by J. D. Oliva
"Thank you, officers," LeMay said in his most earnest voice.
They didn't respond. LeMay knew these were local guys, probably all Mormons. They're just trying to do their jobs and get this press conference over. Then they'd be finished with LeMay and his Church. Hopefully, they would move on to a new city. It looked like Chicago this time.
The escort, with LeMay in the center, approached a lectern and the well-cloaked statue. Half the crowd erupted in a melodic anthem of boos. The other half cheered LeMay like a conquering hero. The police just wanted it all to be finished.
The press had their positions staked out before the lectern. LeMay spotted the major news affiliates, who'd hopefully carry the press conference to their cities. CNN, FoxNews, MSNBC, even Al Jazeera's American network were all in the scrum. This isn't a remarkable story. Not even close. It was a little side piece. A did you know. That's how Golden Sun won followers in this era. Not by making news, but by speaking rationally and letting these religious, right-wing wackos go crazy. They win support by playing the straight man in a bad comedy. This little exhibition is no different.
LeMay approached the podium as the crowd continued its shouting stalemate.
"I would like to thank all of you for coming out this morning in support of the work of one of my heroes, the great H.P. Lovecraft."
The right side of the crowd screamed a boo so loud it drown out LeMay's next two sentences. It was amazing this horde could be manipulated to boo an overrated horror writer like he was Jim Jones. LeMay wanted to laugh, but held back. He took hold of the drop-cloth and pulled with all of his strength, revealing the statue of the fictional elder god, Cthulhu. The boo birds were swallowed up by cheers for a cheap piece of plaster that would be vandalized and destroyed in a week. A blog post LeMay wrote about its eventual destruction would win a few hundred more sympathetic followers to the cause. Best to be prepared for inevitability. LeMay lived his life by that phrase.
LeMay turned back to the crowd and shouted, "Behold the great Cthulhu!"
An egg exploded against his forehead. A tomato followed and hit him in the chest. That one actually hurt. A sea of junk and debris rained down upon LeMay and his cheaply made, but surprisingly photogenic, creation. It was beautiful.
"Knock it off!" The cries from the other side came.
"Burn in Hell, demon-worshippers!"
"Shut the fuck up, you bigots!"
LeMay didn't know who threw the first punch. It really didn't matter. When the direction of the debris shifted from the makeshift stage to the other side of the audience, the crowd rushed at itself. A collision of well-meaning people swept in by a fury of good intentions mutated to cyclical violence. A gaggle of men, angry about things they couldn't remember, punched and kicked each other. In the mayhem, who knew who was on what side. It was an army of angry white men who wanted to kill anything that looked like them.
When the police dispatched their own brand of violent crowd control, LeMay got pulled off the stage. As his personal security team dragged him back to the safety of the Town Car, he tried to look back and embrace the chaos. The gore and brutality were glorious.
The police threw LeMay into the backseat, and his driver tore off. The fun was finally over. He had a flight to catch.
LeMay went to call his wife and tell her about the fantastic, unexpected burst of violence in the heart of Mormon country. As he looked down to his phone, he saw a text message from her. He'd almost forgot about her issues with Zion. It'd be easy to write off her concerns since she took care of the scholarly matters. He's the one directing the boots on the ground, and there was nothing he'd seen from Zion to lead him to believe—
"Mr. Jericho!"
LeMay heard Zion's voice from behind a video of a priest being tortured.
"Well, this complicates things."
LIV
"We got a John Doe here!"
Jericho slipped in and out of consciousness. He couldn't remember what happened after being strapped to the gurney. When he closed his eyes, all he could see is Miss Crissy silently screaming at him. The sounds were muffled. He did hear someone calling him the John Doe. After that, everything got quiet. Now he had plenty of time to focus on the pain in his stomach and the pain in his shoulder. His mind did nothing else but focus on pain.
