by J. D. Oliva
He could run a thousand miles through broken glass and razor wire forging his mind into an indomitable fighting machine, and it still wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference against that thing in Chicago. It tossed him across the room like a wet towel going into the hamper. The game passed him by, and when he hung up his favorite Desert Eagle, he stopped running. He didn't need to be in peak physical or mental condition anymore.
A few nights ago, Jericho couldn't sleep. He thought about picking up some brandy and having a glass before bed, but that would be violating a different promise. Jericho couldn't do that. Instead, he went for a run. A short one, only two miles. It did the trick. He was sweaty and gross, and his lungs burned like those old desert oil fires, but it helped. He passed out on the couch and slept through the night for the first time in months. So running became part of the routine again. Sure, he didn't run as far or as hard as he did when he was training. It wasn't even as hard as he ran back on the South Side, but it was nice to get some structure again. At least on the days he didn't do the rowing machine at the gym.
Jericho came down from the extended, winding path cut through the trees near the peak and jogged past the steel gates of his home compound. Calling it a driveway undersold just how magnificent the dirt pathway looked, especially on a cool summer night. To his surprise, a car was parked by his front door. A MINI Cooper with Colorado plates. Strange.
Jericho didn't get visitors. He didn't have any friends out this way. Or at all. The job is too dangerous to have friends, let alone family. Maybe someone from the Cherry Vale office in Colorado Springs? Except no one knew where he lived, except for Rich Weaver, who thought his name was Jaime Escalante. This was something else.
The car looked empty, which meant the driver and possible passengers—though in a Mini, there might have been only one extra person—were somewhere on the property. Or worse, in his house. Jericho's weapons were inside. Rookie move. During training, he never would have gone out for a run without a knife. He was out of the habit and sloppy. Looking across the pathway, he found a thick tree branch that looked like it recently fell. Messy, but better than nothing. He wrapped his fingers around the bark like old Frank Thomas and headed for the house. At least inside, he could find something a little more efficient.
Jericho jogged up the stairs, weaponized branch in hand. The front door was ajar. He slowly pushed the massive oak door open, ready to swing at the first person he saw.
"Buenos dias!"
XII
Charlie Welles pulled his chair up to the desk in front of the green screen virtual studio. In the modern world of cable news production, the graphics people took care of the backgrounds. He only needed to continuously poke the bear, where he was already good. So good he was getting paid an extraordinary amount of money. Tonight he had an interesting set of bears to poke. He took a sip from a bottle of water, adjusted his wire-rim glasses, and checked his perfectly sculpted hair. It had been quite the ride from hosting an internet show aimed at the fringe reigns of the radical right to being a pundit on a mainstream cable network. He shot a wink to the floor director, a fresh-out-of-college twenty-something brunette whose name he hadn't bothered to learn.
"Has the Devil gone mainstream? After thousands of years as the boogeyman of organized religion, has the Prince of Lies found acceptance in the new America? My guests say yes. All this and more tonight on Well Beyond Reason!"
The red, white and blue WBR video intro bumper eclipsed the screen. With a down moment, Welles took another drink and prepared to give his guest the business. Life on cable news, where lowly vermin like him thrived.
"My first guest tonight is the director of the Church of the Golden Sun, an admitted Satanic organization that's recently come under fire in Provo, Utah for the construction of a demonic statue directly across the street from a Mormon temple. Antonio LeMay, welcome to Well Beyond Reason."
Just before the camera feed picked up LeMay, coming live via satellite from his office in Utah, he ran his finger across his overly-styled royale beard. This was a big night for both him and the Church.
"Mr. Welles, thank you for having me on the show."
"Let's cut to the chase, Mr. LeMay, the Devil? Really?" Welles raised a crooked eyebrow that peeked out from behind his glasses.
"Not exactly. This is where the confusion comes up. My organization, the Church of the Golden Sun, has existed for hundreds of years. For most of it, we've been unfairly labeled as, quote, Devil Worshipers."
"Aren't you? I mean, your Church is building a monster statue in the heart of Mormon country."
"Again, not quite. Satanism, in its modern context, has nothing to do with worshipping anything. To say we're worshipping some evil godhead is as ludicrous as worshipping some mystical sky bully or a ham sandwich. We use the image of the Devil on purpose. We use it to draw attention to our cause."
Welles laughed. The network is going to be flooded with calls and angry emails from the Chucky Churches watching at home. This is going great.
"And what is that cause, Mr. LeMay?"
"To point out the absurdity of organized religion, particularly Christian-based religions, which we feel have far too much authority over the laws in this country. The statue you mention is not only fully paid for by us, unlike many religious monuments which successfully and illegally siphon public dollars."
"But if a community like Provo wants it, what's the issue?"
"Mr. Welles, there is supposed to be a clear delineation between Church and State in this country, but every year the religious right blurs that line a little further. But when different religious affiliations make efforts to bring awareness to their own mythos, they're met with hostility. So, it's up to groups like ours to call out that hypocrisy. In this case, by erecting a statue to the Elder God Cthulhu of Lovecraftian lore. All we want is for people to ask questions and think critically. Sometimes that means making a mockery of what's happening in the world."
