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

  Summerville looked at Michael. This is way over his pay grade. His warm charm was replaced by quiet confusion. He had no idea what any of them were talking about.

  "Michael, I think this is a conversation Ms. O'Brien and I should probably have by ourselves."

  He silently nodded, this whole thing clearly made no sense to him, and the more the two of them spoke, the worse it was going to get.

  "If you need anything, Ms. O'Brien, just holler."

  "I will. Thank you," Dana said with a half-smile.

  The two women both watched as Michael made his way out of the green room, closing the door behind. They shifted their attention back toward the other.

  "Dana, this Devil's Prayer—"

  "It's a prayer made to Satan bring on the end of the world. But I don't understand why anyone would want the end of the world?"

  Summerville shrugged. The answer was going to be complicated.

  "There are people who believe this world is sick. They're right. But these people don't believe in redemption. They don't believe mankind can be saved. They just want all of this," Summerville made circles with her hands to demonstrate reality. "They want it gone."

  "But why? Why would anyone cheer on, let alone beg, for the end of the world?"

  Summerville finished her bottle of water, stood up and walked over to the cooler. She pulled out two more bottles and handed one of them to Dana, who accepted the drink, before cracking open her own. She took a long sip, trying to organize her thoughts.

  "There are two kinds of people who would welcome the end. There were a lot of people in the audience tonight who would welcome it."

  "What?" Dana almost choked on her drink.

  "They're good people. They believe they'll be raptured into God's Kingdom. The others are different. They want oblivion. They want existence to cease and darkness to swallow all things."

  "Kind of bleak," Dana said, trying to cut the tension.

  "The Church of the Golden Sun has existed for a long time. They don't believe in the God that we do."

  "Right. They're Satanists."

  "Not like you think. They don't worship the Devil like you'd expect. They think that our God is the Devil. That this world is a creation of evil. That people like us are rubes. Carnival marks who've been suckered into worshipping evil because we're too dumb to realize what we're doing. They believe in nothing."

  "You mean like nihilists?"

  "Sort of. The nothing they believe in is a state of existence where the entire universe is a vast, black emptiness that stretches on for eternity. No life. No hope. No tomorrow."

  "That's depressing."

  "I agree."

  "But how did—"

  "I'm getting there. These pages were torn from the Codex and hidden from people like Golden Sun and even from priests whose curiosity may best them. World War II was a very dark time for this world. This supposed church decided to acquire those pages and end time before things could get worse. But then a new fear arose. What if the Nazis got those pages?"

  Dana was by no means an expert in the Second World War, but the idea of Hitler doing that, especially with how he eventually committed suicide, made sense.

  "So, a young priest hid those pages behind a painting of a regretful old monk. This painting was supposed to be the visage of Herman the Recluse, the friar who made the deal and brought that vile book into existence. It was then donated to a museum where it was supposed to hang in anonymity."

  "Not anymore. They found it."

  "There's a line in a movie that says the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. Not true. His greatest trick is convincing people he isn't a threat. Look at this world. Satanists paint themselves as reasonable, anti-religious truth-seekers. There is no power in worshipping evil. But there is power in convincing people to follow when they have no idea they're being led."

  "Jesus take the wheel," Dana said referencing Summerville's sermon.

  "Exactly. When an actor jokingly thanks Satan when getting an award, he obviously isn't being serious, but all he's really done is give glory to the Beast. He doesn't realize what he's doing. Actions like this make the Devil seem more like a caricature than a threat. A caricature is a dangerous thing because they don't get taken seriously. Dana, do you believe in evil? I'm talking about true, monstrous evil."

  Remembering last Christmas, that was an easy answer.

  "Absolutely," she responded.

  "So does Antonio LeMay. He's the one behind Golden Sun. He isn't the man he pretends to be. He's dangerous, and if he gets his hands on those pages, he'll end everything."