After opening his eyes, Jericho found himself in a hospital bed. Probably the Roseland Community Hospital on 111th Street. He winced at the light, unable to find his glasses. The pain in his gut surged again as he tried to rise. Rubbing his back against the mattress, he felt the stitches running down his shoulder. Jerking like that made his wounds burn. Jericho pulled up the hospital gown and found twelve stitches running down his side. This was good. Could've been a lot worse.
"Hey, E, how you feeling?"
Ike stood in the entryway, holding a cup of coffee. Usually, Jericho was a cold brew guy, but it smelled so good he wanted to jump out of bed and start guzzling.
"I got stabbed and left for dead inside of a burning building. I been better."
"Yeah, I bet you have," Ike smiled, relieved he saved the kid from the old neighborhood.
"Well, now that Mr. John Doe here is awake, maybe we can ask a few questions?"
An Indian man with a white coat walked into the room. He had a mustache that came straight out of the 1970s and shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. For a doctor who supposedly took the Hippocratic Oath to promise to do no harm to a patient, he didn't look overly happy to find Jericho still alive. Whether it was poor bedside manner or something a little deeper, he wasn't sure.
"No prob, Doc."
"I'm Dr. Malhotra, and you're fortunate to be alive. You were stabbed in the stomach and stabbed in the shoulder. Fortunately, the stomach entry didn't do any damage and somehow missed any of the vital organs. You're just going to be in a lot of pain."
"Lucky me."
"Very much. Your uncle here saved your life," the doctor pointed to Ike. "I think we did pretty well with your wounds, but there is the matter of taking care of the insurance," Malhotra said with a raised eyebrow that suggested Jericho didn't have any.
Ike looked over to Jericho, not knowing what to say.
"Even if I don't, y'all still gotta treat me, right? This is an emergency room, and this is kinda like an emergency."
The doctor puckered his face. Jericho was right, that was the law. Even if he didn't like it and thought Jericho was another one of those freeloaders.
Jericho shrugged and said, "It's all good. If you look in my pants, you'll see my wallet.
The nurse, a short woman with curly brown hair and thick glasses, pulled the wallet out and found a driver's license address to a Mr. James E. Smith of Provo, Utah. She showed the license to D. Malhotra.
"Very good, Mr. Smith. I assume your insurance card is in there, too?"
"Check."
The nurse found a BlueCross/BlueShield insurance card. One step ahead as always, Jericho smiled. Cherry Vale had a great insurance plan. Jericho was an absentee owner, but taking care of his employees' well being is something he took seriously. He was also smart enough to hire Mr. Smith as a full-time consultant.
"Doc, you mind givin' my uncle and me here a chance to talk?"
The two medical professionals seemed a little suspect, but obliged. As soon as Jericho saw that they were alone, he turned back to Ike.
"You should've left me in there."
"Shut your mouth. You expect me to leave you in there to burn and die?"
"You should've. That was my time. I did the right thing. I tried to fight the good fight and lost. I should be dead."
"I know you're beat down, but quit feeling sorry for yourself. Your sister's place had insurance. It'll be up and running again in no time. Don't beat yourself up about that."
"Doesn't change the fact that I lost and would be better off—
"Shut your mouth. You supposed to be this badass son of a bitch, but right now you acting like a whiny little bitch."
Jericho finally let out
a laugh and tried to ignore the pain in his stomach. "Yeah, you got me there."
"Yeah, I do," Ike said, taking a seat next to Jericho's bed.
"So, what's your plan now?"
"My plan? I got stabbed twice. My plan is to stay here and rest."
"That's a good plan, but I think we gotta have a little conversation first," said a voice so thick with the South Side twang that the T's all sounded like D's.
Jericho looked back to the door and found a man standing in the entryway. He was a heavyset man with a big gut who might weigh north of two-sixty, but stood only around 5'8". With his bald head, thick mustache and badge hanging around his neck, he was the most stereotypical Chicago cop he'd ever seen.
"Detective Swirsky. I got a few questions."
"Go ahead, man. I ain't goin' nowhere."
