by J. D. Oliva
"Thank you for the sale. Be safe in Amsterdam."
"I will."
Dana stood and slung her backpack over her shoulder. The two shared an uncomfortable smile before moving on with their way. After this trip to Amsterdam, she would definitely hit the reverend up for some more advice.
VII
The construction crew broke ground on the lot across the street from the Provo City Temple and its golden statue of the angel Moroni. Scatters of screaming protesters lined the streets outside of the site. Holding signs that read Keep Satan Out Of Utah, The Temple is Truth, and God Forgive Us, the crowd eventually broke into the Mormon hymn I Love To See The Temple. The construction workers might not have agreed with what was happening, but they had a job and a client with a court Church.
A stretch Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the site. The driver immediately opened the back door. Out stepped a middle-aged man with a shaved head and a curved royale beard. He was dressed in a rather plain-looking suit and was flanked by bodyguards. When the crowd saw him, they erupted in a new hymn, one made entirely of boos.
A young television reporter stuck a microphone in his face. "Excuse me, Mr. LeMay, can we have a word?"
"Of course."
"The people of Provo made their thoughts on your proposed statue clear. Why are you still building something the community doesn't want?"
"Because this is America and the Provo City Temple is located across the street from land that we now own."
"But, Mr. LeMay, does the city really need a statue of the elder god Cthulhu?"
"No, it doesn't. Just like it doesn't need a giant golden idol looking down on everyone. That didn't stop the LDS Church from building theirs, either. Both of them are fictional characters created by unscrupulous racists. The only difference is Lovecraft never tried to convince people Cthulhu was real. Oh, and they got a tax break. The Church of the Golden Sun is putting money into the community with this construction, the permits, and fees. How does that thing actually help the people of Utah?" Antonio LeMay asked, pointing at the statue of the angel who, according to the Book of Mormon, unveiled great secrets to Joseph Smith.
"Some might say the angel gives people hope."
"Some may. Others may say that religion has no place in a public forum."
"But the statue is on private property," the reporter said.
"So is ours. All we ask is for people to ask questions, and if the statue of a giant octopus monster forces people to ask those questions, then it's worth our time and money. If you'll excuse me," LeMay said, turning his attention back to the construction site.
Though the city of Provo was unhappy, LeMay and his Church had won their day in court, and the loud protests were bringing attention to their cause. Precisely what LeMay wanted.
VIII
BZZD BZZD BZZD—
Behind the wheel of his Ford F-150, Jericho looked down at his vibrating phone. It was a call from the business. Not the old business, but Cherry Vale Security.
Jericho bought the green F-150 off a local farmer. With a V-8 engine and lifted frame, it was the perfect vehicle to traverse the mountainside. She also became something of a favorite of his. On the job, he typically traveled in a Humvee. Coming back to Provo and jumping into some regular sedan or sports car always seemed wrong. The F-150 was a nice bridge vehicle. It also fit well in this part of the country, unlike everything else about Jericho.
"This is Jaime Escalante," he answered over the truck's Bluetooth speakerphone.
"Hi, Mr. Escalante. It's Rich."
Rich Weaver is the brains and effort behind the day-to-day operations of Cherry Vale. He is the guy who keeps the ships moving while Jericho jet-set across the globe taking care of their higher-end clientele. Or that's how things used to run. Now with much less to do, he found himself dealing with Rich a lot more.
"Hey, Rich. What's going on?"
"Mr. Escalante, I'm on this Kassen Grocery job out in Salt Lake City. We're having issues with the client."
Who isn't having issues with their clients these days?
"What kind of issues, Rich?"
"Well, we've installed the American Eagle Package, but the client is arguing about the quote."
"You gave him the quote, right?"
"Yes."
"You're the one who signed the deal with him, right?"
"Yes, Mr. Escalante."
"Then why are you talking to me about this?"
"Well, the client's really upset."
