by J. D. Oliva
"He'll be back," Ike said.
"Take care of that guy."
"It's what we do around these parts. You take care of the neighborhood. These clowns downtown, they think the only way to fix a neighborhood is to blow it up, build some condos, put up a Whole Foods, couple Starbucks. Like that fixes things. Just pushes the people out."
"So, what's the answer then?" Jericho asked.
"Fuck if I know. Love thy neighbor. Start there."
Jericho wished that could solve his problems. But he's going to need something a little stronger.
"So, what you want?
"Tools of the trade. I need a computer."
"I got a couple them Chromebooks."
It's not his old, suped up ToughBook, but all he needed is access to Google. If he had that, he was dangerous.
"Works for me. What about other kinds of tools?"
Ike shifted his eyes across the shop. He needed to make sure he trusted the ears around them. A young woman looking at some jewelry and an old lady flipping through old vinyl records are the only patrons. But they were cool.
"I told you, I can't carry anything like that, and you lost my .45."
That's true. Jericho forgot about leaving the Governor inside the RainyDay Center. Crissy probably found it. Hopefully she kept it, just in case. But knowing Crissy, she tossed it away with the rest of the trash.
"Can you at least point me in the right direction? I don't wanna do business with the type of guys that sell out of a trunk."
Ike thought for a second, before his eyes lit up. The expression was so over the top if they were inside a cartoon, a giant light bulb would have magically appeared over his head.
"I got something you might be interested in. Follow me. Hey, Gus, the shop's yours for a minute!" Ike shouted to his younger, fatter, balder partner standing across the glass counter.
Heading into the back room, Ike took them down a set of rickety stairs leading into a dimly lit basement. Jericho traveled the world as an assassin, but something about a dark, stone basement always creeped him out. Might have been The Silence of the Lambs vibe. Jericho wasn't much of a reader, but there was a book about the murder house made by some cat named Holmes from way back in the day. He was a Chicago guy, too. That guy would've been all about this basement.
"The city and county really come down on you for selling weapons, but this is something I couldn't part with," Ike said, reaching into a box.
He came up with a holstered katana sword. The scabbard was old, beat up and covered in dust. Jericho didn't seem interested until Ike drew the blade from the casing.
"Where'd you get this little gem?"
"I've had this for about twenty-five years. I can’t sell it. Besides, she's too pretty to get rid of."
The metal made the unmistakable shhhhhrink sound that always gave him the chills when unveiled. Ike passed over the black handle, and the katana instantly felt right in Jericho's hand. Like finding a part of yourself you had no idea was missing. Like everything else around here, it felt like home.
"Look at you," he spoke to the sword like it could hear him.
Jericho wrapped both hands around the handle and slowly moved the blade across the air. In a fierce explosion of fury, he swung the sword like he was battling some phantom army, slashing and cutting into their demon spirits. Sure it hurt like a bitch, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like a warrior. It's not a silver-plated Desert Eagle, but this would do the job.
"Yamamoto-san."
"Huh?" Ike had no idea what that meant.
"This samurai master, he wrote a book called the Hagakure. He says, if you keep your sword drawn no one will dare approach you and you will have no allies. But if you never draw it, it will dull and rust, and people will assume that you are feeble. This is perfect."
"It's yours."
"How much?"
"I told you I can't sell the thing. Maybe you got no problem breaking the law, but I'm a legitimate businessman," Ike said, "Happy birthday."
LXV
The Monsignor couldn't sleep. He tried to tell himself it was his bladder, which had to be the size of a piece of gum the way it always needed to be drained. But that wasn't it. He couldn't take his mind off Father Luke. He did what he had to do, but never expected things to get so gruesome so quickly.
A few years earlier, the Monsignor got himself into trouble. He was involved in a few youthful indiscretions that happened when he was younger. A man called LeMay offered to help make them go away. All it cost him was some allegiance. What does allegiance really mean and what were the odds LeMay would ever call in that favor? All LeMay ever wanted was information. Any little kernel of something out of the ordinary, any strange twist or bizarre happening that might interest his Church. That's all the call was—hey, there's something that you might be interested in, how would you like me to handle it?
He never in a million years thought LeMay would send some vicious maniac to kill the boy. LeMay is a troublemaker, not a murderer. But he did it. He killed Father Luke. Maybe not with his own hand, but it was his words that made it happen.
Whose words started it? Whose words were responsible for the boy's death?
The Monsignor put the pillow over his ears trying to shut the voice up, but one can't silence a voice coming from inside.
That boy's death is on your head.
It was an accident.
What part was the accident? The part where you called LeMay or the part where you gave him the boy's address?
Stop it.
You knew what the boy was reading. He was right, too. It did belong with the Cardinal. It should be in the secret files in Rome. Now it's gone. That's your fault. You're a killer and traitor.
"I said, stop!"