"Well, not everyone agrees with you. My next guest is a professor at DuKane University and author of more than fifteen books examining the rise of doomsday cults within the Christian religion. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Reverend Julia Summerville."
Reverend Summerville ran her fingers through her graying hair and adjusted her glasses as the camera picked up her satellite feed from her church in suburban Chicago.
"Thank you, Mr. Welles."
"Reverend, I know you're a long-running veteran of the cable news wars. I want to thank you for giving this network another chance," Welles said with smarmy insincerity that both of his guests saw through.
"It's my pleasure."
"Reverend, where do you stand on this virtual rise of Satanism?" Welles asked.
"My colleague, Mr. LeMay, and I do share some similar views. We spoke on a panel last summer decrying religious biases in the medical industry. Neither of us likes to see religion twisted to meet the needs of the unscrupulous. Where we differ is I believe the presence of God can only help strengthen the necessary divide between Church and State. As Christ said, ‘You would have no authority over me at all unless it had been given onto you from above.’ Meaning, God wants and believes in these necessary divides."
LeMay couldn't see Summerville, but knew her patronizing tones when he heard them.
"Julia, if only the rest of your followers were as committed to that line of thinking. And you know that isn't the case. The vast majority of these right-wing religious leaders spend the majority of their time trying to burn those vital walls down."
"Hello, Tony," she said. He hated being called Tony, and even though LeMay couldn't see her, he knew she had that better-than-you smirk on her face. "We'll just have to disagree on that."
"But how can the good reverend disagree when she has a Ph.D. studying the effects of religious fanaticism? You've seen the dark side of this group-thought. You've studied the mass suicides and warlords who’ve taken this message and perverted it. Don't lie to me and say that you're in the majori
ty when you clearly are not!"
"Problems exist in any social structure, Tony. Some of us spend our time working to fix those systems."
"That's what the Church of the Golden Sun is doing!"
"By embracing true evil," Summerville said with quaint defiance.
"By mocking it!" LeMay responded with a cold tone that even Welles had to question what he really meant.
Welles put a smile on and spoke to his audience.
"Tensions are high, but the network must render unto its sponsors. Well Beyond Reason will be right back!"
XIII
"Who the fuck are you?" Jericho asked the suave looking man with a pencil mustache and salt-and-pepper hair sitting in the chair in his entryway.
The man smiled and extended a hand, sticking out of a finely tailored shirt with gold cufflinks. His well-manicured fingers were accented by three gold rings.
"My name is Paolo Garces. I'm seeking a Señor Jericho. I wish to discuss the, um, Advantage Treatment," he said with an arrogant smirk and over-the-top accent that instantly made Jericho want to concave his skull.
"Don't know who that is. My name's Edison Jones."
"That might be the name on the mortgage. Or that was the name when this incredibly impressive palace had a mortgage. I'm looking for Ethan Jericho."
"Never heard of him. Now get the fuck out of my house before I break your goddamn neck. Which would be legal, since y'all broke into my house." Jericho gripped the thick branch and slung it over his shoulder like the Big Hurt posing for a baseball card.
Garces checked under his fingernails and stood up from the chair and approached. There was a wide, zipped-up case leaning up against the chair. Jericho knew it belonged to this character since he'd never seen it before.
"I didn't break in, señor. We just need a quick conversation, and your security system is, well, mierda."
Shit?
That hurt. Say what you want about Jericho, but Cherry Vale had a reputation. Now, he was going to kill this guy on principle.
"If you know as much as you're pretending, you might wanna stop moving your jaw while it's still attached."
"Pardon. I don't like this. You and I are off to a bad start," Garces said, toning the accent down enough. "We are the same kind of man. You value privacy. I respect that. I have a similar place back home."
Garces paused, hoping to be asked where he was from. Jericho didn't care.
"I'm a man who some would tragically refer to as a thief. Throughout my life, I've curated some remarkable things. My focus is on art. I recently adopted a client I later came to regret. I'm sure you've been in the same situation."
Jericho took the branch off his shoulder. So that's where this was going. Thief is working for a client on a deal that went bad. They probably want him dead
"I've got no clue what you mean. But it sounds like you got yourself in a little trouble, and you're looking for some leg-breaker to take care of you."
"Señor, you aren't as careful with your secrets as you'd like to believe," Garces said with a wink. "What do you know about the Church of the Golden Sun?"
"Nothing."
"I didn't either until they hired me."
Jericho took two steps forward and firmly pressed the tree branch against Graces' chest.
"I don't know who you think I am, but I'm pretty sure whoever you're looking for wouldn't be interested in working for a thief."
"I have a lot of money," Garces smiled like that was going to convince him of anything.
"Look around. I ain't hurting. But if you don't leave my property, you might."
Garces confident smile faded. His frustration cracked through, but that isn't Jericho's problem. Like he said, even in his day, this is not the type of client he wanted. Whatever trouble this thief was in was all his doing. Jericho is retired, and this conversation isn't changing anything.
Garces nodded. "Lo siento," he apologized and made his way out the door.
