The Shadow Priest: Omnibus Edition: Two Complete Novels

by D. C. Alexander

  "There he is," Arkin said. "You're on."

  "Wish me luck."

  With that, Morrison went downstairs and explained to a cashier that the manager, Jessica Stapleton, had asked him to inspect the electrical panel for a potential circuit breaker update for a Wi-Fi expansion. The cashier bought his story and led Morrison back to the panel.

  "Do you know which breaker controls the Wi-Fi?" he asked. The cashier did not, but got an assistant manager who did. Morrison took notes on the electrical panel brand, the amperage of the different breakers, and so forth, trying to make his visit look legitimate. He turned and looked back across the store to see Trlajic just sitting down at a table and powering up his own laptop. Then Morrison got out his phone and called Arkin, still upstairs and waiting to activate the coconut. "Ready?"

  "Ready."

  "Here we go." Morrison switched the Wi-Fi circuit breaker off just as Arkin turned on the coconut's rogue Wi-Fi signal—to which they'd assigned the name "Starbucks Free Wi-Fi 2," hoping Trlajic wouldn't notice or care that the usual Starbucks home screen didn't pop up when he opened his web browser. Morrison loitered for another few moments, continuing his fake inspection of the panel, then switched the circuit breaker back on, knowing it would take a couple of minutes for the authentic Starbucks free Wi-Fi router to reactivate itself and produce a signal—by which time Trlajic, happy and oblivious, should already be logged onto the coconut's rogue WiFi signal instead.

  *****

  "Well?" Morrison asked, back on the second floor with Arkin. Trlajic had just departed after half an hour of internet use.

  "Got his personal email account. And Facebook and Instagram."

  "Ah, social media. The opiate of the people."

  "No banks or anything quite that juicy."

  "It's a start."

  They spent the next couple of hours snooping through Trlajic's email and social media pages. Among other things, they learned that Trlajic's favorite movie was The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, that he liked to post tiresome right-wing rants about liberal politicians, and that he didn't have many friends. They found nothing that suggested Trlajic had any connection to Sheffield or the Priest's group.

  "Frustrating," Arkin said.

  "He probably has other email accounts."

  "Yes, but does he ever log onto them here? And even if he does, how long will it be before he does? And how many times can you pull your fake electrical panel inspection so we can set up the coconut?"

  "So what now?" Morrison asked.

  "We break into his house."

  "Let's do it now, while he's at work."

  "No."

  "No?"

  "We don't know that he's at work. He could be on his way to the dentist."

  "He'll go to work after the dentist."

  "Don't be rash. Maybe he's getting a root canal and will want to go home afterward to ice his jaw and dope himself up on pain meds."

  "Okay. So we do it when he goes to work on Monday, after we track him from his house."

  "The Department of Justice Headquarters building has too many exits for one person to cover. He could slip out a side entrance unseen and come home to catch me in flagrante, turning his place inside out."

  "What's your plan then, smart guy?"

  "Tomorrow is Saturday. You'll tail him whenever he goes out while I stay and search his place. That way, you can give me a heads-up whenever he turns for home."

  "Won't there be a greater chance of neighbors being home and noticing us on a Saturday? You'd probably have a lot more time in his house if you went in right after he left for work. That's the better plan."

  "I could do it your way. But then we'd both be wrong."

  "It's a stupid plan."

  "Thanks for your input."

  SEVENTEEN

  The next morning, Arkin and Morrison sat in a nondescript rental car at the end of the alley behind Trlajic's house.

  "This is boring," Morrison said.

  "Complaining is viral misery."

  "That's good. A Nate Arkin original saying?"

  "Julian Treasure. A business communications guru."

  "Well, good for him. I need to take a piss."

  "Go behind some garbage cans or something."

  "Too many windows looking down on this alley. I can't be getting myself arrested for public urination. Then again, my boss, raging alcoholic that he is, probably has a long rap sheet for that very offense."

  Another half hour went by with Morrison holding his urine.

  "There's something that's been nagging at me about the idea of Sheffield's group," Morrison said.