"What do you say your name was, sir?"
"James E. Smith of Provo, Utah."
"And what exactly is a gentleman from Provo, Utah doing in Roseland at a quarter to 12:00 on a Wednesday night?"
"That's simple. He was visiting me," Ike said.
"And who might you be, sir?"
"I'm the boy's uncle. Ike Reed. I own the pawnshop on 109th and Michigan."
"That so, Mr. Smith?" Detective Swirsky asked in that I don't believe any of you cop tone.
"That's right."
"And what led you into that fiery building?"
"I had dinner with my uncle at Tommy's Chop Suey. So we were walking home, and I saw a man breaking and entering the place. I thought there might be kids inside. So I tried to stop him.
"Didn't work out too well, did it?"
The cop clearly thought this was a lie. He probably thought Jericho had to be some kind of drug dealer or ruthless thug. Jericho wanted to get angry, but remembered the truth is actually much worse. If anything, he should feel insulted that this cop thought he was so small time.
"Nope."
"So let me get this straight. You just happen to be at the wrong place at the worst possible time?"
"Just my luck, I guess."
Swirsky didn't believe him, but at the same time, Ike was well-respected in Roseland. Plus he doubted Miss Crissy would say anything to fight the story. She wanted Jericho out of her life more than anyone. All he had to do was play cool and stick to the story. The same way he did with the insurance.
"It all seems a little coincidental that this guy who doesn't belong around here just happens to have an uncle, who just happens to have a pawnshop in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city, also just so happens to show up when this place goes up in flames. The whole thing smells a little rotten, if you don't mind my language."
"Man, Swirsk, leave the guy alone. He's been through enough."
A new voice came from the entryway. Jericho, Swirsky, and Ike turned to find an African-American detective with a long, jagged scar down his face.
Swirsky rolled his eyes. This was the last person he wanted to see.
"Detective Watkins, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
LV
Dana woke up in a strange bed without her cat, Curtis, beside her. It didn't feel right. The cat was always beside her. Except for the night before when the damn traitor cuddled up with Jericho, of all people. She looked around the nicely decorated room—it wasn't her style, but it was nice, if not a little old ladyish—and wondered where she was before remembering Julia Summerville and the Willowbrook Church. Dana sat up and pulled at the blue flower-pattern comforter she slept under. Even for her, this whole thing got weird. But she's alive, which is better than poor Father Luke.
Dana could've picked any Catholic Church in the city to take those pages, but she chose the biggest, most well-known one in town. Great thinking. An innocent man is dead because of her choice. The guilt was going to be hard to live with, but it did give her some extra motivation to help her new friends at Willowbrook get those pages.
She stood and took another look at the room, or what might be her room for the foreseeable future. This is fine, she reminded herself. Probably for the best. It's not like she's a prisoner or anything. She picked up her phone, which was next to a framed photograph of a little, dark haired girl with bright blue eyes. It looked like a school picture from the 90s. A red notification glowed in the phone. An email from Inspector Meijer. Before going to bed, she sent the Dutch investigator an update on the situation, including the murder of Father Luke and the apparent theft of the portfolio containing the secret pages. Not that any of the local news media had any idea what the Devil's Prayer was, let alone was stolen during that murder. They were going to be busy trying to figure out the identities of the killer and this mysterious Mr. Jericho. She left out the part about Julia Summerville and the Willowbrook Church. Again, Meijer only needed to know the basics, and best to keep quiet if she's really in hiding.
KNOCK KNOCK
"Hello, Ms. O'Brien."
Dana turned and found Michael. His hair was still perfect, and so were his perfectly pressed khaki pants and official Willowbrook Church polo. This one was blue, but other than that it looked the same as the one he had on yesterday. The same polo as all the people who worked for Willowbrook wore yesterday. The same logo with the cross, willow tree, and yellow circle. The same logo on the shirt and shorts she wore to bed.
"Reverend Julia wanted me to check on you. I hope you don't mind."