Jericho watched him slowly walk back to his Mini. Like a little kid who hoped Mom and Dad would change their mind and let him sleep over at his friends after they repeatedly said no. This wasn't going to work. Jericho isn't a parent. Not anymore.
Watching the Mini pull off into the shaded pathway, Jericho pulled out his phone.
"Hey, Rich, we need to upgrade the Platinum Plus package."
XIV
It's a quarter past 1:00 on a Wednesday night. Provo isn't the most lively town on a Saturday. In the middle of the week, even during the summer, it is a parking lot. The Golden Sun construction site across from Provo City Center is dark and vacant. Perfect for Ryan Bliss. Bliss is a good Mormon boy from a good Mormon family. Only a year out of high school and ready to start his mission in El Salvador this fall.
It is a common practice in the Mormon community for a nineteen-year-old to leave his family and the country to volunteer in one of the world's most impoverished places. This is real mission work. These kids weren't put into some kind of safe haven to rest and lay low for two years, scoring good points with the church elders back home. These kids were put in tough situations, taught to appreciate where they'd grown up. The work is humbling. That's the purpose.
But Ryan Bliss still had three months before he would learn to appreciate those things. Instead, he spent his Wednesday night at home trying to figure out the best way to show his disapproval of the Cthulhu statue being erected in town square. Stretching the lengths of his white-bread, teenage creativity, he bought a few cans of spray paint and a ski mask from the Walmart off University Parkway. The fifty-something cashier, with a shade of red hair that didn't quite exist in nature, knew exactly what he was up to, even if she didn't know where he planned on doing it. She placed a call with the Provo Police, who'd certainly keep an eye out for the teenager dumb enough to be wearing a number 12 BYU football jersey that night.
Bliss waited a few hours before sneaking out of his parent's house near the Riverside Country Club. He ditched his car a half-mile from the construction site and walked the rest of the way toward City Center, pretending to be a regular kid wandering town. When he reached the site, he pulled the ski mask down over his face and crept through the fencing, ignoring the orange signs and yellow caution tape warning him not to enter. The paint cans banging together in his backpack would have been a problem if anyone was around. Fortunately, it's late, and he was alone. A canvas tarp lay draped over what he assumed is the plaster elder god.
The Church of the Golden Sun planned on a big unveiling tomorrow afternoon, complete with a press conference. Ryan Bliss wanted to make sure they had second thoughts. He ripped down the tarp and took a step back as he stared into the visage of a massive creature with bat wings and a face with a beard made of hanging octopus tentacles. He wanted to laugh at the monstrosity, but couldn't. Something about this creature was unsettling. Not scary, it's only a hunk of plaster, but definitely disturbing. Looking into the demon's face gave him a headache for some reason. He took another step back and debated running away, but couldn't. He came this far, and it's not like this thing is the Devil or anything like that. Just some stupid-looking squid creature.
Without breaking his stare on the monster, Ryan took off his backpack and pulled out two cans of paint. With a can in each hand, he prepared to make the closest thing to a political stance he ever had. He shook the yellow and purple cans, the ball barring rattling inside, almost stoking his courage. His thumbs popped the plastic lids, and he gently lay his forefingers on the triggers. Ryan got right up to the creature's face. Looking into those glazed, unreal eyes, he again had second thoughts—at this point, these would more likely be third, maybe fourth thoughts. He gulped and remembered this is not about him. This is for the Glory of God. If he got caught, he'd be a hero to the kids back at Timpview High School. Go Thunderbirds!
FFFFFZZZZZT
Instinct took over as Ryan ran a yellow streak across Cthulhu's eyes. He laughed as silly, yellow tears ran down the octo-god's face. He unleashed the purple can acro
ss the beast's tentacle mouth and then down his muscled chest. Ryan took a step back. No one would ever confuse his work for Banksy—a thought that did cross his mind while he planned this midnight raid. Maybe people will think it was that famous graffiti artist?—But the point was proven. For an admittedly wussy Mormon kid, this is pretty damn hardcore and looking around, it looked like he'd get away with it. Ryan put the cans back in his bag, and as he was about to walk away, he saw the flashlight coming.
Shit! Cops!
Ryan tried to carefully move away from the display. He wanted to throw the tarp back on the statue, but there isn't any time. Instead, trying to step as light as possible, he made his way back toward the fencing. With each click against the ground, he realized no one would ever confuse him for a ninja either. But it seemed to work. The flashlight disappeared. Now he had to make his way back—
THUMP!
A shoulder drove into his stomach, immediately knocking his one hundred-thirty-two pound frame to the ground. He couldn't breathe. All the wind zapped from his lungs.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" a voice screamed at him.
Ryan couldn't see who the voice belonged to, but figured was a cop. He couldn't tell because of the flashlight shining directly in his eyes.
"Who the fuck are you?" the voice asked a second question.
Ryan couldn't answer if he wanted. He couldn't breathe, let alone talk. The cop flipped him over and locked his wrists behind his back. Dammit. Now he was going to get arrested. This was a bad idea. Everything was ruined. The mission trip was gone. His dad was going to kill him. This was so bad.
"It's much worse than that, you little piece of shit!"