by J. D. Oliva
The priest returned the shake.
"I'm Father Luke. And you are?" he asked, with his attention turned back to the man who he just forgave for an untold number of murders.
“I’m Mr. Ishikawa.”
Dana rolled her eyes.
”We need your help," she said.
"With what?"
“The story my friend here said is true. He was attacked the other night because of this," she pointed to the sling on his back. "We're hoping maybe you might help us understand, maybe why."
"I'm not sure how I could, but I can try."
Jericho pulled the portfolio off his back and placed it on top of one of the pews before unzipping. Father Luke was taken aback by the sight of the immense red-inked pages.
"Do you have any idea what this might be?"
"No," he said, leaning in closer to read the inscription. "In nomine patris tenebris, exaudi orationem meam. Whoa."
"What does that mean?" Jericho asked.
"In the name of the dark father, hear my prayer."
Dana and Jericho turned to each other. Neither expected to hear that.
"Dark father? You mean," Dana checked over her shadow to make sure they were alone. "You mean the Devil?" She whispered like it's some secret word that should never be uttered.
Father Luke kept reading silently. He ran his hands across the pages themselves, feeling the material.
"This is vellum. It's made of lambskin. In the middle ages, this was what was used for books instead of paper. A single monk would work for years to transcribe these. They were expensive, and mistakes were costly."
Dana nodded. "Monks? That makes sense—"
Jericho put his hand on her shoulder. This priest knew too much. For his own safety, he didn't need any more information.
The priest pulled the folio out of the case and counted the number of pages.
"I don't believe it. This is from the Codex Gigas."
"The what?" They both spoke in unison.
Father Luke looked up with cold steel in his eyes.
"The Devil's Bible."
XXIX
"You might have some luck in Chicago."
That's all Zion needed to hear. The call to his mentor, Daniel Price, went better than expected. He had a name, Jericho, and a city, Chicago. Zion was resourceful enough to put the rest together. Now he needed to focus and rest.
He spent three days laid up in a SLC Hampton Inn. His vision improved, but there's still sunspots, or floaters, in his eyes. These dark spots trailed across his line of sight, which is a problem for a professional like Zion. But it was only a problem if he let people know it's a problem. Zion at eighty percent is better than ninety-nine percent of the competition, and the last one was about to be dealt with.
As he packed his bags, the sunglass-clad assassin made a call.
"Mr. Zion, how're we feeling?" LeMay asked.
"Much better. I'm catching a flight to Chicago."
"Why?"
"That's where this sod's at."
"Really? Are you sure?"
A reasonable question from an employer. The answer is no, but Zion didn't have anything else to go on. Even the name Jericho is just a cover or a street name. But he had nothing else.
"Yep."
"Good. I know this has become something personal for you, Mr. Zion. Please don't forget the entire mission. We need those pages. Everything revolves around them."
"Of course. I'm a professional. This is my job."
"Are you a believer, Zion?"
Of your wacked out religion? Of course not. The mission with the Church of the Golden Sun had only been in operation for a few months, but in that time, Zion saw enough. As soon as those pages were in LeMay's hands, he was gone. The group had some strange practices and beliefs. They did things that made a trained killer uncomfortable. But their money was clean. That's all he needed.
"I believe in what I'm paid to believe."
"That's what disturbs me. If you put your faith in what we're trying to achieve, things would be much easier. The only false god is Mammon."
"I understand, sir."
That's a lie. Zion had no idea what a Mammon was or anything like that. What Zion actually believed didn't matter. The client believed, and as long as they were willing to pay and reimburse his travel expenses, that's all that mattered.
"Good. Let he who walks be the first. Let he who prays be the chosen," LeMay said, trying to make a point that went nowhere with Zion.
"Absolutely."
Zion hung up the call and closed the door of the Hampton hotel room. He had a flight to catch.
XXX
"The what?" Jericho needed clarification.