  "What would that be?"

  "Why the extremism? For that matter, why 9/11? Why the Holocaust?"

  "Are you dancing around the hard-to-swallow truth that none of us are born evil? That we're all cute and sweet as babies? Are you asking why the Hitlers and bin Ladens of the world go off the rails?"

  "Not at all. I already know it's all about existential fear, a love-deprived childhood, self-esteem issues, undescended testicles, et cetera, et cetera. What I'm wondering is why all these jerks can't just make due with some nice positive self-affirmations."

  "You mean like saying 'I like myself' over and over again in the mirror each morning?"

  Morrison smiled. "Well, something like that. I mean, we're all afraid of the same things, right? So why do some of us opt for group therapy, while others of us turn into paranoid, murderous despots?"

  "Maybe therapists need to have better advertising."

  Morrison chuckled. "Yes. They're missing out on that niche Hitler/bin Laden demographic. If they just had a Don Draper type to—"

  "There he is," Arkin said, watching Trlajic emerge from his back door and walk down the steps to the carport where his Volvo station wagon waited. "Keep in touch," he said as he jumped out, and hid behind a parked van.

  Morrison followed Trlajic's Volvo down the alley and onto 18th Street, heading north through the Adams-Morgan neighborhood. Trlajic didn't go far. Barely 14 blocks from home, he pulled to the curb on Columbia Road, so Morrison pulled into a no-parking zone a few cars back to watch. Trlajic got out and paid the one=hour limited parking meter. He was carrying a small duffel bag. Trlajic walked passed Morrison's car, before turning into a yoga studio. Morrison got out and walked down the sidewalk, scanning the reception room of the yoga studio as he passed it. No sign of Trlajic. He was probably in a locker room suiting up. Morrison went back to his car, found a better place to park on the far side of the street, half a block away, but where he could keep an eye on Trlajic's car. Then, from under his seat he took a small aerosol can of quick-hardening, gap-filling insulation foam he'd purchased at a hardware store the previous evening, fitted the straw applicator to the nozzle, and tucked it in his coat. He got out of the car, crossed Columbia Road, and made his way down the sidewalk toward Trlajic's Volvo, scanning the street for pedestrians. Reaching Trlajic's car, satisfied that the coast was clear, he crouched down, inserted the straw applicator as deep as it could go into Trlajic's tailpipe, and depressed the aerosol nozzle, filling the tailpipe with insulation foam. It would harden in moments, completely blocking the flow of exhaust and thereby incapacitating Trlajic's car.

  "You have the green light for burglary," he told Arkin over the phone after getting back to his rental car.

  "He just took his duffel into a yoga studio on Columbia Road."

  "Yoga?"

  "I know, right? There's something about the image of a big, hairy, bushy-eyebrowed Serb doing yoga that's just comical, isn't there? Anyway, I have eyes on his Volvo, and he isn't going anywhere."

  Morrison was glad that Trlajic had parked where there was a one-hour parking meter. It meant that Trlajic probably wouldn't leave his car and walk home. He'd have to sit there feeding the meter as he waited for a tow truck.

  Traljic would eventually find out what the problem with his car was, and would then no doubt wonder why someone had deliberately incapacitated his car. If he was indeed
involved with the Priest group, then he'd probably figure that someone was taking a look at him. But by that time, with any luck, Arkin would have found whatever he needed at Trlajic's house.

  *****

  Back at the rear basement door to Trlajic's house, Arkin slipped on a pair of latex gloves, extracted a set of lock picks from his jacket pocket, and set to work on Trlajic's ancient deadbolt, inserting a tension wrench in the bottom of the keyhole and raking a slender pick back and forth along the pins. In less than five minutes, he'd set the pins and was turning the deadbolt open. He stepped into the dark, dank basement of the house, closed the door quietly behind him, then stood and listened. All was quiet.

  *****

  Five hours later, Arkin and Morrison met at a pizza parlor on 14th Street. "Well?" Morrison asked as they sat down in a booth in far corner of the restaurant. "Don't leave me in suspense."