"Rich, I hired you to manage the business. This is business management. If he signed the contract for the Eagle and the crew installed the right package, then you did your job. Just try to make him happy."
"I don't know if I can do that."
"Then tell him to call the complaint department."
"We have a complaint department?"
"Nope." Jericho pushed up on his blinker as he approached the compound located deep in the mountains outside of town, near Provo Peak.
"One more thing, Mr. Escalante."
"What is it, Rich?"
"I've gotten three phone calls this morning from a guy named Garces?"
"And?"
"He keeps asking about the Advantage Treatment. He sounds pretty desperate."
"I told you, we no longer offer that service."
"Well, I was wondering if maybe I could forward you his number and you can—"
"Absolutely not, Rich. I don't deal with clients."
"Yes, sir. The man kinda begged me to talk to you personally, so I just—"
"He asked to speak to me?"
"Well, he asked for my boss."
Something about that felt off. Jericho drove into the hangar he jokingly referred to as his garage and pulled the F-150 up next to the Hummvee, which is also retired. The whole point of Rich Weaver, the entire point of Cherry Vale, is so Jericho could do his real work without any oversight. Less-educated minds might call Cherry Vale a front. Maybe in an old school, mafioso-kind of way it was, but all the clients purchased CV Security systems. His work was a little bonus. But regular people weren't supposed to ask about the Advantage Treatment, not unless they received the card, none of which he handed out recently. Maybe he did get sloppy? All the more reason to walk away from the business.
Jericho closed the door of the truck and looked onto his fleet of twelve vehicles. All high-end four-wheel drive machines. Sports and luxury cars never were his thing. Each one of these could serve some type of function out in the field. Trucks, SUVs, low-grade military vehicles, in retirement, it all seems a little much. Maybe it's time to sell a few and buy something a bit more fun? What about a Corvette? It might be different driving something like that around. At least it would give him something to do.
Back in the day, if Jericho had any downtime, he spent it training or mediating before his jinja, a small Shinto shrine in his bedroom. Training the mind is as essential as the body. Or at least it was. Regardless, Jericho needed to find something to fill the days. Life started to become boring.
A quarter-mile walk separated the garage from the mailbox near the gate. Most of it wound down the dirt road some people would call a driveway. Jericho took this walk nearly every day, the past eight years or so, but only recently did he start to notice how damn loud the dame crickets were out here.
The mailbox was empty, save for one non-addressed letter. Usually, these would get thrown into the trash, but Jericho had a good idea where it came from. He tore open the envelope. Inside was a check for five thousand dollars made out to 'RainyDay' from ALCONTRA Products. The word VOID written in black marker across the check. ALCONTRA is another shell corporation he set up to funnel money to any charitable organizations he liked. After all these years, there is only one place he ever sent anything, and she wasn't interested in his money. In thirty days, he'd send another hoping one day she'd realize he was a different man. But not today.
Jericho entered the kitchen door, tore the check-in half, and threw the remains in the trash. The house was i
mmense, but hollow in its silence. He used to appreciate that silence after an intense, dangerous job. Now it was just quiet. The only sound he heard is the thundering guilt rumbling through his memory. Silence sucked.
Maybe he should get a dog?
IX
The white conversion van that quietly made its escape from the Kröller-Müller Museum pulled into an alley behind the Hotel Van Gogh in Amsterdam. Company already waited for them. A tall, twenty-something black man with a shaved head and sunglasses stood in front of a red MINI Cooper. He stood nearly 6'8" with a wiry, muscular frame hidden beneath a white, hooded Moncler jacket. The word ZION wasZion's MINI Cooper. tattooed under his left eye.
The van parked and the back door slid open, revealing the second hooded thief, the one who was hit in the shoulder but escaped from the scene. He pulled down his black hood and looked over his shoulder.
"Are you Zion?" he asked with a Dutch accent masking any hint of irony.
The man in the white jacket nodded.
"You got the package?" Zion answered in a thick Cockney dialect.
