by J. D. Oliva
How did this guy know what he was thinking—
The last thing Ryan felt was something smash into the back of the head. A fist to the brainstem maybe? It didn't matter. The world around him went black.
XV
Mila Jansen walked into the Van Gogh gallery for the first time in over a week. First time since the incident. Her appointed psychiatrist suggested that maybe it was too soon to return, but Mila loved her job. She didn't like the commute or the people, but she loved being surrounded by Von Gogh. His life was pain and torment, but he created such earnest beauty. If he could move forward, then why couldn't Mila? At least that's how she justified it, ignoring the fact that Van Gogh shot himself in the chest.
When she got to the museum, things felt different. The building was quiet and emptier than usual, which made sense. Who wants to visit the scene of such violence so soon after? Who but her? But after a few hours, the silence started eating at her. Sweat built up over her upper lip, as her breath shortened.
Mila quietly excused herself to the lavatory and ran cold water over her face. Remembering an exercise the doctor gave her, Mila closed her eyes, placed her hand over her heart, and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting go. She repeated the process three more times, holding her breath a little longer each time until her heartbeat slowed back to normal. Mila looked in the mirror. Better. She wiped under her nose and left the lavatory. Maybe this whole thing is a mistake?
Heading back into the gallery, she was surprised to see a visitor. Another young woman, probably around her age, with long brunette hair, stood in front of a blank wall, staring at the spot that, up until a week ago, held The Potato Eaters. Mila watched for a minute to see if the young woman would move on to another piece of art or part of the museum. Maybe this visitor didn't know what is supposed to be on that wall and was only curious about the empty space. But the longer she stared at the empty wall, the more Mila was sure this woman knew what's missing. Mila should have walked away, but her job is to educate visitors and talk about Vincent's work, so that's what she would do.
"Kan ik jou helpen?" Mila asked the vistor.
The woman turned to Mila and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm sorry, I don't speak Dutch."
"My apologies," Mila said. "I asked if I could help you."
"Oh, um, where's this painting?" She asked, pointing to the empty wall.
"I'm sorry, but that work will not be displayed for a while."
The visitor nodded, "So, this was it? The Potato Eaters?"
Of course, she knew. Anyone visiting the museum for the next ten years would know.
"That particular lithograph is put away. For now."
"Is it okay? The painting? Was it damaged in the heist?"
Mila didn't want to answer these questions. She wanted to talk about art, not death. Part of her wanted to head back to the lavatory to cry and hide. But Mila promised herself she would stay out there and be brave. That didn't mean she had to answer questions, though. Mila tried to turn and walk away, but the American woman reached out and stopped her.
"I'm sorry. I can be a little much sometimes. Let me start over. I'm Dana," she said, reaching out her hand.
"Mila." They shook.
"I'm sorry for prodding, but I'm a reporter. I'm trying to do my job."
Mila understood trying to do a job.
"Are you her? The tour guide?"
Mila pursed her lips to the side. She didn't want to answer, but her face answered for her.
"I'm sorry," Dana said. "Can we talk? It might help you feel better."
Mila wrapped her arms across her chest. The last thing she wanted to do is talk any more about what happened last week. She was tired of telling strangers about seeing heads and hands explode.
"I'm doing a story on this for BuzzClip News. The more information we get into the open, the easier it's going to be to catch whoever's behind this. The guy with you was just a patsy. This is all part of something bigger. The way they treated you was horrible. I wanna help nail the bastards and see the look on their face when they realize they were brought down by a five-foot, four-inch woman."
Dana handed her a business card. It didn't have the BuzzClip News Media logo. Mila smiled and gave Dana one of her own. Maybe this is the first legit smile she had in over a week. The thought of being responsible for bringing them down was nice.
"Okay. Let's talk."
Dana nodded and took out her iPhone. A jpeg of The Potato Eaters waited. "Tell me about this painting."
