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

by J. D. Oliva

  The FBI agent didn't matter. Anderson didn't even matter. He was just the host. Nothing but a Ford Pinto with Ted Bundy behind the wheel. He wanted the Nightcrawler.

  When both men were sure that Flores and Nashida were gone, Anderson took the seat at the end of the table. With his face stained in red and purple bruises, Anderson sat quietly, almost staring at Jericho in reverence. That was uncomfortable.

  "Why did they capture you?" He finally asked.

  "I let them. They aren't the enemy."

  "But why stay here in these conditions? Couldn't you escape and reign fury down upon these people?"

  "Anytime I want," Jericho confidently lied.

  The truth is, he had no idea how to get out of this situation. Evading police is a necessary skill in the business, but he let this thirst for revenge overtake him. He stopped thinking clearly in the moment. The mistake he made was taking too much pride in the work. He should have killed Anderson, burned the body, and if the FBI caught him afterward, who cares? At least the job would be done. Instead, here he is shackled to the floor while his enemy looked on, maybe a little too affectionately.

  "We are the same, you and I. You and us," Anderson corrected himself.

  "Nah," Jericho had no idea what Anderson meant. Still, the thought of being anything like that seemingly immortal parasite made him sick.

  "It's true. We both kill. Not for sport or for pleasure, but because of our programming. I've been inside enough humans to understand this concept of addiction. This unbridled need to do something. It's not like that for us. Either of us. You may tell yourself that your chosen career path pushes you into killing, but the truth is, you just chose a mode to fulfill your purpose. Even without this career path, you would have found yourself in these conflicts. Because it's just what you are."

  Jericho bit his tongue. That's bullshit. He could walk away from the job whenever he wanted. He was a warrior; in control of his actions. Jericho was the master of his world.

  "On my travels through the south, I met a family called Slater. They were like us, but different. This family took pleasure in killing. They were monsters. We aren't monsters. We're just fulling a purpose. Like you. Where we failed is the aimless pursuit of our existence. Bouncing from one place to the next, drifting like a frog hopping across the road. I lack direction."

  "You keep shifting from we to I. Which is it?" Jericho asked.

  "Yes. Hard to explain. I was born recently inside the mind of this shell they call Anderson. I know what he knows, see what he sees. I see his past, taste his experiences. But there are other memories. Too many to explain or categorize. Memories passed down; making us something more."

  "You're a hive mind."

  "Something like that. When I die, which will be soon, we will move forward. We were born inside of a laboratory called the Forge many years ago. Designed to create the perfect assassin. One who wouldn't understand why they did the things they did. One that would confess to their crimes. One that would wither away and die without understanding what they'd done."

  "Like a Manchurian Candidate."

  Anderson nodded.

  "We've learned what that means. The problem is, our creator deemed us a failure long before we had the chance to live out our purpose. We were tossed into the trash. We found our way, but looking back, our creator was right. We are a failure. I failed to live up to our potential. We were born to kill kings."

  Jericho laughed, "Instead, you pick up sad sacks in bars. Even for a worm, you suck."

  To his surprise, Anderson didn't react. It was almost like he agreed. Hard to argue the point, he guessed.

  "Then, there's you. You are what we should be."

  "You don't know who I am."

  Anderson leaned into Jericho's face, almost like he was about to kiss him on the lips. Jericho thought about head-butting him, but violence, though fun, wouldn't fix this situation.

  "No, but we know what you are. Together, we could fulfill our creator's purpose. We could fill that void."

  "Brother, that ain't gonna work," Jericho said with a tone that revealed a little more than he was comfortable with.

  Anderson started to laugh, and for the first time, Jericho was actually afraid of the man with a purple face. "You speak like you have a choice. This is what will happen. You will become us, then we will be."

  "Go fuck yourself, Dr. Suess."

  Anderson, or more appropriately, the Nightcrawler, laughed again as he rose to his feet. He walked behind Jericho, who was starting to reconsider the no violence in jail thing.