  "Let me play Devil's advocate," Dana paused, realizing that's probably the worst thing she could have said, but moved on. "If this LeMay is successful, won't all of you be raptured like you believe?"

  "I'd like to think so, but if the world is going to end, let it be on God's terms, not man's."

  That made sense.

  "Dana, we need to find those pages. Where are they?"

  ILVI

  Father Luke microwaved a bowl of instant ramen and poured in a touch of hot sauce, a trick a parishioner taught him a few years ago. He spent all day reading and rereading the prayer. What he didn't do was speak it aloud. Though he wanted to, very much. He knew what might happen, and yet he felt compelled to read those words aloud. Like the words themselves called out to him. This couldn't be real, right? It couldn't actually be the prayer. Maybe he should recite the passage to prove to himself they were a fake. Temptation in blood-red ink.

  Luke slapped himself in the face. He needed to put the pages away and tell the proper authorities. Whether they be local authorities or those who answer to a higher power, it didn't matter. He needed someone to take them where they might be safe and out of the hands of someone who didn't see them as purely scholarly. Yet the more he read the words, the more he needed to keep reading and rereading them. It was bordering on obsession. He needed a break to clear his mind. A little food would be perfect.

  Luke stirred his bowl and took his first bite, using a fork to twirl the noodles around like pasta. Of course, this isn't the proper way to eat ramen, but he was just better at using a fork instead of chopsticks. Besides, it's not like anyone was watching him.

  "Ya eating those wrong, mate," said an unfamiliar, cockney voice.

  Father Luke looked back into his quarters and found a tall, dark-skinned man in sunglasses. Sunglasses? The man who came in with the prayer was wearing sunglasses, too. Strange.

  "Excuse me?"

  "You supposed to use chopsticks. You look like a wank eating that shit with a fork."

  Luke had no idea what a wank was, but it probably isn't anything good.

  "I'm sorry. We're all out of chopsticks. Can I help you, sir?"

  The man stood and towered over Father Luke. He sniffed a bit and looked around the tight, sparsely decorated quarters. He didn't seem impressed. That's good. Priests are supposed to live humbly. Looking at the designer jacket and sunglasses, his man is far from humble. But he was scary.

  "I'm taking them pages. They belong to my client. They was stolen. Thou shalt not steal and that bullshit, right?" Zion said with another sniff.

  "Those pages absolutely do not belong to you or any client. They're the property of the Church. If anything, we should probably call the police. I'm sure they could settle this."

  Zion chuckled. He didn't expect the priest to step up.

  "I know you ain't get them by any legal means either, Padre. But, I don't need no trouble, so I'll just ask a simple question. Who’s the cat that brought these here."

  "The what?"

  Zion draped his arm across Father Luke's shoulder. Luke wanted to pull the hand off and run away, but he was too damn strong.

  "You know. Big black guy with the dreads. Mr. Jericho?"

  "I never met him before today. I swear."

  "You expect me to believe that this bloke, we're talking a pro here, just left this with some random chu
rch-tosser. Why? ‘Cause he liked your face?" Zion shook his head side to side. He didn't buy the explanation.

  "It's the truth," Luke said, finally slipping out from underneath Zion's monstrous grip.

  "People lie to me all the time. Means I gotta go with my gut, and it don't like you."

  Zion pulled the hook-shaped hunting knife out and lightly twirled it in his fingers.

  He smiled. "Maybe I need to see what your gut thinks of me, Padre?"

  "I swear to the Holy Father, I have no idea who they were or where they are."

  "They?" That caught Zion's attention. "Who's they? Who's he working with?"

  Zion backed the priest up against the wall and pressed the edge of the hooked blade against Father Luke's face.

  "I don't know. Some girl. She was a journalist. I can't remember her name. But-but-but I remember something! He said his name was Mr. Ishikawa!”

  Zion pulled the blade back and cracked a little smile. Maybe the name was all he was looking for.

  “Mr. Ishikawa. Quite a name. Fake name. But a name for sure. Suppose that's all you know."