Mila pointed to the painting on the phone, trying to imagine that the real work was still on display. The empty wall was a reminder of something missing. Looking at the picture made her feel a little more complete. Talking about art was what Mila loved more than anything.
"This is a study of The Potato Eaters. A dark look at the poor and downtrodden of Vincent's time. He considered it his greatest work."
"What's its street value?"
“Its what?” Mila gave the young American a dumbfounded glance. "I don't understand."
"Like in the black market, what would this painting get?"
"The work is literally priceless, but the art black market is more of fiction than reality. When this study was stolen in 1991, was taken,really want thanhad taken, the the thieves dumped it after they were unable to find a buyer."
"Wait, this painting's been stolen before?"
"This particular study has been stolen three times."
"Three times? If it's so priceless, why couldn't they find a buyer?"
"Because the only collectors who could possibly afford it would have nothing to do with such a thing. Why own a Van Gogh lithograph if you can't display it?"
"Excuse me, but I'm not an art person, You keep saying study and lithograph. What do those words mean exactly?"
"The version we currently have at the museum is called The Second Study of The Potato Eaters. It is a preliminary oil sketch to test composition and color. The full painting is in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam."
"Wait, what? Are you telling me this is a rough draft?"
"It's still a Van Gogh. It's still priceless."
Mila took the phone and Googled the exact image from the museum, not the complete painting that Dana had been looking at. It did look different from the one the thieves had taken. The one that had been on Dana's phone. It's uglier, less complete looking. It definitely had the feeling of a work in progress.
"So you're telling me that these guys walked in, tried to steal a half-done version of a famous painting that's already been stolen three times before? Something they'd never be able to sell?"
"Ja."
"That doesn't make sense," Dana said, turning back to the empty wall. "Unless they didn't want this painting in the first place."
"Come again?" Mila looked confused. "Why wouldn't a thief want this particular piece?"
“Something else was taken too, right?"
Mila nodded.
"So what better way to take attention from stealing what you really want, than by trying to steal something that you know you can't. Something with a reputation that would take a lot of the attention away to distract from the real job."
Mila hadn't considered this. Maybe the police had, but the thought certainly didn't cross her mind.
Dana looked back at her. "Tell me about the other painting."
XVI
Paolo Garces quickly moved through the customs check. The pimple-faced customs agent with greasy hair checked the red UK passport with the name Damon Helstrom and confirmed it with the face of the man with the pencil mustache. Garces nodded. Of course, this is Helstorm. The passport, one of six he owned, was worth the money. By this time tomorrow, he'd be sprawled out on a beach near Bangkok. Garces had been in this trade all his adult life, and he knew when to walk on a job. He should have passed on this one when the offer came in. The attraction of this job was stealing a piece of art that many considered unstealable. If he knew the truth, there wasn't a chance he would
entertain LeMay's offer.
Garces was free to move through the international terminal of the Salt Lake City Airport. It was a quiet airport, much different than O'Hare or Heathrow. An easier place to hide. Garces had twenty thousand American dollars in his carry-on, the only piece of luggage he owned. The job meant traveling light and be willing to abandon material possessions at a moment's glance. Part of being a thief is having a passive relationship with material possessions. They're fleeting and more can always be bought. Or stolen.
The British Airways flight from SLC to Heathrow with a connecting flight to Bangkok would board in thirty minutes. Plenty of time for a bottle of water and a stop in the loo. What he really wanted is a drink, but his wits were needed, at least until he buckled his seatbelt on the plane. Until that point, he needed to be prepared for anything. LeMay's people are crazy. No telling what they could do.
That's why he went to Jericho. Stories swirled of the mysterious man, more a fixer than a hitman. More investigator than an assassin. The man who specialized in solving problems that went far beyond the realm of reason. But it was for not. The trip to the States was a waste, but at least he unloaded the pages. They were no longer his problem. They were Jericho's, whether he wanted them or not.