  "Our father would be so proud," Anderson said, wrapping his long arms around Jericho's torso, pinning his elbows to his chest.

  Jericho tried to struggle, but Anderson was shockingly strong. Whether it was his natural strength or something the Nightcrawler was tapping into, he didn't care; he just had to move. Anderson's mouth opened wide, and Jericho heard the sound of a thousand locusts ready to let loose a Biblical plague inside of his head. Something pushed its way inside of his ear, sliding down the canal like thick water. Jericho remembered the story Chris told him about what he saw. No one was going to walk in and save him. Sounds were muffled as, what felt like liquid, filled the inside of his ear. The more he struggled, the more Anderson's grip tightened.

  Then something popped.

  ILIX

  The next thing Jericho heard was the sound of keys unlocking the cuffs. Whether it was the cuffs on his hands or on his feet, he wasn’t sure. The sound was muffled, almost like he was underwater. His vision blurred. Even the glasses didn’t seem to be doing a good enough job cutting the light anymore. Anderson helped lift Jericho up from his seat. The assassin pushed him away. He was dizzy and disoriented but still had control.

  Whatever was happening inside of him, he could fight it. Fighting is what he did. Fighting is what he was better at than anyone in the world. He sure as hell wasn’t going down to a freaking worm.

  “Just let go,” Anderson said.

  “Fuck you,” Jericho said, landing a left cross against the detective’s jaw.

  Or at least he thought it was his jaw. The guy is pretty tall and Jericho had to close his eyes to keep the light out.

  “Just relax,” Anderson said again.

  Jericho swung wildly, hoping to make contact with someone. Or something. But the more he wildly threw punches at the wind, the more he felt how pointless it was.

  No! It wasn’t pointless. Even if it seems certain that you will lose, retaliate. Neither wisdom nor technique has a place in this. A real man does not think of —something. Why couldn’t he remember Master Yamamama’s words.

  Words.

  Warms.

  Worms.

  Inside his head all he could see were worms feeding on the dirt and the muck. Embracing their lives as bottom-dwellers, chewing the remnants of the past, ground up by time, turned to ash and soil. Turned to food. They fed on mistakes and death. They fed on history.

  “You’re fighting, but you don’t have to. We want what you are. You just need to be you and we’ll take control of the rest.”

  That didn’t even make sense. Except it was perfect. Killing was business and business was always good for Ethan Jericho. Wasn’t it? So hard to tell nowadays. Especially when the dogs roll around in the fields with their ponies and airships in the water—

  What the hell?

  That really made sense-senseless sensical system surveying the scene with such sights and summertimes—

  Stop!

  This isn’t you thinking. It’s the worms. It’s playing with your brain bananas in pajamas bowleramas.

  Jericho fell to the floor. His mind drown in word vomit.

  He was gone. The Nightcrawler is in control.

  L

  Chris sat back in awe watching Jamie slam an entire twenty-ounce beer, in what looked like one sip. It reminded him way too much of watching the old man on a weekday morning before The View came on. He had to remind himself Jamie was a normal college student, which
meant a fair amount of binge drinking.

  That culture was a big part of the reason he had a hard time adjusting to college life. He never understood the fun of it. Nothing good ever came out of tossing a few back. This entire experience was a friendly reminder.

  Regardless, watching someone drink like that grossed him out, so he peered his eyes around the bar. He expected her to drag him to something with more of a nightclub atmosphere. The Fairview Inn was a little dive off St. Clair Avenue and seemed to be more for townies than the typical college party place.

  The smell of fresh toasted ravioli, an apparent St. Louis food tradition that was actually deep-fried rather than toasted, filled the air. It smelled fantastic, but Chris couldn't eat. There was too much on his mind. Being the subject of an FBI manhunt for example.

  Jamie put the glass down on the table and gathered her thoughts. This should be good.

  "Okay. I don't believe you," she finally said.

