EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories

by Sean Chercover

  He moved on, taking in the bright colors and rough textures, shrill sounds and pungent smells of the seventh largest metropolis in the world. Second largest, on what was, but a few generations ago, referred to as the Dark Continent.

  The aroma of charcoal-grilled meat, peanuts, and hot chilies drew Daniel to a smoky green tent across from the voodoo shop, sandwiched between a stall brimming with colorful jewelry, hand-beaded in Nigeria, and one selling counterfeit Gucci and Louis Vuitton handbags, made in Southeast Asia, bribed through customs, and liberated off the back of some transport trailer.

  An old man sat in the swirling smoke, skin dark as ebony and beard whiter than ivory, shifting wooden skewers of various cubed meats around on a rusty hibachi, calling out:

  “Suya, Suya!”

  Hanging on the canvas wall, a menu of sorts:

  PORK

  CHICKEN

  BEEF

  GOAT

  Beside the menu hung a line drawing of a snake coiled around a pole, cradling a large egg in its open mouth. Damballah Wedo. The Source—Creator of the Universe, chief among the loa for the Yoruba practitioners of the Ifa religion, and for practitioners of new-world offshoots like Vodun in Haiti, Santeria in Cuba, Voodoo in America.

  Daniel had been warned not to purchase any animals—dead or alive, cooked or raw—in the market. The meat of cats and carrion birds sometimes masqueraded as chicken, dogs and hyena as beef. The rumor of what passed for pork was too horrible to contemplate. Goat was the safest choice. Goat meat had a taste you could train your tongue to identify, and goats were plentiful, cheap to raise—probably not worth faking. Daniel always ordered goat. He held up two fingers.

  “Eji obuko, e joo.” Two goat, please.

  The old man offered a gap-toothed smile and held out two skewers.

  Daniel handed over some bank notes—the equivalent of about twenty-five American cents. He’d have been happy to pay five bucks, but that would’ve been an insult to the man’s pride, so he just paid the price listed on the menu.

  “E se,” he said. Thank you.

  The old man held up a hand. “Ko to ope. Kara o le.” You’re welcome. Good health.

  Daniel dodged through the crowd, spotted a quiet alley behind a fruit stand, made his way there, and sat on an empty crate to eat. The suya was delicious, maybe as good as that served at the Ikoyi. And he was pretty sure it was goat.

  He wiped his fingers on the rough paper napkin as he stood, turned, and then he saw the boy, six feet away.

  Saw the boy before he saw the gun.

  The boy couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Skinny kid. Too skinny, wearing cutoff jean shorts, two sizes too big and held up with a rope belt, and a once-white t-shirt, threadbare and stained. A small gold cross on a thin chain around his neck. Complexion almost as dark as the suya man, eyes set far apart. Eyes more desperate than afraid.

  And then Daniel saw the gun. A snub-nosed revolver, pointing at his chest.

  “Gimme your wallet.”

  Daniel dropped the paper napkin, raised the index finger of his left hand, and slowly fished the wallet from his back pocket, nodding his head the whole time.

  “No problem, I understand.” He kept his tone casual, his face placid. He finished chewing the last bite of lunch, swallowed. “Here’s my wallet.” He opened the wallet, showed its contents. “No plastic, but I’ve got two hundred Yankee dollars, and you’re welcome to it.”

  “Hand it over.”

  Daniel locked eyes with the boy. “Well, now that’s the problem. You can have the money, but only in exchange for the gun.”

  “What?”

  “I’m offering you the money, but I’m buying the gun. It’s a purchase.”

  The kid stared at him, processing. “Then I just shoot you, take the wallet anyway. How you like that?”

  Daniel held the kid’s stare. “I really wouldn’t like that at all. Have you done it before?”

  “Plenty times.”

  “No,” Daniel put compassion in his smile, “you haven’t,” he drew the bills from the wallet, “and you don’t want to start now.” He pointed at the cross hanging from the kid’s neck. “You really want my blood on your hands? Carry that with you for the rest of your life? Answer for that, when your time comes?” He slipped the empty wallet back into his pocket. “Give me the gun, and you can have the money.”