  Father Luke shook his head up and down. Anything to get this maniac out of the Church. He can have the damn prayer.

  "Right. I don't suppose you’re Facebook friends or anything like that?"

  Luke shook the head side to side, afraid to say the wrong thing and wind up with the hooked knife jammed in his throat.

  "But I bet you do have Facebook. How else does a little tosser like you find all them little boys, am I right?"

  Luke wanted to grab that knife out of his hands and gut him like the bass he and his father used to catch on the Rock River when he was a kid. This psycho is a killer. Not a pretend one like he imagined himself, but the real thing. If all he had to do was take a few cheap insults to survive this, then he had no choice. Turning the other cheek isn't easy, but it's necessary.

  "Gimme your phone," Zion said.

  "What?"

  "I said, gimme your phone."

  "It's over there," Luke said, gesturing toward the desk at the other end of the small room.

  "Go grab it. But don't try nothing funny, right?"

  Luke nodded and slowly made his way toward the phone. Part of him wanted to grab the thing and dial 911, but he'd be dead before he hit the floor. Those stupid pages weren't worth his life. The young priest grabbed the Nokia 6.0.

  "Unlock it."

  Luke did as told and opened the device, handing it to his captor.

  "Another cheap shit phone," Zion laughed.

  Father Luke didn't care. Having a thousand dollar smartphone defeated the point of a humble life. Not that he was going to point it out. With three of his fingers still wrapped around the knife handle, Zion tapped on the screen.

  "There we go. Facebook Live!"

  "But I don't know this guy. We certainly aren't Facebook friends," Luke said, confused.

  Zion traded the phone into his left hand, leaving the right one free to secure his grip on the blade.

  "No, but when I livestream this, it's gonna be everywhere. Mr. Jericho'll get the message."

  ILVII

  Nestled between a barbershop and an urgent care is Tommy's Chop Suey. The Roseland institution had been part of the community for as long as anyone could remember. Jericho ate here too many times to remember, but was never crazy about the place. Turned out Ike is a big fan, and seeing as the F-150 was back at RainyDay, he's the one with the car. They walked in, and the pawnshop owner made small talk with the cook and girl at the register while Jericho zoned out, trying not to think about how terrible things had gone at the Center. Not that they didn't go pretty much as expected, but he still had to see the place. He had to see her. Maybe for the last time.

  "Watchu want, E?"

  Jericho didn't catch the question. Instead, he wondered if his sister was right. Would everyone inside be in danger because he was there? He did drive twenty-two hours non-stop across the country because he's being hunted by a fellow assassin. Hard to argue her point.

  "Food, man. Whatchu want?" Ike clarified.

  Jericho turned back to Ike. He didn't care for anything at Tommy's, but seeing as he never got that lingua taco, he probably could stand to grab a bite. Looking at the handout menu, he realized how much he didn't want to eat anything here, but when in Rome. Or home.

  "Beef and broccoli," he said with an indifferent shrug.

  "Good choice."

  Ike pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket, which isn't a surprise considering pawning is a cash money business. Jericho, a wealthy man himself, isn't stupid enough to turn down a free meal. Even a free meal he didn't want.

  "Why you back home?" Ike asked.

  "I dunno."

  "Come on. Why you home this time?"

  "This ain't really home anymore."

  "You right about that. The place you run away from can't really be home. Even if you was born there."

  "I ain't run away from nothing," Jericho said, almost insulted.

  "First time, you got that big ol' scholarship. That didn't work. So you came back. Then you shipped out. That didn't work, neither. So you came back. Then you was gone for a long time. I thought you might've been dead. But then you came strolling in the shop like some big-time player. I'll be for real, you scared me a little. You don't look like that now. You look like that kid who's always getting in trouble. So, why you back in Roseland?"

  Something about old-timers and their way of always cutting through the bullshit. "I'm always in trouble, but this time it's different."

  "Is it bad?"

