The Devil's Prayer: A Supernatural Thriller (The Books of Jericho Book 1) Page 11

  "Those guys are great," the driver said.

  "I've never heard of them. What am I missing?"

  "Man, they're the guys out in Utah that built the Cthulhu statute."

  "The what?" She asked. Something about it sounded familiar, but she couldn't remember exactly.

  "Yeah, they put up Cthulhu right across from the Mormon angel statue. It's really pissing off those religious wackos. It's great."

  "Why would they build a cat-flew-nu statue?" she asked, having no knowledge of Lovecraft or his creations.

  "That's what they do. They're like Satanists."

  XXXVII

  "They're what?"

  "Satanists. Not like real Satanists, but like hipster Satanists," the Ear-Gauged Driver said.

  "Ooookay. What exactly is a hipster Satanist?"

  "You know, dudes that don't really worship the Devil but pretend to cause it makes religious people look stupid."

  Dana wasn't sure how to react to that. Her dad used to talk about people who cut their nose to spite their face. She never quite got what it meant. But imagining a bunch of people pretending to worship the embodiment of evil to make others look dumb seemed to settle it clearly.

  She'd wait on writing the next email to Meijer. She owed him her side of the story but needed to see if there was a connection between the two Golden Suns. It's almost too obvious.

  "We're here," the driver said, cutting the tension. He probably got the hint from her slack-jawed face and prolonged silence. This bit of information, though possibly helpful, was stupid.

  Dana looked out the window and saw the Ghost and the Darkness. That's what they nicknamed the two bronze lion statues who stood guard in front of the Art Institute of Chicago. Without another word to the driver, Dana exited the vehicle and headed up the stairs.

  The Art Institute was home to such classic works as Picasso's Old Guitarist, American Gothic, and The Nighthawks. What the museum also had was two Van Gogh's: A self-portrait and a work called Bedroom in Arles. Looking at rows of paintings strewn across the walls, Dana wondered if maybe some of them weren't hiding some secrets of their own. Maybe not something hidden within the frame, but something else. She needed to find someone to speak with quickly.

  The middle-aged woman with the tight bun in her hair behind the information desk would have to do for now.

  "Hi, I'm Dana O'Brien with BuzzClip News. I need to speak with someone. I have some..., she struggled to find the right word...”unique inquires."

  XXXVIII

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Miss Crissy asked.

  "Can we talk somewhere private?" Jericho answered, almost timid.

  She had always intimated him. It's not that Miss Crissy is a large woman. Sure, she stood 5'11” with an athletic build similar to him. She played center on a state championship basketball team for Corliss High School in the late 80s. Miss Crissy had a presence that made people take notice and follow. When she decided to create RainyDay, she didn't go around asking the city and the local aldermen her options. She did it, and everyone had to either get on board or out of the way. The Center had been up for over fifteen years, and the only reason it lasted this long is her leadership.

  "Lionel, come here, baby," she spoke to the boy coloring Spider-man with a calm, authoritative tone that made him immediately jump and run to her.

  She put both her hands on the boy's shoulders, claiming him, as if to say, you're not getting this one. Jericho wondered if he was hers, but even if not biologically hers, she'd act the same. Every kid who came through those doors were her kid, and she's going to fight like a tiger to protect them. That's how she was with him growing up.

  "I'm not looking for trouble. I was in town, and it's been—"

  "Bull. What do you want?"

  "Just to talk."

  Keisha came back into the conversation. She had a concerned look on her face, like this whole thing is her fault and she let her mentor down.

  "Everything okay, Miss Crissy?"

  "Absolutely perfect. Me and Mr. Ethan are going into my office for a quick conversation. It will go no longer than five minutes. Do you understand me, Keisha?"

  "Yes, Miss Crissy," both Keisha and Jericho said at the same time. She may have said it to the girl, but was definitely directed at him.

