Nightcrawler: A Supernatural Thriller (The Books of Jericho Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  From the author

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  IL

  ILI

  ILII

  ILIII

  ILIV

  ILV

  ILVI

  ILVII

  ILVIII

  ILIX

  L

  LI

  LII

  LIII

  LIV

  LV

  LVI

  LVII

  LVIII

  LIX

  LX

  LXI

  LXII

  LXIII

  LXIV

  LXV

  LXVI

  LXVII

  LXIX

  LXX

  LXXI

  LXXII

  LXXII

  LXXIII

  LXXIV

  LXXV

  From the author

  THANKS for picking up Harvest Moon.

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  OTHER BOOKS FROM J.D. Oliva

  Hawk Hallow

  Harvest Moon

  The Books of Jericho

  Conspiracy Theory

  The Devil’s Prayer

  Nightcrawler

  Snowblind

  I

  Kim Aranda needed to catch a flight to Los Angeles. Her mom helped book the ticket from Laguardia to LAX, but Kim couldn't afford a non-stop. Through Travelocity, they found a cheap flight to LA, but the only catch was the twelve-hour layover in St. Louis. At the time, it didn't seem like a bad idea, but as she found herself perched on a stool like some over-dressed gargoyle at a hotel bar, she had second guesses.

  Finding work in New York was difficult. Sure, she had a couple walk-on spots in a few daytime soaps, and there were always plenty of off-Broadway shows casting, but she never really saw herself as a stage performer. Kim tried to make the soap thing work, but the 1990s were long over and there weren't as many on TV these days. New York didn't work for her, but going to California is so cliché. Who out there isn't trying to make it as an actor? That's the number one reason she tried New York first. Plus, she grew up in Jersey City, across the Hudson River from Manhattan. Chasing your dreams and living at home is safe. But being safe didn't help anymore. It wasn't hurting, but the opportunities were next to none.

  A few weeks before, Kim applied for an internship with a company called AXIOM. They seemed to be some kind of high-end support group that had a reputation for helping young talent, especially young female talent, find work in the industry. It's not like she planned on being a member of the group, but starting out as an intern is a great way to acclimate herself to LA. Plus, the hours would be flexible enough to go to auditions. The interview was tomorrow afternoon at 3:00 pm.

  Kim took a small sip of her cranberry and vodka and looked down at her phone. It was 10:12 pm. Her flight out leaves in twelve hours. Plenty of time to gather her things, check into the Air B&B for a quick shower and be in Beverly Hills with plenty of time to relax.

  "Would you like another?" Asked the woman behind the bar.

  The bartender's hair was pulled back in a tight bun, accenting her harsh features. Ten years ago, she might've been kind of pretty. Late nights behind the bar, and God knows what else, did a number on her face. She probably had dreams of something better than tending bar at an airport hotel, but here they were.

  "One more, please," Kim said.

  That's a nice little warning. A harbinger of what might happen if Kim didn't nail this interview. She was a mediocre high school student who studied acting in Junior College but never finished her Associates. Mom wanted her go back to school, but the thought of 70K-plus debt sounded scarier than the bartender. She had to make this work. Might be why she couldn't sleep. A good eight hours, plus a morning run on the elliptical machine would be more productive, but she couldn't focus in her empty hotel room. Besides, it's only a couple drinks. She wasn't looking to get drunk or meet anyone. A little something to take the edge off and calm her stomach is all she's interested in tonight.

  "The guy over there says, it's on him," the bartender said, motioning to a guy at the other end of the bar.

  "Tell him, no thank you."

  Kim tried to ignore the guy with long, greasy hair hanging straight to his shoulders, sitting on a stool, pretending not to look at her. His face looked weathered and leathery, like a lifetime of bad booze and cigarettes. She thought giving him the cold shoulder might give this creeper a hint, but he kept looking at her, and not in a way that made her comfortable. He looked like the kind of guy who'd tell you about the time he toured with Bon Jovi or some other band your dad listened to. Twenty years ago, maybe that kind of thing worked, but not today and definitely not with her.

  She kept expecting him to say something stupid or inappropriate, but he didn't. Instead, he kept looking over at her. Not staring or anything, just continually glancing over at her. Shooting down creepy guys was always fun back home. Except this isn't home. This is some hotel bar, and she's all by herself.

  "Excuse me," Kim whispered to the tight-bunned bartender. "That guy over there is making me feel uncomfortable."

  The bartender raised an eyebrow and turned back toward the guy who looked like he'd come off the Iggy Pop albums Kim's dad still kept in his home office.

  "That guy?" The bartender said so loud that Kim tried to melt into her stool.

  Kim nodded, trying not to draw any extra attention.

  "He say anything to you?" Kim shook her head. "Then I can't yell at some guy minding his own business. Ain't a crime to look at a pretty girl."