  "No. It's done. For the first time since I left here, I got no ties. I got this business I can walk away from. I got enemies, but they don't know where I am or how to find me. I spent the last fifteen years trying to be a ghost. I did it. I don't exist anymore."

  "Don't sound too happy about that?"

  "Order up!" The cook shouted.

  The girl behind the counter, a high school kid with thick glasses and a toothy smile, handed Ike a tray. He ordered the pork fried rice. The two took a seat at a booth. Ike gave him one of those paper containers that only exist in Chinese restaurants. Correction: Chinese restaurants in America. Jericho opened the tab and got hit by an intense smell. He expected it to turn his stomach, but it didn't. To his surprise, it reminded him of hanging out with the boys after one of those ugly Chicago Public League football wars of attrition. The kind where both sides barely field enough kids to make a full team. The kind where everyone has to play both ways. Those games came down to whatever team was tougher. He hadn't thought about those days in years.

  "I don't know what to think," he said jamming the tines of a plastic fork into a piece of broccoli covered in brown sauce.

  "That's a problem. You gotta know what to think. Otherwise, you're just a leaf in the wind, blowing all over. Floating around, no purpose, til you shrivel up and die out."

  "Ike, I seen some fucked-up, evil shit, but that's the most depressing thing I ever heard," Jericho laughed.

  The heavyset pawnshop owner laughed and took a bite of rice and pork.

  "Sad, but true. Me, I don't go nowhere. I got roots. This is my home, and sometimes it ain't good, but sometimes it is."

  "You still live in Roseland?"

  "Where else am I gonna go?"

  "You got money. You could live anywhere. Why stay here?"

  "Where'm I gonna go? Hyde Park? Kenwood?"

  "Hey, Kenwood's nice.”

  "C'mon!"

  Jericho took a bite of the broccoli and was even more surprised by the taste. It's tangy and warm. It didn't taste any different than he remembered, but so much better than expected. If his eyes weren't shaded, they'd pop out of his head.

  "Better than you remember?"

  "A lot."

  "It's like that sometimes."

  “Mr. Jericho!"

  A familiar voice with a thick, cockney twinge echoed a name no one in that diner should know. Jericho dropped his plastic utensil and shot h
is head around, ready for war, but no one was there. Just Ike, the cook and the girl behind the counter. Maybe it's his imagination.

  “Or is it Mr. Ishikawa?”

  It came from the TV mounted to the wall in the corner of the restaurant. The news broke in with some kind of special report. The video on the screen didn't look like regular news coverage. The camera had a vertical frame like it was filmed with a cellphone. Jericho stood and moved closer to the screen. The priest from Holy Name slumped over in the center of the frame. His face looked beaten, deep cuts bled from above his eye. He might have been missing a tooth, it's hard to tell. The person behind the beating filmed it for all social media to behold. Jericho didn't need to see his face. He recognized the voice instantly.

  "I came all the way out here to find something very special. Well, I got it back. But I want more. I want to have a lil' chat, but there's so many places in this city. Maybe we can meet up? Hate for you to cancel a check, if you get me. See you soon."

  The blade of a hooked hunting knife swiped down as the news report cut away from the video back to a vapid anchorman who'd soon turn the look of despair into a happy smirk when he'd tell some dumb, human interest piece later.

  Canceled check? What did that mean? After he bailed, those pros probably tore the house to shreds. But there's nothing that could have led them here. He made sure of it. There were no pictures, no yearbooks, no personal items at all. He didn't even have a checkbook with his name. Only the one from ALCONTRA that—

  "Shit!"

  "Maybe you ain't as free as you thought," Ike reminded him.

  ILVIII

  "Hey, Ike, does your shop have any, uh...."

  “Guns?"

  Jericho looked around Tommy's Chop Suey and realized this is a crisis situation, but neither the cook or the cashier cared. He nodded silently.

  "Man, this is Cook County. You can't even ask that question."