  That didn't surprise Chris. He told her the story a half-hour ago, and she sat silently on the ride from East St. Louis to here.

  "I knew you wouldn't."

  "You're probably crazy." No argument there. "But, I still don't think you killed anyone."

  "I was with you all day."

  "You were. Can I have another?" she asked the bartender.

  The most amazing part of all this was how effective a fake ID really was. Jericho created one for him that he used to get inside the train station and the one he showed the cops back at the Dixie truck stop. But he was a world-class assassin; she was a regular college kid. The bartender looked over to Chris, and he shook his head. "Can I just have an iced tea?"

  “Relax, no one from the FBI is going to look for you in this dump,” Jamie said, a little too loudly.

  “Shhhh!”

  “Whatever. I still don't know what to do next," she said, not looking him in the eyes. Maybe it was something he said?

  "Me neither. I can't go back to St. Louis, but I don't know where else to go. Our friend Ethan ditched me, and I'm on my own."

  "I'm not sure what's safe for us," she said, taking the first sip of her fresh Bud Light.

  "There doesn't have to be an us. You don't owe me anything."

  She put her drink down and looked him in the eyes for the first time since he told her about the Shane family Christmas.

  "You're right, but this isn't about you. I owe Alyse, and Mom and Dad. I don't believe your little stories, but I know my mother and my sister did. If helping you helps make whatever this is stop, I'm all for it." She took another, slower sip. "Even if I don't understand it."

  "Thank you, I guess," Chris said, taking a sip of the tea. He grimaced at the taste. Sweet. Sweet tea was nasty and fake, unnecessarily making something perfectly tasty and healthy into a dependent chemical connection. It did make him wonder if maybe whatever the hell the Nightcrawler was had some sort of chemical dependency and needed to kill people to keep it in check. It's possible.

  BZZZT—

  BZZZT—

  BZZZT—

  Chris reached for his phone and saw an unknown number. Didn't take a genius to figure the caller out.

  "Yeah."

  "You never got on the train," replied a harsh but familiar voice.

  "No, I ran into some trouble."

  Jamie looked up curiously. Chris raised his eyebrows a few times, which she guessed was code for our guy is on the other end.

  "Where are you now?" He asked. Something about his voice was off. He sounded a little aloof, almost distracted.

  Chris looked around. Part of him wanted to blurt out that they were in a shoddy bar in some town he never heard of before now, but that wasn't a good idea. He was still a fugitive on the run. He didn't need to announce his location.

  "I'm away."

  "You need to come back."

  "Is that a good idea?"

  Jaime couldn't hear the conversation on the other side, but she could see his expressions shift from curious to uncomfortable.

  "Yes. You need to come to the Chase Hotel as soon as possible."

  CLICK

  Chris pulled back and looked at his phone the way people do when they're trying to make sense of what the person on the other end was trying to say.

  'What?" Jamie asked.

  "You know where the Chase Hotel is?"

  She nodded. "It's right across the street from the stadium."

  "I guess that's where we're going," he said, standing up.

  "Right now?"

  Chris scanned the bar quickly until he found the sign reading men's room.

  "As soon as I take care of this," he nodded toward the bathroom. He shuffled away from the table, leaving his cellphone behind.

  He pushed the door open and found the closest urinal. Chris unzipped and released the two ice teas he huffed down since they entered the Fairview Inn. Another man pulled himself up to the next stall.

  "Hello there, Mr. Shane."

  Chris turned his head and caught sight of a familiar face that took him a second to place. It belonged to a stocky African-American man with very dark skin. He had a swollen eye, like he'd been punched in the face by a biker who'd been hit by a flying container of coleslaw.

  "Shit."

  The FBI agent smiled and pointed his weapon at Chris. "You're under arrest."

  This is going to make things more difficult.