  She expected an answer like that to come from some grody-looking dude with a beer gut behind the bar. But it wasn't. Kim looked back down to a drink that didn't look quite as good as it did a few minutes ago. She turned her eyes back toward the creeper. He looked at her again. Not smiling or looking mean or anything that should set off any warning signals. Still, something about the way he stared unnerved her. More importantly, she didn't have to take it.

  "Excuse me," Kim said back to the bartender. "Can you charge this to room 406?"

  "Sure."

  The bartender printed up the receipt and slid it over to Kim, who signed her name. The bartender peered over her shoulder, trying to see how much of a tip Kim would leave. Joke's on her.

  "Thank you," came out of Kim's mouth. But it might as well have been fuck you with the big zero she left in the tip line.

  Kim grabbed her purse and made her way back into the lobby. She pressed the up button on the elevator and waited. In the metal doors, she saw a reflection over her shou
lder. She smelled the stale beer, and musty smoke baked into his jacket. She fought back a gag as her heart palpitated. Her eyes shifted left to see the stairs, trying to find a way to slip away from him. She thought about going over to the lobby desk but remembered the bartender's words. Ain't a crime to look at a pretty girl.

  This guy creeped her out, but he hadn't said or done anything. Why would they believe her? Who's she? Just some girl from Jersey City in town for a night. The elevator still hadn't made its way to the lobby floor. Kim didn't want to turn around, she saw his reflection in the doors. What would happen when the elevator doors did open? Then they'd be inside together, and that was worse. She had enough. Kim turned left and pushed open the door to the stairs. At least, on those stairs, she had a chance.

  Even in heels, Kim tore up those concrete steps. With each pump of her legs, a loud clack echoed across the empty stairway. She wasn't exactly a ninja thundering up those steps. Kim never looked back until she hit the fourth floor. Even then, it wasn't until she threw open the fourth floor door and turned back to slam it shut behind her, that she realized she was alone in the stairwell.

  Kim felt a little silly afterwords. Maybe she did cook the whole thing up in her mind. Maybe she projected her nerves and reservations about tomorrow on to some admittedly creepy looking guy. Let's go back to our room and get some sleep. After locking the swinging door latch, of course.

  Kim took three steps away from the exit when the elevator door slid open. She couldn't help herself, she had to turn back and look. The Iggy Popp-looking creeper stepped out. Kim tried to run, but he reached out and grabbed her arm and pulled her inside in the elevator. His left hand twisted her wrist behind her back as he drove her chest into the back wall. The handrail caught her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. The only good thing about not being able to breathe, is she couldn't smell the disgusting musk permeating off him. With his free hand, he pushed her head against the reflective elevator wall. It wasn't a perfect reflection, but she got a look at his eyes. There's something off with them. They looked almost like cat's eyes, but that couldn't be right. It had to be the reflection, right?

  He opened his mouth, and she expected a tongue to protrude. Instead, some strange, green bulbous pistil shot out from his mouth and slid inside of her ear. Kim couldn't move, but she heard whatever he stuck inside crack open like an egg. A cold, slippery feeling slithered over her eardrum. Kim tried to scream out but couldn't.

  Dear God, something is crawling inside her head.

  II

  Ethan Jericho’s lungs burned. The cool evening air blowing off Lake Michigan stung the inside of his nose. A few weeks after settling into his new home in Chicago’s Kenwood neighborhood, he’d finally developed something of a routine. His late night run along the Lakefront Trail became his preferred way to start the day. The trail was eighteen miles long, not that Jericho did the entire trail, at least not yet. But he carved a nice little path from 71st up to Solider Field. It was a hard path, but scenic. It was a much different view than when he was a high schooler running up and down Stone Island Parkway. Something about running at night back home felt right.

  Since moving back home, he was already down ten pounds and started feeling more like himself again. The wounds were healed and he was moving forward with the new business. Not that things with Cherry Vale Security had changed, but relaunching the real business, what was now called the Golden Phoenix, was slower than he expected. After months on the shelf and being suddenly thrust back into the business fat and out of shape, Jericho found himself looking forward to returning to his old self.

  Jericho paused in front of the Shedd Aquarium. A park existed between the Aquarium and the Adler Planetarium. This was his favorite view. To the left was a skyline, accented by a hundred years of different architectural styles and influences that gave the city its own visual flavor, different from New York or LA. Certainly different than Provo, Utah. To his right was miles of blue lake, stretching further than the eye could see. In that view, it might as well have been an ocean. This was one of the most touristy parts of the city, but it was incredible at the same time. That’s why Jericho preferred to be here in the late evening hours, when the evening lights lit the city.