  "Aside from discovering that Trlajic has a thing for chocolate milk and weird black lacquer furniture, I didn't find a damned thing. Turned the place inside-out. Nothing to do with the Priest's group. No fake passport. No tantalizing wall safe. No philosophy books or pamphlets even remotely touching on any of Sheffield's favorite causa belli."

  "Causa belli?"

  "Reasons for his actions. Reasons for the group's existence. Reasons for their little ideological war."

  "So where does that leave us?"

  "It doesn't guarantee that he isn't part of the group. Maybe the group's members are disciplined enough to keep their email accounts and residences sanitized of anything that could link them to the group. Maybe they're being extra careful because they're all on notice that I'm still on the loose and presumably on the hunt."

  "Or maybe I just wrecked the tailpipe and muffler on some poor, innocent schlub's car."

  "Maybe."

  "I'll ask you again, where does that leave us?"

  "Let's break into Killick's condo on Capitol Hill. We know for certain that he's in the group, so we're starting from a better place."

  "And after that? I'm not paying for a flight to Chile if you don't have anything more than a fax number you traced to Valparaiso. It could be the fax number for the Valparaiso Kentucky Fried Chicken, for all we know."

  "Let's just see what we see."

  EIGHTEEN

  That evening, they sat in their car a few doors down from the front entrance to Killick's condo building. It was raining.

  "I scouted this place to time people's departures and arrivals during the workweek," Arkin said. "Being Saturday, that doesn't help us much. But I still think I'll be able to recognize the residents as they approach."

  They sat for several minutes in silence. Arkin’s face began to grow dark.

  "What's wrong?" Morrison asked.

  Arkin took a breath. "Thinking about Hannah."

  "Yeah? I imagine it's going to hurt for a long time."

  "It isn't pain, exactly. It's like a cold, heavy emptiness. Takes the strength out of my shoulders and arms. Makes me want to just go to bed and stay there."

  "Do you buy that malarkey about how it's better to have loved and lost or whatever?"

  "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Alfred Lord Tennyson."

  "That's the one."

  "I buy it. I buy into it with every fiber of my being."

  Morrison just shook his head.

  "How come in all the time I've known you, you've never been in a serious relationship?" Arkin asked.

  "It isn't legal to marry your horse."

  "Really, now. You don't feel like something is missing from your life?"

  "Please. Look what you're going through. You think I want to expose myself to that?"

  "I just told you it was worth it."

  "Look, love always starts off exciting and delightful. But before long, at best, it ends up as nothing more than a thin, inadequate blanket in a world that keeps getting colder and darker."

  Arkin smiled as if he harbored a heartening secret. "You're an ignorant man."

  They were quiet for half a minute.

  "I used to have this dream," Arkin said.

  "Do I really want to hear this?"

  "It was a recurring dream I had all through my childhood and young adulthood. I had it as far back as I can remember. The setting and finer details changed from dream to dream. But the thrust of it was always the same."

  "Did it by chance involve a lumberjack who liked to put on women's clothing and hang around in bars?"

  Arkin turned to Morrison, looking half irritated, half perplexed.

  "Monty Python?" Morrison asked. "The Lumber Jack Song? Ring any bells? Never mind."

  "Every time I had the dream, I would come upon a crystal-clear pond, creek, river, or lake. Whatever it was, it would be full of huge rainbow trout. Absolutely full of fish. A fisherman's greatest fantasy. So immediately, I'd set to figuring out a way to get fishing, driven by a pure, joyous longing. Yearning to catch one. And yet, every time I had the dream, there was a fundamental problem. If I had a fishing rod, I couldn't find a reel. If I had a reel, I couldn't find any fishing line. If I had line, I couldn't find a hook, lure, or bait. I'd be frantic, running around trying to find what I needed before this unlikely schooling of beautiful fish dispersed or disappeared. An exercise in frustration. And even if it was one of those rare dreams in which I was able to finally get everything I needed together, the moment I got my fishing line in the water, I'd wake up." Arkin closed his eyes as if lost in memory.

