt asked.

  "Well, assuming for the sake of argument that someone's watching him and you at all, and that he isn't just crazy, then maybe to monitor y'all's progress on this case. Or to know that you and Nate are safe at home, tucked in bed, as they rifle through your offices. That sort of thing. Come on, Opie. Where's your sense of imagination?"

  "Wait—watching me?"

  "It's your case, smart guy. Technically, anyway. And you're the one making the phone calls and inquiries."

  "Dang. I don't want these jokers watching me."

  "Tell you what—tomorrow I'll watch your house. But tonight I'm gonna watch Nate's."

  "Morrison," Arkin half groaned, "don't do that. I don't want your stupid drunk ass sitting in the trees out there, peeking down on my windows like some old pervert."

  "I've got your back, buddy. You won't even know I'm there."

  "You're drunk. We're probably being paranoid anyway."

  "Let's find out."

  "I can take care of myself."

  "You can take care of yourself by finally getting a good night's sleep knowing I've got your back."

  "I'm going to sleep better knowing a whacko nihilist survivalist is out there watching my house though binoculars? And it would give Hannah the creeps. She already thinks you're a kook."

  "Don't tell her."

  "Morrison, I'm not fucking around. I don't want you out there."

  Morrison stared down at his empty glass, his eyebrows arched, his lips pursed.

  "Promise me you aren't going to set up an observation post next to my house."

  "It's only five o'clock. Let's have one more round."

  "Morrison."

  "Alright, alright. Shit."

  *****

  Pratt dropped Arkin at the end of his gravel driveway and sped away. Hannah was still out, and aside from the porch light the house was dark, which was normal. Nevertheless, despite his being drunk, and despite the fading light of dusk, Akin could tell something was amiss. He couldn't put his finger on precisely why, but he had a gut feeling that someone else had been in the house, or was quite possibly still there.

  Arkin unsnapped the thumb break on his holster as he tiptoed up his front steps. The door was locked, but that certainly didn't mean a person with the proper skills hadn't broken in this way. He wished his paranoia had come on stronger, and sooner, so that he might have had time to set up some detection traps—wedges in the doorway, hairs in keyholes, and so forth—to determine, with certainty, whether someone might have broken in and snooped his home. Too late.

  He unlocked the door, stepped inside without closing it, and stood listening. Stood waiting for his senses to catch up. But for a solitary and perfectly normal ping from the ducting above the wood burning stove, the house was silent. Nobody was there, Arkin was sure of it. But still he stood, waiting for the vestiges of any uninvited guests to reveal themselves. Then one came. The slightest trace of an unfamiliar aroma, so faint and ephemeral he couldn't tell what it was. Was it flowery? Soapy? Perhaps from an intruder's laundry detergent, shampoo, or bath soap? He couldn't say. It was so faint that if he hadn't been on alert for it, he wouldn't have even noticed. But one thing was certain—someone had been in the house. It might have been hours earlier, but someone had been there.

  He was tempted to call Morrison and give him the green light to k
eep an eye on the house. But then again, if Hannah ever found out, she wouldn't be very happy to learn that he'd been out there in the dark watching, no matter how benevolent his intent. Plus, he figured this wasn't anything he couldn't handle himself.

  He went around the house, taking stock of their private papers, bills, passports, and so forth. Nothing appeared to be out of place. There was nothing to hint at what they might have been looking for. They were pros—no doubt about it. They knew how to pick locks. They knew how to search a house without being caught, and without leaving traces that any ordinary person was likely to catch. But they weren't perfect. They'd underestimated the abilities of a fellow professional, his senses sharpened by surging paranoia, to sniff out their presence. Still, Arkin was perplexed as to why they would break in. Did they really expect to find, in his home, clues as to how far the investigation had progressed and what he'd found or not found? It seemed an inordinate risk to take, breaking into his house, given the ostensibly low probability of finding anything enlightening. Were they just that thorough? Could there be something else they were worried about? Something Arkin wasn't yet aware of?

  Going to bed with Hannah four hours later, he stacked empty aluminum cans in front of each door, secured the windows, and set a .40 caliber gun on his nightstand, a round already racked into the chamber. When she gave him a quizzical look, all he said was, "Don't ask."

  *****

  That same evening, Morrison, still half drunk, having hitched his horse to a tree a quarter mile away, took up station in the woods across the street and just up the hill from Arkin's house. He was in full camouflage. BDUs, wool cap, makeup, the works. And he was armed—a black Sig .45 caliber, loaded for duty-carry in his hip holster. He sat perfectly still—a night's worth of water and rations to one side, his regular and night vision binoculars to the other—in perfect position for counter-surveillance.

  He'd been there just about an hour already. In that time, thirty-two cars had driven by. One had passed by three times, but Morrison wrote it off as a friendly because each time it passed it had a different number of high school kids in it, and the driver couldn't have been a day over 17. Regardless, by habit forged through long, terrifying, sometimes tragic experience, he'd taken down the license numbers and descriptions of each and every vehicle that drove by. He'd run them at the office tomorrow.