  The kid bit his lower lip, shook his head. “I give you the gun, you shoot me, take your money back.”

  “Fair enough.” Keep the head nodding and the tone soothing and the message positive: “Here’s a solution. Take the bullets out, and then hand me the gun, and that will make you happy.” Of course, he could pistol-whip the boy into submission with the empty gun easily enough if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to, and he figured the kid could see the truth of his intentions. Just as he was betting that he could read the kid. “Two hundred, American. Just give me the gun and it’s yours.” Always be closing.

  The boy thought for a few seconds, then flipped the cylinder open and dumped the bullets into his left hand and shoved them into his jeans. He held the gun out and said, “Same time.”

  They executed the trade by simultaneous snatch, and the kid ran away. Daniel took the gun to the back of the alley. If he gave it to the police, it would be back on the streets before nightfall. He cocked the hammer, used a rock to break off the firing pin, smashed the hammer until it bent and wouldn’t snap back into place, and tossed the now useless weapon into a trashcan.

  A voice behind him said, “You really are a sucker.”

  Daniel knew that voice. He turned around. “How long were you watching?”

  Father Conrad Winter pulled at his clerical collar, letting a little air in, and grinned. “Long enough.”

  “Thanks for the help.”

  “Any time.” The priest pulled at his collar again, wiped a handkerchief over his forehead, pushing back his damp blond hair. “Hot as a bitch out here, let’s find some shade.”

  2:

  CONRAD WINTER SNAPPED HIS FINGERS at a waiter, and the waiter put a two-hose hookah on the table, went away, and came back with a copper pot of sweet Turkish coffee.

  Daniel didn’t want this meeting but Conrad’s position as head of the Office of World Outreach was of equal rank to Daniel’s boss, Father Nick. Refusing to meet was not an option. At least the café was cool, with open walls all around, massive ceiling fans turning above. He reached for the hookah, picked up one of the hoses, and puffed. The hookah burbled, and his mouth filled with the taste of coconut. He blew out the smoke.

  “What brings you to Lagos, Father Conrad?”

  “The case you’re working on.”

  “I’ve got six open files, three more on-deck. I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

  Conrad sipped some coffee. “What is it with you, anyway?” He gestured at his collar. “It’s a powerful symbol, makes you a minor god to these people. Why not wear yours?”

  The last thing Daniel needed was people putting on more of a show for him than they did already. But he wasn’t about to take the bait. “Too hot,” he said.

  “Tell you one thing,” Conrad puffed on the hookah, “that kid never would’ve pulled a gun on a priest.” He blew out a white cloud. “I’m curious. How much did you give him?”

  Daniel shrugged.

  “And how much does a gun cost on the street? Forty, fifty bucks?”

  Another shrug.

  “So what did you achieve? He’ll just buy another gun, with cash to spare.”

  And the kid probably would. But what the hell. Daniel had resolved the situation without hurting the kid or getting shot, and as a bonus, he’d taken one gun off the street.

  And maybe he’d given the kid something to think about.

  Maybe.

  He puffed on the hookah. He said, “Which case?”

  “The girl.”

  “Which girl?” He knew perfectly well which girl, but he wasn’t giving anything away for free.<
br />
  By way of explanation, Conrad held his hands out, displaying his palms. “South of Abuja. We need this one.”

  So Conrad had access to Daniel’s e-mails. Only way he could’ve known his personal persuasion was necessary. Another fun-filled day of Vatican office politics.

  “The investigation was fair,” said Daniel. “The girl is not a miracle.”

  “A lot at stake here, Golden Boy.”

  “Especially for the girl.”

  Conrad shot back the rest of his coffee, sludge and all, brought the cup down hard. “You think you’ve got the moral high ground? You don’t. We’re at war, and this girl lives on the front lines. Thirteen provinces have gone over to Sharia Law, soon fourteen, and it’s spreading south. You see that one girl, you want to save her. Hypocritical. What about the millions of other young girls unfortunate enough to be born in this place? What chance will they have, if the tide keeps rolling? You think God wants us to trade all their futures for that one girl, so you can wallow in your integrity?”