The thief nodded, heading to the back of the van. He slid open the back door and revealed a large, flat cardboard box.
"Little help?"
Zion didn't move. The thief shrugged and struggled to move the box, which hid the missing Monk.
"This would be a lot easier with some help, mate."
Zion stayed in position.
"You been well paid by the Church. Little lifting ain't gonna kill you."
"Funny you say that. You know what would have killed me? Bullets flying by my head!"
Zion smirked.
"You knew the plan. A distraction was necessary to let—" Zion leaned forward, trying to see if anyone else was inside the van.
"That Garces in there?" he pointed to the driver.
The thief pulled the odd-shaped box out of the van and carried it over to Zion's MINI Cooper.
"No, he boxed it up and took off. The deal was I make the drop."
Zion's icy demeanor cracked. He leaned into the thief, making sure he understood the assassin was easily a foot taller.
"Where's Garces?"
The thief put his hands up. The last he wanted was to fight Zion. "I got no idea. I make the drop-off, not Garces. That was the deal."
Zion reached into his jacket and pulled out a curved hunting knife, making sure the thief saw the hooked blade slowly hover just beyond his face. Zion's face tightened as he drove the blade downward till it caught the cardboard cover. He quickly pulled the knife across the top, slicing through the cardboard and unveiling The Monk.
"Be careful, man. That thing is valuable!"
"Shit's worthless," Zion said as the blade ripped through the three-hundred-year-old painting.
"What are you doing!?"
Zion reached his hand into the tear, revealing a hidden compartment built into the frame.
"Where the pages?" Zion asked with a tinge of frustration.
"What pages?"
"The Prayer Pages!"
“The job was to steal a painting. I've never heard anything about any pages. I swear I don't know what you're talking about," the thief said, trying to calm Zion.
Zion shook his head before slashing the hooked blade across the thief's throat. The precision of the cut was perfect, severing the jugular instantly. The thief would be dead in less than thirty seconds. Zion reached back into his jacket, pulling out a Glock G45 handgun. As the van's wheels squealed, he sent three rounds into the van. Two of them struck the driver before he peeled out.
Zion pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Mr. LeMay, Garces made off with The Prayer."
X
Dana O'Brien's plane landed at Schiphol Airport a little after 9:00 pm or 21:00 in Amsterdam. Dana tried to sleep on the flight, but kept having nightmares about Jim Jones trying to force arsenic-laced Kool-Aid down her throat. Turns out Julia Summerville's book on Doomsday cults is pretty compelling, but after finishing a hundred pages or so put it away. She could have started work on her own book, but instead chose to pay for the airplane WiFi and binge Season 4 of Friends on her phone.
Dana had a strange habit of always being the last person off the plane, whether a quick flight or an overseas venture, it didn't matter. She was still the last person to exit. Maybe it's that journalist thing about not wanting to miss something that might happen. More likely, it was an old procrastination habit of waiting to last possible minute to do something. Lord knows, nothing good waited for her in Otterlo.
Just more death. That's one thing that never got easier, seeing the carnage and the aftermath. She got a little too close to being part of the aftermath last Christmas, which made her wonder which Christmas would end up being her last. That's how this whole thing would end someday. Dana made peace with how she would go out, and most days, she was pretty comfortable with it, but when the veil dropped, the reality of eventuality stung.
BZZZZ
She hadn't been on the ground for more than ten minutes when her phone caught the notification. The art theft she'd been sent out to cover had taken another violent turn. The update said the lone thief who escaped the scene three days earlier had been killed, and so had the getaway driver. What a neat and tidy way for things to wrap up.
Dana caught an Uber from Schiphol to the Hotel Van Gogh. Again, what lovely, little coincidence the way things happen to focus on this artist. When she pulled up to the site, she was a little surprised to see how similar it looked to an American crime scene. Not sure why she expected it to look different in Europe. Another bit of that American ignorance.