"The Codex Gigas. Which literally means big book," Father Luke said. "The stories say it was created by Herman the Recluse, a young monk who broke his monastic vows. They were going to wall him alive like in Cask of Amontillado. That's this Edgar Allen Poe story."
"I'm familiar with Poe," Dana said.
"Sorry, like I was saying, they were going to wall him alive unless he could draft a copy of the Bible by himself. In one night."
"Is that hard?" Jericho asked.
"By hand? Today it'd be impossible, in the thirteenth century," the priest shook his head. "But supposedly, he finished the job."
"How?" Dana wondered.
"Legend says he sold his soul to Satan and in thanks, he engraved a picture of the dark prince in the center of the book."
Jericho chuckled. "Cute story."
"It's not entirely a story." Father Luke pulled his own phone out. Even the clergy is armed with Steve Jobs-designed answer boxes.
After a few clicks, Father Luke showed them his screen. A crude drawing of a demon with red horns and a green face glowed in the center screen. It didn't look the least bit scary, but Jericho had to admit, the idea of a picture of the Devil embedded in a Bible is strange.
"So, that's why they call it the Devil's Bible?" Jericho said, taking a closer look.
"A little. The believers say this was Herman's way of glorifying the demon who saved his life. Modern historians think it's more of a comment on the duality of man, especially in the face of religion. They say the creature's two forked tongues represents mankind's deceptive nature."
Jericho got that all too well.
Dana grabbed the phone and started flipping through the rest of the pictures on the Google search. She stopped on a clearer picture of the rest of the Codex itself. An immense book with a wooden cover and brass hinges.
"This thing is real?" She asked.
"Absolutely. The Codex is currently on display in the Czech National Library." The priest took his phone back and continued to flip through the digital pages, showing them different views of the book and its pages which looked identical to the ones Paolo Garces left in Jericho's home.
"Not only is the Codex both the Old and New Testaments, but also has copies of the Roman scribe Josephus's Antiquities of the Jews and De Bello Iudaico, St. Isidore of Seville's Etymologiae, The Chronicle of Cosmas of Prague, and a version of the Ars Medicinae, and two books written by Constantine the African."
"Ol' Herman did the whole thing in one night?" There's more than a hint of doubt in Jericho's voice.
"According to legend, the Codex is cursed."
"Of course, it is."
Aren't they always?
"At the end of the Thirty Years War, the Swedish Army took the Codex back to Stockholm. Fire caught in the library, and it was saved when a soldier threw the immense book out the window."
Dana laughed at the thought.
"It's not funny. The book is so large it hurt the servant who tried to catch the thing. When it hit the ground, the binding came loose, and a handful of pages fell out. They've been missing ever since. Again, according to legend."
"Until today," Jericho said, looking back to the sheets of the vellum.
"So, Father, what exactly are these pages here, and why do we have them?"
"I can't say for c
ertain these are from the Codex, but what you have in front of me is part of the apocryphal history of the Codex."
"English, Padre."
"Rumor and innuendo have surrounded the content of the missing pages. One particular story says the missing pages are part of the prayer Herman used to summon the Devil. That's pretty much what I just read."
Confused, Dana looked to her new partner.
"So, that's what all this is about? A thank you prayer?"
"No. That's not what I read. The words I read were a prayer, but not a prayer of thanks." Father Luke pointed down at the folio. "This is a prayer to Satan to bring about the end of the world."
"Come on!" Jericho laughed.
"That's what the words say. I did hear a story where that fire was just a cover story used to separate the prayer from the Codex. The Devil's Prayer, if you will, was then hidden."
"Hidden inside of a picture frame behind the painting of regretful monk," Dana said.
"How do you know this shit? Something they teach y'all in seminary?"
"No. I saw a History Channel documentary."
Jericho rolled his eyes. "I have a hard time believing this is a secret prayer that can end the world."
"Why is that, sir?"