  “This isn’t about me.”

  “The hell it isn’t.”

  Daniel swallowed his first response. “Father Conrad,” he said, “I agree with the goal, but this is not the way to get there. The ODA is independent for a reason, and we don’t knowingly certify fake miracles.”

  “From what I hear, you don’t certify any miracles.”

  A little below the belt, but Daniel didn’t flinch. “Not yet. Still looking, though.”

  “Then step down off the cross and look a little harder at Stigmata Girl. The parish has been flooded with converts since she started manifesting.” Manifesting. That’s what they called it back at the Vatican. “Did you even read the Outreach brief on Nigeria before going native and eating the bush meat?”

  “It was goat.”

  “Boko Haram is acting on its promise. The head count is over a thousand and accelerating.”

  “Father Conrad, I read the report.”

  “Then consider this: despite everything, and because of this miracle, we’re winning hearts and minds up there.”

  “I wish you success in keeping them, but my orders are clear. I follow the evidence where it leads.” Daniel put back the rest of his coffee. “And I don’t work for you.”

  Conrad reached into his jacket and came up with an envelope, handed it across the table.

  Daniel turned the envelope over, and his heart sank. The flap bore the red wax seal of Cardinal Allodi, the direct superior of both Conrad and Father Nick. Daniel had long suspected Allodi favored the political mission of World Outreach over the more esoteric duties of the ODA.

  Daniel broke the seal and read the letter.

  Fr. Daniel:

  Due to departmental workload fluctuations, you are hereby on transfer status from the Office of the Devil’s Advocate to the Office of World Outreach. You will report to Fr. Conrad Winter until further notice.

  In faith, we serve.

  “Cardinal Allodi told me about Honduras,” said Conrad, “so don’t act like you’re above this.”

  Daniel’s blood rose. He pictured breaking Conrad’s nose with a hard right, followed by a hook to the ribs and an uppercut to... He reined it in, refocused on what the man was saying.

  “…you can’t just pretend it never happened. People died because of you. I guess we’ll never know exactly how many at your hand, but—”

  “Three,” said Daniel. “I killed three. And you already know that…or are we pretending you haven’t read the case file?”

  Conrad’s mouth tightened very slightly. “Watch yourself, Daniel.”

  Daniel nodded, not an apology but a grudging acknowledgement of his station.

  Conrad’s tone turned conversational. “You’ll enjoy your time in Outreach. We have many pencils that require sharpening, and you’re just the man for the job. We’ll cure you of your sin of pride, and you’ll be a better priest when I decide it’s time for you to return to the ODA.” He flashed Daniel a grin that said: Checkmate.

  3: Rome, Italy…

  DANIEL PICKED UP HIS HONDA Shadow from long-term parking at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, hit the Autostrada, and pointed the motorcycle toward the lights of Rome, barely seeing the road, his mind replaying scenes from Nigeria.

  The obsequious parish priest, angling to parlay his local miracle into a promotion to the Big City. The grandparents and parents filled with pride because “God has chosen our little Abassi to bear the wounds of Christ.” And the teenage girl with endless brown eyes, manic energy, and a handful of three-inch twisted-shank roofing nails hidden under her mattress.

  Daniel had caught her in the act. He knew she was self-mutilating, but he played dumb for a few days, interviewing the girl and her family with softball questions, lulling them into a sense of security. Every few hours, the family would contrive to leave the girl alone. “She needs to rest, this is so hard on her,” one of them would say, and all would agree with pitying nods of the head, wringing their rough country hands. They would sit in the kitchen and drink tea from chipped china, and when they returned an hour later with a cup of tea for the girl, their footfalls were loud and they paused a little too long between knock and enter.

  Willful blindness. He tried not to hate them for it.

  On the third day, during one of the girl’s “rests,” Daniel excused himself from the kitchen table and headed for the bathroom, exactly as he had done the previous days. But this time he walked straight to the girl’s room and threw the door open.