  Morrison sat waiting for more. "Okay. And your point is?"

  Arkin opened his eyes and looked at Morrison. "Once I proposed to Hannah, I never had the dream again."

  "Huh," Morrison said, looking genuinely thoughtful.

  "And the funniest thing is, back when I had these dreams, I'd never even been fishing. My father never took me. Sheffield taught me when I worked for him at DCI. Took me out to a tributary of the Shenandoah that ran off the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia."

  A young woman was approaching the building with a bicycle.

  "There's one of the residents now," Arkin said. "Go."

  Morrison jumped out and walked toward the front door of Killick's building at a pace that would have him arrive there a moment after the woman. She unlocked the door and struggled to keep it open as she rolled her bike in. Morrison grabbed the door and held it for her.

  "Oh, thank you."

  "Of course," he said as he followed her in. Killick's place was on the third floor. Morrison took the stairs, then was pleased to find that Killick's door was around a short corner of the hallway, out of sight of anyone who wasn't going to his condo. Morrison went to work on the locks with the same set of picks Arkin had used on Trlajic's place earlier. Once in, he called Arkin and hit the buzzer to unlock the building's front door.

  *****

  It was a typical D.C. bachelor pad. Beige wall-to-wall carpet. Beige walls. Bland, big-box hardware store cabinetry, fixtures, and appliances. The first thing they noticed was the stench of molding fruit and rotting garbage. Arkin found what had probably been a bowl of oranges on the kitchen counter which he dumped into the under-sink garbage can and tied off while Morrison opened windows. Killick had been gone for several weeks—having abruptly disappeared once Arkin and Morrison had flushed Sheffield out of hiding in Oregon. From the look and smell of things, he'd left in a big hurry. There were dirty breakfast dishes in his sink. The decaying carcasses of two starved fish—possibly betas—bobbed along the bottom on each side of a partitioned, algae-slick fish tank. On the floor over in one corner of the living room, they saw a spring chest expander, an ab cruncher, and two 45-pound dumbbells—Killick's meager excuse for a home gym. On the other side of the living room, more black lacquer furniture.

  "This guy must have the same decorator as Trlajic," Morrison said.

  There was one item on the walls that could almost be considered a piece of art. It was a Patrick Nagel print of a black-haired woman in a brown wrap. It was the type of pri
nt Arkin might have expected to find in a 1980s fraternity house bedroom. There were four other framed photographs—two on the wall—two on the black lacquer entertainment center. One of Killick on the stern of a large boat holding up a large swordfish. One of Killick holding his fists high in a triumphant pose next to a sign that said, "Mount Kilimanjaro—Congratulations—you are now at Uhuru Peak, Tanzania—5,895m/19,341ft AMSL." One of Killick, shirtless and sweaty, crossing the finish line of a bike race, again with a fist raised high in the air. One of Killick standing in the middle of a line of beautiful women who looked Native American and were each a head shorter than him.

  "How pathetic," Morrison said as they both scanned the photos.

  "Needless to say, Killick has self-esteem issues. His father was a hypercritical, emotionally unavailable jerk."

  "Well, that's something else you two have in common."

  Arkin grabbed the photos of Killick with his giant swordfish, took it into the bathroom, and tossed it in the toilet.

  "What did you do that for?" Morrison asked.

  "Frank Visco says prepositions aren't words to end sentences with."

  Half-oblivious to the joke, Morrison went on. "Let's not lose our composure," he said as he strode into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door looking for something to drink. "Things just got weird."

  "What?" Arkin followed him into the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator. Two of the three shelves were filled, wall-to-wall, with bottles of some sort of nutritional supplement drink called "Thor's Hammer Male Enhancement Formula and Stamina Booster—Double Chocolate Flavor."

  "Now we know the secret to Killick's renown," Arkin said.

  "Really? Is he a player?"

  "Only in his own delusional mind."

  They took a quick tour of the rest of the condo. As Morrison opened the door to what they assumed would be Killick's guest bedroom, he said, "Things just got even weirder."