"Ain't no money in the apocalypse. Dana, this whole thing started with a museum heist. The time and money it takes to pull something like that off, gotta be some kinda payoff."
"Salvation can be the payoff," Father Luke said.
Neither Dana or Jericho understood.
"Catholicism is different, but there are many Christian sects who believe when the end of days begins, all God's chosen survivors will be whisked away to spend eternity in Heaven while the rest of the Earth suffers under the Devil's reign. The payoff could be salvation."
"That's the craziest shit I ever heard."
"Tell me this whole thing isn't insane," Dana said.
"I just ain't prepared for the Devil and doomsday bullshit," Jericho said.
"Doomsday cults...," Dana trailed off. "I think I know someone who can help."
"Where you going now?" Jericho asked.
"I think this one I should do alone."
"Fine by me."
"What about the pages?" Father Luke pointed to blood-inked vellum.
"Wouldn't the smart thing be to destroy them?" Jericho shrugged. "I mean, I'mma play along for a second. If that's the key to ending existence, shouldn't we destroy it?"
"No, no, no!" Luke shot up and, in concern, put his hands on Jericho before realizing his mistake. "I'd like to help you two out here. What you've stumbled onto is either the greatest archeological find of this century or something more metaphysical. Or a hoax. I'm not sure which."
"What can you do?" Jericho shot Father Luke a look that should have cut the small priest to his core.
"I can translate the rest of the prayer."
Jericho wanted to say no and keep this Devil's Prayer himself. But why should he? Wouldn't it be safer here with a priest who understood it? Plus, whatever pros attacked him would have no idea about this Father Luke. If Dana wanted to be off on her own chasing this story and the priest wanted to keep the book, then isn't this Jericho's opportunity to walk away? This is his chance to stay out of the game and go back to his nice, boring life.
"Sounds good to me."
XXXI
Outside of Holy Name Cathedral, Jericho and Dana tried to figure out what they'd fallen into.
"Do you have any idea what happened back there?" She asked.
"Not even a little," Jericho smiled with a sigh of relief. "What're you gonna do?"
"Julia Summerville runs a church in the west suburbs. She's written a bunch of stuff on doomsday cults and things like that. She might be able to help. What're you gonna do?"
"Me? Nothin'."
"What do you mean, nothing? We're just getting started with this. You found something.”
"Found? I'm not in the game anymore. This ain't a job, and I don't need any of it. The kid in there's got his little Devil's pages. I'm out."
"Don't you think that's dangerous?"
"Nope. How long you think those pages were hidden in some painting? Hundreds of years maybe? Now they'll be hidden in there. If the kid's smart, he'll burn 'em."
Dana was utterly shocked that this is the same person she met last Christmas. "So what're you going to do?"
"I'm going home. Shoot me an email when your little story's finished. Can't wait to read how it ends."
Jericho jumped inside the F-150 and pulled away from the parking deck, leaving Dana by herself.
He told her that he wanted to go home. That's true, but Jericho couldn't go back to Provo. If this would-be enemy's smart, they destroyed the compound. They are smart, so that meant his house was gone. All his stuff gone with it.
But it is only stuff. Nothing particularly personal, which was the point. He couldn't afford to have any ties to anyone or anything, even in his home. That's what gave him the freedom to up, leave, and never come back. He didn't have a lot of special memories or anything in that place. Just an overly expensive place to lay his head at night. The only really crappy part is, he couldn't collect on insurance money. Another occupational hazard.
Provo never felt like home, but without it, where else could he go?
Almost instinctively, Jericho merged on Lake Shore Drive and headed toward the South Side where he was born and where he sent the first eighteen years of his life. Trips back home weren’t a thing. A lot of familiar places didn’t look so familiar anymore. Like the building on his left that looked like a UFO landed in the middle of Soldier Field. Another reminder that the city moved on, and so should he. This place isn't home anymore, either. Maybe no place is, but at least she still had good tacos.