  She sat smiling on her bed, quietly singing Jesus Loves Me while jabbing a nail straight through the palm of her left hand. Then twisting the nail, enlarging the hole as blood dripped into her lap.

  Conrad wasn’t wrong about what was at stake. The twisted, fundamentalist brand of Islam that Boko Haram was selling in Nigeria was beyond regressive—it was violent, misogynistic, and apocalyptic. Their name meant “Western education is sacrilege.” They’d vowed to kill all the Christians living in their territory, and they were making good on it. They’d already killed over a thousand, burned over three hundred churches. Last Christmas Day, they slaughtered forty-two Catholics. The moderate Muslims struggling to govern the country in cooperation with the Christian minority were losing ground to the Islamist radicals, and after years living under the imminent threat of civil war, no one wanted to admit that the war was in fact well underway. The politicians still used the term insurgency, but it came out sounding like wishful thinking.

  OF COURSE THERE was no argument with Conrad’s goal, and yes, faking a miracle might help win the current battle, but it could very well lose them the longer war. And the mandate of the ODA was to always take the long view and evaluate miracle claims honestly.

  And then there was the girl with the holes in her hands, the girl who needed help from a psychologist, not validation of her neurosis from the Vatican. Calling this a miracle would only guarantee her complete destruction.

  Conrad was willing to jettison this girl—condemn her to a life of mental illness—for the greater good, and call it collateral damage. Call her collateral damage. But to Daniel, you cross that line and now you’re cutting God’s grass. It’s one thing to try and do God’s will, quite another to start making His decisions for Him. If pride was Daniel’s sin, it seemed a little less monstrous by comparison.

  Daniel said a long prayer for the girl, crossed himself, and returned his attention to the road ahead.

  ***

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you’re letting this happen.”

  Father Nick, head of the Office of the Devil’s Advocate, shrugged broad shoulders, leaned back in his chair. “Out of my hands. His Eminence oversees both departments—if he wants you in World Outreach…”

  “I’m an investigator—I have no business over in Outreach. You know that.”

  “Easy, Dan. Your skills as an investigator are not in question.” Nick gestured at a chair across the desk. “Sit.”

  Daniel sat. “It’s politics, isn’t it? Conrad’s
pissed because I won’t fake one for him, and he got Cardinal Allodi to go along.”

  “That would be my theory,” said Nick. “His Eminence didn’t share his deliberations with me. I lobbied for you, but…” He rose to the antique mahogany wet bar, poured golden Armagnac into a couple of crystal snifters. “I’ve skimmed your e-mails on the case. You say there’s no miracle.”

  “No miracle. Just a messed-up teenager sticking nails into her hands and feet when everyone’s back was turned.” Daniel took the offered glass. “And their backs were turned a lot. Everyone wanted it to be real.”

  Nick sat. “Okay. I know it’s rough sometimes.”

  “The girl started self-mutilating at twelve. For three years, the whole town—family, friends, even her priest—treated her like a gift from God. I spent three days in that madhouse, and I can tell you, that girl is seriously broken.” He took a long swallow of brandy. “And we’re the ones who teach them that stigmata exists.”

  Father Nick fixed the younger priest with a firm stare. “Just because you haven’t seen it yet doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

  But in a decade investigating miracle claims for the Vatican, Daniel hadn’t seen anything yet. Ten years of stigmatic self-mutilators and schizophrenics hearing voices and con artists pumping salt water through hollowed-out statues of the Blessed Virgin. Ten years of oil drum rust-stains that look kinda-sorta-almost like Jesus if you squint your eyes just so and hold your head on an angle and harbor an intense desire to see Jesus in a rust-stain.

  Ten years.

  Seven hundred and twenty-one cases.

  Not one miracle.

  It wasn’t as if Daniel wasn’t hoping for a miracle. But even setting aside the principles involved—even if he were willing to start down the slippery slope of ends justifying means—the girl in Nigeria would never stand up to scrutiny, she’d be exposed as a fraud. And putting the Vatican’s stamp of approval on a fake could lead to the kind of PR the Church didn’t need in the war for hearts and minds. “You’re not suggesting I change my verdict on this case, are you, Father Nick?”