The Monsignor shot up in his bed. The sheets stuck to his damp skin. His old, saggy man-boobs heaved as he tried to catch his breath. Something inside him was burning, screaming to escape. He had to piss. Pealing the soaked linens off his legs, the Monsignor made his way to the bathroom.
Even at this time of night, he didn't bother turning the light on. He didn't like looking at the man in the reflection on regular days, let alone nights like these. More than his pasty white flesh and doughy belly that disgusted him. He lifted out his thin, limp member and pushed. Not that he didn't have to go, it's just so difficult these days. Even without the guilt. Eventually, something trickled out into the bowl.
He felt better until his stomach quivered and gag reflex trembled. He dropped to his knees and blew out remains of the split pea soup one of the parishioners brought over for dinner. The ham was salty going down. Coming back, it burned his nose. He struggled to catch his breath, trying not to smell the noxious mixture of old peas, rotted ham, stomach bile, and urine. His arms were shaking, struggling to keep his weight up after the full-body heave. He needed a minute before—
AHHHH!
Something grabbed the back of his head and drove his face into the bowl. The poisonous retch pushed its way back up his nose and down his throat. The Monsignor tried to pull himself back up, but the harder he struggled, the more force pushed him back down. Choking on vomit and piss, a punishment fitting Dante. The grip pulled back, ripping his face free from the mire.
Gasping for air, the old priest heard a voice, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
The hand belonged to a black man wearing sunglasses. The room was still too dark to make out any features, but he thought he saw long hair hanging off the man's shoulder. Dreadlocks. Like Luke said.
"Help!"
Jericho released his grip and slapped the old man across the face with enough force to buckle his knees. His throat dropped across the rim of the bowl.
"Shut your mouth. I'm confessing here." Jericho yanked the Monsignor back up so they were face to face. "Now, like I said, I'm a sinner. I left some documents with an innocent man, and now he's dead. If I manned up and did my job, that young man would still be alive. I can't live with the guilt anymore."
; "I don't know what you're talking about!"
Jericho didn't believe the Monsignor and drove the old man's head back into the depths of the bowl. This time his nose smashed up against the porcelain and cracked. He tasted the coppery blood mixing with the rest of the concoction. Jericho pulled back.
"You see, Father, I keep trying to change and be a good man. But the problem is, I can't. When I'm trying to be a good person, innocent people get hurt. So, where's my incentive?"
Jericho slapped the Monsignor across the face again, knocking a tooth from his flabby face.
"Okay, okay! I'm sorry! I didn't know it would happen!"
"Sounds like you need to confess your own sins, Padre."
The Monsignor tried to look into the monster's cold eyes, but couldn't look behind those darkened shields draped across his face. If he could, he was convinced he would see the fires of Hell.
"Did LeMay send you to silence me?"
"I don't even know who that is, but I wanna hear more."
"He wants the Prayer. I didn't know he'd kill the boy, I swear to God!"
"I don't think that means much to you," Jericho said, pushing him back underwater for a minute before pulling him back up again.
"Please stop! I'll tell you anything!"
"You already did. You gave me a name. LeMay. That's all I need."
"How...how did you know to find me?"
Jericho laughed and finally let go of the Monsignor's hair. Maybe this was his change of heart?
"I didn't. There's two ways to deal with a sick tree. One is cutting off the branches one by one, hoping you cut the cancer away. The other is wrapping a chain around the trunk, strap the son of a bitch to a truck and rip the fucker outta the ground."
What did that mean?
"So you would have done this to me even if I had nothing to do with it?"
"I told you, I'm a bad person. I'm just not fighting it anymore."
The flabby priest tried to pull his soft, soaked body back up. He didn't care if Jericho smelled the stench coming up from his stomach.
"I can help you! I can show you where he is! I can give you anything you need on LeMay! Please forgive me, let me make this better."
"Too late, Padre."
The Monsignor's face went from scared and pleading to vengeful. "You will burn in Hell!"
"No shit."
Jericho smacked him one more time and drove his head back into the death water, holding him underneath until the old man's fat body stopped twitching. Both men were in physical pain. Both men deserved it for the role they played in Father Luke’s death. Finally, both accepted their fates.
LXVI
Jericho turned the engine in the green F-150 with the cow catcher and pulled away from the Monsignor’s home. He had a hunch someone in the Church turned on Father Luke. He had no intention of killing the little fat man until he confessed everything. All he needed was a lead. He got a lot more. Time to compare notes. Jericho dialed.
“This is Dana O’Brien. I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave your name and a message. If this is an emergency, send me a text, and I’ll respond as soon as humanly possible.”
Hmm.
Jericho followed her request and sent his partner in crime a message.
It’s Mr. Ishikawa. I talked to the Monsignor. He sold out Father Luke to a guy named LeMay.
He hit send and watched the little word balloon with ellipsis pop up.
LeMay is the leader of the Order of the Golden Sun. He’s the guy behind everything.
Jericho replied
This is stupid. Can you take a call?
The bubble popped up. Then went away. Then popped up again. Then went away again. This wasn’t good.