  Jericho wiped his brow and hit the ground before bursting back to his feet. The burpees were back to being part of the routine. Long distance lungs weren’t enough. This job required explosive movements and split-second reactions. Two hundred burpees honed the explosiveness in his core and gave the lungs a different kind of burn. It hurt and he loved it. Training made his muscles sore, and soreness is the bodies best reminder that it was still here. Still fighting. Training meant pain and pain meant life. Embracing pain is embracing life. A life free of pain was a life that was over. Jericho isn’t ready for that. Not yet.

  After the two hundredth burpee, Jericho rested his face in the damp grass. The dew was putting streaks on his sunglasses, which was fine, since his sweat did the same job most of the time. He probably should have been more careful seeing as these were $150 Roka S Series Performance Sunglasses, specially designed for training. But he need to catch his breath and let the quads burn before starting the run back home. Reflection was a new part of the game. Mediation was something that he adopted early on, but reflection, the act of looking back and understanding, was new. It helped quite a bit. If we don’t reflect, how do we improve? Like Master Yamada says—

  BZZZZT—

  BZZZZT—

  Jericho unzipped the front of his tactical fanny pack and found his iPhone. An unknown number flashed across the screen. Business is back.

  “Golden Phoenix,” he said.

  There was silence on the other end. Normally that sort of elongated silence would prompt a hang up, followed by an instant block on the number. For some reason, Jericho didn’t hang up. Instead, he waited it out.

  “Hello?” Jericho said.

  “Um, it’s Chris Shane. I’m in trouble.”

  Five Years Earlier

  III

  Anne Casten sat alone in her cell, writing another letter to her husband. She wrote one to him every morning since her conviction last March. Each day followed the same structure: shower, breakfast, room time, and then a walk around the grounds, all under the supervision of the guards and their high-power rifles. Each day reasonably identical to the one before it, which is pretty much the point.

  Anne used the alone time in her cell to write letters every morning after breakfast. Afterward, she would place it in a small box, the only possession she owned, and put it under her cot until the next morning when she repeated the process again. Talking to Jim made her feel better. She told him about the food, the other women inside—none of whom she had any plans to make friends with—, the guards and her loneliness.

  She missed Jim and the girls so much. Maybe if she’d been a little attentive and less focused on unimportant things, she wouldn’t be here. Its a hard way to learn work isn't the most important thing in life.

  Writing the letters helped her deal with the guilt. It's not like she could talk to Jim every day anymore, though she didn't do it much before either. The letters gave her a chance to be more real and emotional with herself than she was before things got so bad. Her thoughts came out easier on paper than saying them out loud. Unfortunately, no one would ever read those letters. Dead men don't get mail.

  "Casten!"

  Anne turned toward the bars. She found Nocenti, a short, fireplug of a guard as mean-tempered and dangerous as any of the women inside. She had to be, Anne guessed, to work here. Anne hopped to her feet immediately, as she did every time Nocenti or any the guards ever spoke to her. The last thing Anne wanted was trouble. Or more trouble anyway.

  "Yes, ma'am," Anne said.

  "You got a visitor."

  Nocenti unlocked the gate and shackled Anne's wrists together. This was Anne's least favorite part, the wrists. She understood why they did it, not everyone there is as amenable her. It didn't change how much the me
tal hurt. Not that anyone would listen to or care about her complaints. Anne just kept her mouth shut as the guard, who she towered over by at least a head and a half, led her down the walkway.

  With her shoulder-length, raven-colored hair and soft features, Anne stood out from the rest of the inmates in the Missouri Department of Corrections. She should have. Nine months ago, she owned a successful accounting firm in St. Louis, working with some of the city's most influential people. That was before any of this. Anne hated to look around and take in the entire prison with her eyes. She tried to keep her eyes low, focusing on what's right in front of her. Picking her head up and really looking at the surroundings was too difficult. One step at a time. One day at time. One year at a time. There's a chance she might be up for parole in fifteen years if she minded her business and didn't make enemies. She would only be in her early sixties at that point. Still, time to start over.

  Nocenti lead Anne into a small, blue room with blue and white titles floors that always reminded her of her grandmother's checkered, plastic tablecloth. The room had forty or fifty small set-ups that were nothing more than two blue chairs pointed to each other with a small wooden table in the center.

  Today the room was empty, save for one man. In her six months inside, only three people came to visit her. The visitor there today is someone she never met, but a man she already knew far too much it about. If the rumors were half-true, he was absolutely the most dangerous person in that facility.

  "Mr. Quatermane," Anne said, sticking out her hand.

  He smiled, and Anne's skin quivered.

  "Please, we're old friends. Call me Ian," he said, pronouncing it like the actor from the 90s late-night soaps.

  They shook hands and feigned a hug for Nocenti, who clearly thought something was up, but unsure of what. The man wore black cargo pants and a long sleeve, gray Under Armour shirt. The only thing the man brought inside was a pair of sunglasses strapped to his head.

  "I'm afraid I gotta take those, Mr. Quartermane," Nocenti stuck out her hand in the least polite fuck you Anne ever heard.