"No, not at all," Dana said, rubbing her eyes.
"That's good. She's in the other room."
"Huh?"
Michael led Dana into the apartment's kitchen dinette where Julia was sitting with two mugs waiting in front of her. The cups had the little willow tree design. Gotta brand everything. Kind of like Disneyland.
"Hello, dear. I hope you don't mind, but I made you some coffee."
"Not at all."
Dana sat down across from Julia and took a sniff. The coffee smelled fantastic. She drank a slow sip and waited for the caffeinated charge to spike through her veins. The day was early, but she had a good idea the extra caffeine would be needed.
"Thank you," Dana said.
Looking back toward Julia, now flanked by Michael at her side, Dana couldn't read the look on the Reverend's face. Reading people was an essential skill in her business, one that usually came pretty easy. Something about whatever was on Julia's face puzzled her. If the whole religious scholar thing didn't work out, maybe they should take the good Reverend to Vegas. If she could figure out how to play poker, that glare could make them millions.
"We have a problem," Julia said.
No shit.
"I'm fully aware.” Dana took another sip.
Of course they had a problem, but what she specifically meant, Dana didn't know. Not that she was going to admit it. She had a poker face of her own.
"We made some calls this morning and apparently, this man who killed the priest—"
"Father Luke."
"Yes, Father Luke. He seems to be some kind of a professional killer hired by Golden Sun to retrieve the Prayer."
"That is a problem." Dana already figured this out last night.
"Yes, it is. We have quite an impressive security team here at Willowbrook, but they aren't equipped to handle something like this. To say we would be outgunned is an understatement."
Dana took another sip of the coffee. She didn't like the direction this was headed. But what other choice did they have?
"Well, there is one option."
The poker face broke, replaced by slight confusion. Julia looked back to Michael, who had no idea where Dana was going. Dana took another long sip and carefully chose her next words.
"There's a guy. We met about a year ago. He's in a...let's say similar business."
"Dana O'Brien, how does a nice girl like you have underworld contacts?" Julia finally cracked a smile.
She cleared her throat. "That's confidential."
"Can your friend handle a situation like this? I hate to say this, but I imagine we need something like a mob enforcer."
"Two things. One, this guy is not my friend. Two, yes he can, but it's not gonna be cheap."
Julia didn't say anything. Again, she looked back to Michael, who had nothing to contribute. Seems to be a trend.
"I guess we have no other options."
"No, we do not."
Dana took another drink while Julia sat there, watching. Did she want Dana to call him now? The poker face certainly made her think that.
"I can't call him in front of you guys. It's a reporter thing. I can't expose sources. Legalities and stuff."
Julia didn't like hearing this. She tried to mask her frustration, but failed. Maybe the Vegas thing wasn't a good idea after all.
"Fine. After you call this man, I want Michael to take you back to your apartment. Gather your things and your little cat and come back here. We'll figure out what to do once you make...arrangements with your associate."
"Yes, ma'am," Dana said in a tone that surprised her.
Julia's hand again covered Dana's. That warm smile was back, and Dana couldn't help but return it.
"Thank you so much for everything you've done. I need you to understand what getting these pages back means."
Dana knew exactly what it meant.
"We're saving the world," she added.
Julia chuckled and patted Dana's hands. Michael helped the Reverend back to her feet and followed behind as the two of them left Dana alone in the apartment. Once she was sure they were gone, Dana sprinted back into the bedroom and grabbed the jeans slung over the footboard.
Dana abandoned the idea of a purse when she got into the guerrilla journalist thing. Even before, she always carried her wallet in her pants pocket. Dad always said if she was in trouble or being mugged to throw the purse in one direction and run in the other. Thieves wanted money and would chase after the purse, not you. Of course, now she didn't have a purse. She carried cash on her at all times, something that made her different from most millennials. Cash stayed in the opposite pocket as the wallet for the same reason. Toss the wallet and run the other way. You can cancel credit cards, but cash is always king.