No. Things are getting kinda weird over here.
What does “weird” mean? He typed back.
Are you in trouble?
The bubbles didn’t come back. She was in trouble. Finally a response popped up. There was no message. Just a map location with a dropped pin. It was the Willowbrook Church in suburban St. Charles.
Dana was in trouble, but the odds that she was the one replying to those texts was zero. This is probably a trap, but Jericho wasn’t going to let anyone else die because of his refusal to follow through. But if she was hurt, well, that was going to be their problem.
Rage Against The Machine and Cypress Hill each did a version of a song called, How I Could Just Kill A Man about how easy it is for some people to reconcile taking a life. It used to disturb Jericho how easily he identified with the song. Now he needed to hear Tom Morello’s guitar. An iTunes purchase later, the war drums beating inside the truck were enough to help stave off the pain and blood.
LXVII
Julia Summerville waited for Dana's answer on whether she would officially join the Willowbrook Church. Dana didn't understand the necessity of doing so at this moment. Shouldn't joining a church be a special moment when a person makes a commitment to something greater than themselves? Not something done because of fear.
"Julia, why do you want those pages?"
"Dana, you know the answer. We're trying to keep them away from Golden Sun."
Dana got off her knees and stood up, looking down on the Reverend.
"Yeah, I get that. But after we win the day," she said, almost mockingly, "what then? When those pages are yours, when you have the prayer, what are you going to do with it?"
Julia stood as well. Frustration tightened across her face. This isn't going the way she thought.
"I thought you were different, Dana. I thought you cared about the truth."
"I do. That's why I want to know what you're going to do with them, Ms. Expert-In-Doomsday-Cults."
The frustration on the Reverend's face melted into fury. She clutched Dana's wrists and squeezed.
"This world is sick. We can save people, the good people, from all of this. All the hate and evil in the world can be gone."
"By making a deal with the Devil. Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?"
"Don't make me do this!"
"Do what?"
Michael quietly approached from behind and with both hands swung for the back of Dana’s head with a thick Bible. She dropped to the ground in a heap of unconsciousness.
"What are you doing, Michael?!"
"She was going to turn on us!"
Julia knelt back down to the floor and cradled Dana's head in her lap. She rocked back and forth like she was trying to put a newborn to sleep.
"She was scared. How would anyone confronted with a terrible truth react?"
"She's not one of us."
"And she might never be now, thanks to you!"
"Let me finish her."
"Absolutely not! Take her back to the apartment. When Kevin gets here, he'll talk some sense into her."
Michael didn't believe that. Kevin Summerville was far more vicious than he was. The girl is a reporter and reporters talk.
"Yes, Reverend."
Michael bent down and scooped Dana up his arms. Julia reached into Dana's pocket and pulled out her phone.
"I want her safe, but she doesn't need this." Julia slid the phone into Michael's back pocket. "Take care of her, and you know what that means."
Looking at her numb body, a thought rushed over him. It didn't matter what Kevin or Julia did. All of this was going to be over very soon. Which gave him time to himself.
LXVIII
Antonio LeMay picked up his black suitcase from the luggage carousel at O'Hare International Airport. Three men in black suits flanked him. Bodyguards, mercenaries, contract killers, however, you referred to them is fine with him. They were his Church now, and the end was nigh. As the four men walked out of the baggage claim to the vestibule, LeMay's phone rang. He checked the screen and sighed.
"Have we had a change of heart, Mr. Zion?"
"Might have overplayed my hand a bit. I got this temper—"
"You’re one of God's flawed creatures, Zion. But even you can be redeemed."
&
nbsp; "We cool then?"
"I just want the Prayer."
"I got it with me," Zion said, pronouncing the TH like an F.
Another black stretch Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the vestibule. One of the suits opened the door for LeMay.
"Then I think we can still do business. Are you familiar with the Willowbrook Church?"
LXIX
Dana had a hard time breathing. When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see them shielded with some kind of tinted visor. Her hearing was muffled, too. She reached up and felt something strapped to her head. Why is she wearing a motorcycle helmet? She remembered the scene with Julia going badly but nothing after. The headache helped fill the gaps.
Dana turned the clunky helmet to the left and saw the familiar flower-pattern bedspread. Someone put her back in the apartment above Willowbrook. She sat up and tried to find the strap holding the helmet to her head. Her fingers maneuvered around the release mechanism, but it wouldn't budge. Someone wanted that thing locked on her melon. Maybe the Rapture could only be survived with proper headgear?
There might be a knife in the kitchen she can use to cut the strap. Dana hopped off the bed and groggily stumbled around the bedroom. Whether the helmet or the blow to the head made her dizzy, she wasn't sure. Stumbling toward the door, she reached for the walls, trying to keep her balance. She read a story once about people who did therapy in sensory deprivation tanks. Probably isn't too different from this. The sooner it was off, the better.
She opened the bedroom door and—
CRRRACCCKKKK