  Miss Crissy gently moved Lionel into Keisha's care and headed back toward her office. Jericho walked two paces behind, the same way he did when they were kids. She closed the door, making sure whatever's said in the office stayed with them.

  "I just wanted to—"

  "Shhh!" Miss Crissy said with her finger pointed up.

  She shut the blinds so none of the children, or workers, could see the leader of RainyDay associating with a common criminal like him. She took a seat on top of her desk. Though she leaned and stood four inches shorter, she somehow looked down on him.

  "Ethan, why are you here?"

  "I was in town, and I wanted to see the Center."

  She still didn't buy it.

  "Do you need money?" She asked.

  "No." Kind of a lie. He may be wealthy, but not exactly liquid at the moment. "I'm the one who keeps trying to give you money."

  "I don't want your dirty money."

  "It's not like that anymore. I've changed."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. I don't do the same things. I'm trying to be a better man."

  "Are you telling me that money you tried to send wasn't earned hurting people?"

  It was, but even if he told her he hurt bad people these days, she wouldn't believe him. She would be right. As usual.

  "I'm retired."

  "So what, you're on vacation?"

  "No."

  "Are you in trouble?"

  "I'm always in trouble."

  "Then why are you here around these kids? Everything I do is to try and keep them out of trouble. Then in comes my little brother looking like some kinda badass giving them bad ideas."

  "I know, but—"

  "And take those glasses off!"

  Jericho did as told. Crissy brought her hand to her mouth when she saw his translucent gray eyes.

  "Oh, my God!"

  She hopped up and instinctively put her hand on his face, looking into his colorless eyes.

  "What happened?"

  "It was a long time ago. I can see fine. Just lights hurt sometimes."

  A single tear trickled down her face. Tears, she fought to keep those buried for years. Then she remembered who the tear is for, and she turned her back.

  "Dammit, Ethan. This is why you can't be here," she said, wiping her face. "I can't have these kids seeing you. I need you to leave. Please don't come back."

  "Cris, I just want to tell you I'm sorry."

  She turned back to her brother, looking into his unfamiliar but sincere eyes. She wanted to believe he changed, but knew he couldn't. Her brother is and always would be a killer.

  "Please go, Ethan."

  Ethan wanted to reach out and hug the girl who raised him like a mother, but she wouldn't return anything. Her greatest failure stood beside her greatest success. Ethan slid the glasses back on his face, and Jericho walked out the door. He tried not to make any eye contact. Little Lionel, the smiling boy coloring Spider-man, hid behind Keisha's leg. Miss Crissy wouldn't sign off on him as a good guy, so none of them would either. Could he blame them?

  Jericho walked out of the RainyDay Center, but rather than hop back in the truck and drive off to God-knows-where, he started walking. Those blocks looked pretty much the same as they did in childhood, and yet everything is different. You can't go home again, and you probably shouldn't.

  "Aye!" Another familiar voice called out.

  Jericho turned and found a 1997 gray Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. The driver, an elderly man with a balding hairline, looked familiar, but Jericho couldn't place the face.

  "I ain't seen you in twenty years, and now you show up in the old neighborhood twice in one year!"

  Jericho leaned in. "
Ike!"

  Ike Reed is the owner of a local pawn shop. He and Crissy visited his store many times when they were kids. Last Christmas, while Jericho was in town on business, he made a rather significant purchase of ten pounds of silver jewelry. They slapped hands like old friends. Nice to see someone around here who wasn't disgusted by his presence.

  "What you doing back here?"

  "Just passing through," Jericho shrugged.

  "Right," Ike said, not believing him. "You hungry?"

  "Nah, I'm good."

  "Shut your mouth. Get in here and come get dinner with me."

  There's two people he learned not to cross growing up here: One was his sister, and the other was the local pawn shop owner who did two tours of Nam and was more than man enough to hold down a store in that neighborhood. Jericho opened the door of the Cutlass and barely had time to take a seat before Ike pulled away.

  "Hey, what'd you ever do with all that silver?"