Pilsen is a neighborhood on the city's lower west side. The community is south of the Italian Village and north of Bridgeport. Pilsen was a Czech neighborhood back in the day, but had become home to the city's second-largest Mexican community. It also offers some of Chicago's finest taquerias. There is one place in particular that he always loved at the corner of Cermak and Morgan. The name always escaped him, but he remembered how they bragged about having the city's best lingua tacos. The first time he tried beef tongue was on a dare, but was surprised to find how good the meat tasted. Lingua tacos became a bit of thing for him, trying them in Mexican restaurants in any city he visited—when he had the freedom to eat at restaurants. None were as good as the ones from Pilsen.
As he took the exit off Lakeshore Drive and turned west down Cermak, Jericho looked around and felt lost. Neighborhoods change, and it isn't crazy to find new buildings and businesses in places they didn't use to be, but something about this neighborhood is different. It seems nice and clean. Almost too clean. The new Pilsen looked like a safe place to visit. The kind of area where a yuppie could spend way too much on a condo. But it's all so sterile and corporate. The culture and mojo are starting to evaporate.
"Gentrification."
As a kid who grew up in rough and tumble Roseland and moved to white-bread Provo, he never understood why people acted like it's some kind of dirty word. Looking at the Starbucks at the corner of Morgan and Cermak that clearly did not boast the best lingua tacos in town, things started to click. No one would ever accuse Ethan Jericho of being a man of sentiment, but something is off about everything.
Jericho went with the flow and ordered a trenta cold brew and a sausage and cheddar muffin. It's not a lingua taco, but would help subside the hunger while he cleared his mind and tried to figure out what the hell to do next.
The problem is, he knew exactly what to do next, even if he didn't want to admit it. He needed to go home. He needed to go back to Roseland.
XXXII
Dana watched the green Ford F-150 pull away. Something about him was different than last time. The bravado was definitely still intact, but something was missing. He didn't seem like the kind of guy ready to shoot a werewolf with silver bullets.
Of co
urse, that guy was batted around the Shane kitchen like a racquetball. He might be acting like he wants nothing to do with this whole thing, but he wouldn't be that lucky. She isn't going to let him.
In the meantime, some leads needed following up. Dana made Uber arrangements and then a phone call. After four rings, a voicemail picked up.
"This is Julia Summerville. Please leave a message and have a blessed day."
BEEEEP
"Hi, Reverend Summerville, my name is Dana O'Brien. We met about a week ago at the book store in O'Hare. Well, I finished your book, and it turns out I need to speak with an expert in the apocalypse. I think I have something you might be interested in. This is my cell number. Call me back at your convenience."
The Uber wouldn't arrive for another ten minutes. She needed to get back to her apartment in Lincoln Park and regroup. A call to her editor at BuzzClip might be a good idea, but she needed a little more. Fortunately, she had a solid bargaining chip. The Voice Memo app got used on Dana's phone quite a bit. Opening the app, she saw a tab labeled Mila Jensen- Van Gogh Museum and clicked.
"Tell me about this painting," Dana heard herself.
Maybe recording your conversations, both on and off the record, isn't the most ethical thing to do, but it certainly helped keep stories straight.
"The artist was a Czech painter named Ivo Prochazka. Not much else is known. They think the work was completed in 1897. The work was donated to the museum after the War," the voice of Mila Jensen, the pretty, blonde museum tour guide said.
Dana paused and ran the name Ivo Prochazka through Google. He did seem to be the painter of The Monk, but other than that no biographical information exists, at least on any mainstream sights. Maybe it's just a pen name for another, possibly more well-renown artist? Considering what was behind the frame, hiding an identity made sense. A quick trip to the Art Institute of Chicago might be a good idea. Maybe after firing off an email.
Hi, Mila
This is Dana O’Brien, the reporter from BuzzClip that talked to you last week. I’m back home in Chicago and found out some interesting things about the robbery. I think you might be interested in this. Is there a way we can talk?