Dana hopped out of the Uber, an orange 2014 Renault Clio, and approached the scene with the same confidence and bravado she did back in Chicago. A tall detective with tousled blond hair, probably in his thirties, looked to be running things. Dana played to her strengths, and even in a foreign country, she knew how to get answers.
"Pardon me, sir. Do you speak English?"
He smiled at her. An easy mark.
With only a slight accent, he said, "I'm sorry, miss, but this is a major crime scene, and I'm afraid it would be best if you kept walking. We have to make sure our tourists stay safe, ja?"
"I see, but what if I told you I'm an American journalist?" she asked with a playful smirk that she had no doubt he'd misread.
"I might ask why an American reporter girl was all the way in Amsterdam. But I think we both know why," he said, possibly referring to the city's reputation.
"I think we both know why I'm here."
"I thought so. Maybe after my shift, we can stop at a coffee shop, and I can tell you about the job?" he smiled, handing her a business card as she pretended to blush.
Dana looked down. Between the Dutch, she could read the name Inspecteur Bram Meijer. There was also an international phone number, which would cost way too much to ever dial, but the politie.nl email address might come in handy.
"That sounds fun, and maybe you can tell me why an art thief is gunned down in the middle of downtown Amsterdam?"
"Sometimes these deals go bad. Criminals aren't nice people."
"Oh, okay. Maybe you can answer one more question?"
He nodded and smiled.
"What kind of an art deal gone bad happens after the criminals fail to steal one of the world's most famous Van Gogh pieces in the first place?" Dana made sure to pronounce Van Gogh with the hard proper soft F sound and not the more common, incorrect hard O. "I mean, if the plan was to steal The Potato Eaters, why did they bother taking a painting like The Monk?"
That surprised him. Dana O'Brien was more on the ball than he expected.
"Who are you?" the detective asked.
"I'm Dana O'Brien, BuzzClip News."
The flirtatious smile disappeared. Now he was just annoyed.
"Well, Miss O'Brien, it's obvious that these thieves wanted to create a distraction to their real crime, stealing that painting," he said motioning to the destroyed painting on the street.
/> "That's a lot of time, effort, and blood to just destroy something and leave it in the street. It's almost like this has nothing to do with art at all. But the real question I have is why go through all that trouble?"
"Who knows why criminals do what they do?"
"Money. Nine times out of ten. But that's not what I mean. Why is this whole thing so violent? Why does a museum security guard open fire on a group of thieves in the first place? Why would they risk the lives of innocent people visiting a museum? Seems extreme. Almost as extreme as killing the guy who stole a useless painting."
The detective was speechless. This guy wasn't exactly Jack Shane.
"Maybe whatever distraction these guys created is still going on?" she added. "The long con, you know?"
The detective looked down to the street. He was done talking.
"No comment."
Dana had enough to go on. At least enough to start. But if these guys weren't really after The Monk, what were they looking for?
XI
Jogging in the mountains isn't fun. It's not supposed to be fun. It's supposed to be training. Not just training the legs, but the lungs and most importantly, the mind. The heightened elevation teaches the lungs to take in more oxygen than would be necessary at normal sea levels. Jericho needed strong lungs on the job. Having lungs that never gave out is an advantage, especially as he advanced in years.
Running, jumping, fighting all required peak physical conditioning, and it was something he'd been doing since his days on a high school wrestling mat. That's where he learned to run for distance. But what he really learned on those nights running down Stoney Island Parkway on Chicago's South Side, is how damn hard it was on the mind. He quit the first few times on those long runs. Then he lost. Young E promised to never allow himself to lose again. Running became more about training the brain to disconnect from the body when it felt pain. He never lost again.
Long after that career ended, Jericho kept running. In the old job, he needed to disconnect his mind from the often vile things his body would do. The more Jericho thought about the work, the less he liked the man he became. When he went full-time freelance, he learned to use the disconnection to push through the pain of war. It taught him to survive.