  XXXIX

  "So you were actually at the Kröller-Müller after the robbery?" asked Margie Fuentes, a petite, middle-aged Filipino woman with hair tied in a fixed bun.

  "I got there two days later. Everything was pretty much back to normal. But I was in Amsterdam when they found The Monk."

  The two women walked down a long hallway leading into the various corner galleries. The conversation reminded Dana of the one she had with Mila Jensen in Otterlo, but Margie is much more relaxed. Of course, no one had recently tried to shoot her.

  "You know, I'd never heard of that painting until this whole thing. It is so crazy. Who steals a painting only to ruin it and leave in some alley? Especially a work no one's ever heard of," Margie said.

  "Funny you should mention that."

  Dana and Margie paused before Van Gogh's famous self-portrait. Looking into his eyes, Dana wondered if the man in the painting hid anything. His eyes did look a little shifty. The Monk's eyes definitely hid something. Who knew it's the key to Armageddon?

  "Funny I should mention what?" Margie said, snapping her back into reality.

  "The Monk was painted by a Czech artist named Ivo Prochazka. Does that name mean anything?"

  Dana wasn't surprised to see Margie shake her head. Of course, she never heard of a person who didn't exist.

  "Margie, have you ever heard of someone hiding something in a piece of art?"

  "Of course. Some of the greatest masters would hide little easter eggs in their work. Leonardo was particularly—"

  "Not what I mean." Dana hated to interrupt people when they're obviously passionate about what they're talking about. That's one of her favorite parts of interviewing people. But this is different.

  "I mean literally putting things inside of picture frames or behind the actual paintings," Dana clarified.

  "You mean like money?"

  "Sure. Yeah, like money."

  Margie thought for a second. She knew Dana was fishing for something. Of course, she'd never figure out that it meant a prayer to Satan. That's good. Plausible deniability.

  "You know, I do remember hearing a story about a copy of the Declaration of Independence hidden behind wallpaper. That's not exactly what you're looking for, though."

  Not too far off.

  Margie walked up to take a closer look at Van Gogh. Something about the work looked so somber. Maybe it's all the blue highlighting and background? Maybe, but Dana couldn't get beyond those eyes.

  "Why did someone put a copy of the Declaration of Independence behind wallpaper? How does that happen," Dana wondered.

  "Because they were trying to hide it. That one, in particular, happened during the Civil War. They were afraid the Confederates would attack their house and find it."

  Dana got what she meant, but just like the prayer, she wondered why choose the wallpaper. "But wouldn't it be smarter to just bury it in the backyard?"

  "Maybe. But if some angry raiders bust into your home looking for valuables and they see you've got some freshly buried mounds in the backyard, they might go look there first, I suppose. If you figure they're on their way anyway, hiding it in plain sight might be safer. I mean, who would think to look behind wallpaper?"

  And who would think to look behind a painting?

  "Sometimes, the best way to hide is right out in the open.”

  Dana nodded. It's how she operated in the field. There's a time she felt a bit unscrupulous, but the longer she stayed in the game, the more she understood the need for secrecy.

  "It would make sense to hide something important behind something unimportant. My grandma used to keep an old peanut butter jar in the pantry. It's where she hid her jewelry. Thieves don't steal peanut butter."

  "But if you were going to take that peanut butter, it might make sense to have a partner try to steal the TV at the same time," Dana added.

  DING

  She checked her phone. Another email from Inspector Meijer. She owed him an explanation. Maybe he could add something she missed. The second she explained everything, they were partners on this. Unlike Jericho, who walked away when things got interesting.

  "A little misdirection," Margie nodded.

  But that didn't answer the questions of why or who put it there to begin with. The closer she got to the answers, the more confusing the questions became.

  DING DING DING

  Dana looked back down to her phone, expecting another email from the Dutch Inspector. But she was wrong. This was a phone call from the Reverend Julia Summerville.

  IL

  Dana ran toward the exit of the Art Institute, trying not to knock anyone over as she answered the call. A security guard tried to grab her, but that wasn't happening. This is too important.