  A moment later, Agent Oroye burst out of the bathroom door with Chris Shane in tow, his hands cuffed behind his back. Chris looked over to Jaime, who buried her head, pretending that she didn't know him. Smart move. She was already in too deep. The other two agents from Gateway Station were waiting near the exit. As Oroye pushed him out the door, Chris looked back to Jaime and shouted.

  "Thanks, everyone, for letting me know the freaking FBI was here! You're all a bunch of one, six, five, zeros! One, six, five, zeros, all of you!"

  LI

  BZZT

  "Hello," Jericho answered.

  "This is Jamie Casten. Chris was just arrested."

  "Were the men dressed in police uniforms or were they plain-clothed?"

  "They were wearing dark suits. I don't know what to do."

  "Follow them and call me back," Jericho hung up the phone and turned toward Anderson. "The FBI has Shane."

  Anderson rubbed his chin and looked around the cold, sterile interrogation room.

  "What is his next move?" Anderson asked.

  "Eventually, the reporter from Chicago will ask questions. She will make things worse."

  "Then, we need to silence the boy. After that we will find the reporter.”

  Jericho agreed. It was time they leave these surroundings.

  "He will tell the FBI agents everything," Anderson added.

  "Then, they will also be silenced."

  Anderson reached into his jacket and pulled out a second Glock 22. He grabbed it by the muzzle and handed it, grip first, to Jericho. The assassin took the gun, but squinted. The light overpowered his eyes. It was evening outside, and as soon as they left this building they could escape the harsh illumination and embrace the evening. The Nightcrawler was new to Jericho, but it knew how to move in these surroundings. They nodded to each other, and Anderson opened the door.

  The two immense men moved shoulder-to-shoulder down the long corridor. Their frames so thick that they would have trounced anything in their path, let alone in their current condition. The two towers turned down a second hallway with large white blocks that seemed to radiate with the overhead fluorescent lights. Jericho needed to leave. A confused Officer Flores stood in their way.

  "Detective Anderson? Why is he out in the open?" Flores asked.

  "I'm taking the prisoner with me."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but you know that's not allowed." Flores reached for the radio holstered to his shoulder. "We've got a situation down here."

  "That won't be necessary," Jericho said. He drew the Glock and sent three bullets into the officer's chest.

  Anderson looked a
t the carnage and marveled. He could feel the callousness in their new host. It sent a rush throughout them. This was the right move. Anderson's time was limited. Soon he'd wither away, leaving Jericho on his own. In the meantime, he needed to help set the stage for his progeny.

  Anderson pushed open the door and led Jericho to the Honda Civic in the SLPD parking lot. The Nightcrawler opened the doors; Anderson in the driver's seat, Jericho, in the passenger. Very casually, the red Civic pulled out the lot and headed for the highway.

  Jericho unlocked his cellphone and dialed.

  "Hello?" Jamie Casten answered.

  "Are you following the FBI's vehicle?"

  "Yeah, it's on I-64 heading back toward the city."

  "Perfect. Keep a safe distance and keep us posted on their location."

  Jericho hung up again. Anderson and Jericho sat in silence. Their thoughts still entangled with each other. When Jericho closed his eyes, he saw glimpses of a thousand lifetimes flowing into each other. His conciseness no longer belonged to him. It was merged into the collective thoughts of the creature crawling in his head. His mind was their mind. He was them. He saw the Petrie dish they were born inside. Men with white coats stood around in awe at their birth. A proud father created the next great plague to release into the world. In his mind, Jericho heard the name Hephaestus, but didn't know what it meant.

  Jericho opened his eyes to the present day. His understanding of their role in this world was much more clear. The darkness surrounding their vehicle helped ease his transition. The night was much more comforting to his eyes. Even the host seemed to dislike the brightness of the lights, which was odd as most hosts didn't seem to possess this affliction.

  No matter. They needed to find the boy.

  LII

  "If you take me to the Chase Hotel, I'll tell you everything you need to know," Chris said from the back of the black sedan. He didn't have time to check the exact make and model.