Garces entered the lavatory and relieved himself. There is always something stressful about traveling, especially traveling to escape. Stress made him thirsty, and thirst filled the bladder. Garces zipped up and turned to the sink. Pushing the button on the faucet, he ran tepid water over his hands. Looking into the mirror, Garces saw one of the stall doors open. Out stepped a tall, dark-skinned man with a shaved head and white, hooded Moncler jacket. The word ZION tattooed across his face. Garces' eyes bulged at the sight of Erik Zion. The tall man towered over Garces.
"Mr. Zion," Garces said, still looking into the mirror, trying to keep his cool.
"Where are the pages?" Zion asked, with hands inside his pocket.
"What pages?"
Zion shook his head. "Don't play. LeMay wants what he paid for."
"I'm a just thief but even I've got a conscience."
That brought a laugh from Zion.
"You can't spend money after the end of the world," Garces added.
"You had no problem taking the money. That means you owe him the pages."
Garces turned around and ripped a handtowel from the dispenser. Drying his hands, he said, "I don't have them. They're gone."
Zion shook his head again.
"Would you like to know where they are?"
Zion pulled his hooked hunting knife from the pocket and slashed across Garces' throat. The Spaniard's body dropped to the floor. Not a drop of blood splattered across Zion's pristine white jacket. He was a pro. One of the best. He grabbed another handtowel and wiped the blade, putting it back inside his coat. Zion casually walked out of the bathroom, leaving the carcass of Paolo Garces to bleed out on the tile.
Zion's cellphone vibrated.
"He didn't have the pages."
"That means they're with the mystery man," said the voice on the other end.
"Prolly."
"The team will be waiting for you."
"Copy that."
XVII
Ryan Bliss awoke in a dark room. At least he thought. He couldn't see two feet in front of his face. His wrists burned from being cuffed together and locked behind his back. His ankles were strapped to the legs of a chair. Ryan tried standing up but couldn't. He was stuck.
"Hello?"
No answer. He shook the chair from left to right a few times, hoping the binding would break, but the thing wouldn't budge. This’s worse than he thought.
"I'm sorry. I confess to everything. It was just a stupid joke!"
Still, no one responded.
"Aren't I supposed to get a phone call or something?"
Nothing.
Ryan moved his head across the room, trying to find a glimpse of something, anything. But nothing came into his darkened view.
"Help!" Ryan screamed, trying to pull himself from the chair.
When his body barely moved, Ryan threw an absolute fit. He probably looked like a toddler who's been told he can't have any ice cream. He kicked and flailed, trying to tear his arms and legs from their binding. After a few minutes that felt like a few hours, Ryan still hadn't budged. Blood trickled out from his burning wrists. Inhaling deep, Ryan held his breath, hoping he could hear anyone inside with him, but the room stayed silent, save the slight sound of blood dripping to the floor. Though he may have imagined the last part.
Ryan went back and forth from flailing and fighting to quitting. This struggle seemed to last for hours. Eventually, he fell asleep from exhaustion. He awoke again, God knows after how long. A layer of scummy filth built on the roof of his dry mouth.
"Help!" he cried out again, and no one answered.
"Please, help," he whispered to himself as he teared.
Ryan sobbed, but the tears never streamed down. The dehydration already took hold.
CLICK CLACK
Ryan lifted his head to find a sound that almost reminded of him of paint cans clacking together. The air hummed and a bright light opened from nothingness and flooded his vision. A moment earlier, it was too dark to see anything, and now his eyes were blinded by the penetrating light.
"Ahh!"
"Relax there, son," a voice spoke.
"Who said that?"
"My name is Antonio LeMay. The chairman of the Church of the Golden Sun. You vandalized our property, young man."
Ryan never met this man, but heard his name and voice enough times around town the past month. He wanted to apologize for what he did, but decided to keep his mouth shut.
"Silence, huh?"
"I want my lawyer," Ryan said.
LeMay laughed at that one.