  "This is Dana O'Brien," she said, trying to sound as cool as possible.

  "Hello, Ms. O'Brien, this is Julia Summerville. I'm returning your call."

  Dana never fully expected the Reverend to call her back personally. Busy people like her usually have personal assistants and agents taking care of that sort of thing.

  "Hello, Mrs. Summervil—um, I mean Reverend, I, um—"

  "Please, it's just Julia. Did you read my book?"

  "I did actually," Dana said as she leaned up against the green lion her father called The Ghost. "I read it on my flight to Amsterdam. Fascinating work."

  "How's your book coming?"

  "Not great at the moment. Work's kinda taken an unexpected turn. That's why I'm calling you. I kind of need your help."

  "Oh? Something of a crisis in faith?"

  "Not exactly. I need to talk about doomsday cults."

  "That is kind of my field of expertise. Go ahead."

  "Are you familiar with The Devil's Prayer?"

  Silence on the other end. Did the call drop? Incredible how you can be in the middle of the third-largest city in the country and somehow can never seem to find good cellular service.

  "Julia?" she asked.

  "Yes. Are you talking about the Codex Gigas?"

  "I might be."

  "What do you know about the missing folio?"

  "I know it's no longer missing. I know I probably shouldn't be talking about it in public."

  Silence again. One of Dana's most useful talents is her ability to sell a story. Not only to readers or to editors, but she knew how to sell it to potential subjects. Baiting a hook and watching them tell her everything she needed is a skill she picked up being somewhat manipulative in high school. Fortunately, she used those powers for good instead of evil these days. That's another one of her father's back-handed jabs. In this particular situation, the good vs. evil thing might be real.

  "I think we need to have a conversation, Ms. O'Brien. In person."

  "I'd love that."

  "Can you get out to our Willowbrook Campus?"

  Campus, like a college? What a weird term for a church.

  "Sure. I can be there in an hour or so."

  "Perfect. Dana, please don't talk to anyone else about this. We need to keep this very quiet."

&n
bsp; Considering her mysterious friend probably still has people trying to kill him, that might be the best idea. The last thing Dana needed is his problems.

  ILI

  At 9:15 pm, a gray 2009 Ford Fusion pulled up to Vestibule 4 outside of O'Hare International Airport. Valerie Argueta, a heavyset, newly-divorced woman in her mid-forties had been driving with Uber for only a few weeks. She needed the extra money to help with the rent on her new Humbolt Park apartment, and her day job as a cashier at the Target Superstore on West Jackson wasn't enough. Fortunately, she didn't have any kids, which meant working for the rideshare service was just an inconvenience to her personal life, which was nonexistent. But it did give her a chance to listen to a lot of audiobooks. The Diana Gabaldon ones were her favorite, but Dave Rice, a co-worker who worked in the Target Electronics section, recommended something different. Something scary. She downloaded the book a couple months ago but forgot the title. Tonight she let Audible start the book and was immediately drawn into the story about a demonic man who kidnaps children in his evil car. It was terrifying, with a real Stephen King-ish vibe.

  She pulled into the vestibule and saw the customer. A tall African-American man wearing a white hooded jacket. The sun was setting, but he wore a pair of sunglasses. Maybe he's some kind of basketball player? Valerie isn't much of a sportsball fan, so it could have been someone she didn't recognize. Then again, you'd have to figure if he was, he wouldn't be using a regular Uber service.

  "Hi!" She said, pulling up.

  The bald man opened her back door and hopped in without saying a word.

  "Where you heading tonight?" She asked.

  The man looked up. "1540 West Lawrence Avenue," before looking back to his phone.

  "Okay."

  Valerie pulled out and merged back onto Interstate 190, heading into the city. Customers burying their heads in their phones isn't usual, but it's something Valerie hated. She thought of herself as very friendly, and talking to new people is one of her favorite parts of the job. When the customer allowed it.