"What makes you think you get a lawyer?"
Ryan assumed a cop jumped on and cuffed him. Maybe it was this LeMay guy? It would explain the current situation.
"I—I thought I was under arrest," Ryan muttered.
"You still may be. My friend, Officer Kaid here, still may arrest you. But he decided to bring you to me first."
Why? Why would a cop do that? He was caught red—or in this case, yellow and purple—handed.
"Officer Kaid is a member. We have loyal members everywhere. People who've grown tired of the oppressiveness of organized religion," LeMay answered, making Ryan wonder if he could read his mind. "You don't want to be arrested, do you?"
That didn't make sense. Of course he didn't want to be arrested, but he certainly understood it was a possibility when he bought the paint and mask. At this point, he would much prefer a regular arrest to whatever was happening now.
"I'll make you a deal, Mr. Bliss."
"How—how do you know—?"
"Your wallet was in your pocket."
Idiot. If there was any doubt before, Ryan Bliss was the worst criminal ever.
"I'm guessing this is something you've never done before. This whole crime thing. Considering how bad you are at it."
Ryan's eyes were still tightly shut, but it didn't stop the intense light from trying to seep underneath those heavy lids.
"I'll cut you a break, son. I respect a man who has forethought and guts to make a stand. Even a rather cowardly one. I'm going to tell you the truth. Once you understand this truth, you can do two things."
LeMay stopped talking, leaving Ryan to wonder his options.
"What two things?" he asked.
"You'll know when I get there. Mr. Bliss, I'm guessing you're a good Mormon boy, right?" Ryan nodded. "Of course. What if I told everything you believed in is a lie?"
"That's it? I've heard that since junior high debate classes." Ryan laughed. Here he thought this LeMay might actually say something interesting.
"No, although that's true too. Your religious subset follows the teachings of a racist, pedophilic con man. No, that's not the truth I was going to give you. The truth is it's all fake. All of it. Th
e tree of Abraham is rotten at the root."
"I read your stuff, watched your interviews. You're some faithless atheist. You're not blowing any minds here," Ryan said defiantly. "Guys like you don't believe in anything."
"Impressive. I like that fire. A fire that burns wild and in control. Like the bush who spoke to Moses. You say I don't believe in anything. You're wrong. God and the saints and Jesus, that's all hokum. But I do believe...in him."
The way LeMay held when he said him, Ryan understood who he was talking about immediately, but still asked, "Him who?"
"You know who I mean."
"The monster under the tarp?"
LeMay laughed. "No, that's just a monument to the overactive imagination of an overrated writer. Mr. Bliss, does this really look like the world created by a being who so loved it he gave his only begotten Son? Think about it. Is this a good place? Are good people rewarded?"
"Our reward comes in the next life."
"Heaven? A place your Bible never mentions. This idea that good people die and are joined by their loved ones in the great beyond, where did that come from? It's a lie to comfort those with nothing else to believe in. Who told you that lie? Who tells all lies?"
The heat from the light was cooking the inside of Ryan's mouth even faster. The more LeMay talked in riddles, the more Ryan wanted everything to be over. He would tell him Lady Gaga was God if it got him out there.
"Who is the master of lies, Ryan?" LeMay shouted.
"Satan."
"The adversary? No. The Prince of Lies is God himself. What kind of a shallow creature supposedly creates all of existence and demands loyalty on the consequence of pain and torture? The creator is a vile creature who made this world and sold the idea of the heavens to distract his foolish sheep from the realization. We’re all living in the Hell of His creation."
Ryan shuddered as Lemay's hand ran against his cheek. These were the rantings of a mad man, and he wouldn't listen to any more of it. But what could he do? He couldn't close his ears.
"This is a world of evil. A world of pain. The true Church has one purpose, to end the pain. There is salvation, Ryan Bliss, and we know what it is. The rapture isn't coming. All we can do is pray for sweet oblivion."