by J. D. Oliva
As Daddy and Dana walked under the swinging light, the Monk finally lifted his head. He was so sorry. It was all his fault.
"I'm sorry, Dana."
She looked up to Daddy to ask why the Monk was so sad. But Daddy was gone. His face was covered in fur with sharp teeth baring from his wet snout. Daddy turned back to her and lunged.
RRRRRAAAWWWWRRR
Dana snapped up and found a flight attendant standing beside her.
"I'm sorry to startle you, miss. We've landed."
Dana slowly turned her eyes side to side and she was alone again, but this time in the empty plane. It landed and emptied without so much as startling her. Nice that she managed to sleep the entire eight-hour flight away. But she still felt a little out of her element. On the upside, she got to be the last one off the plane again.
Dana didn't utter a word back to the flight attendant. Even with the equivalent of a full night's sleep in her, she may as well still be asleep. Her brain slipped into autopilot as she flowed into the US side of customs. The agent checked her passport.
"Do you have anything to declare?"
Dana silently shook her head and watched the agent hand the tiny blue pamphlet back to her. She didn't remember taking it, but when she looked down, it was in her hands. She didn't check a bag—anything worth taking overseas should be on you the entire flight, her father's words echoed in her head.
Dana reached the baggage claim and grabbed her phone to secure the Uber home. The phone was dead. Probably drained somewhere over the Atlantic. She couldn't believe she hadn't looked down at it till now. Is this jet lag? Sure seemed the way people described it.
Unable to call the Uber, she moved to the outside vestibule. It's a comfortable summer evening in the city of Chicago. Seventy-five degrees with an already set sun, though without her phone, Dana had no clue of the actual time. She almost felt like some kind of a responsible adult when she hailed a cab the same way her parents used to back in their day. A Yellow Checker pulled up, and the dark-skinned driver asked, "Where you going?"
"2510 North Halstead," she said, giving the driver her Lincoln Park address.
Dana got in the back of the cab and drifted off further as the car pulled onto I-190 headed from the far west airport and back into the heart of the north side of the city. Her eyes closed for a moment, but jutted back open when she found the only thing waiting for her on the other side was a lonely Monk, and he didn't want the company, but whoever was with him sure wanted her to come back.
"Hey!"
She snapped back into reality.
"Hey! We're here," the cabbie said. "That's $47.50."
The cost was the hardest tether she had to the real world. She couldn't believe that price. No wonder ride shares were putting these assholes out of business. She swiped her credit card and exited the cab.
Dana unlocked the metal gate and walked up the six concrete steps leading up to her apartment's front door. This jet lag was killing her. She'd need at least another five hours of sleep to start feeling normal again.
Unlocking the front door, she dropped her two carry-ons, one with her clothes and the other her laptop.
"Curtis," she called for her cat.
Dana zombie shuffled into the kitchen and took a drink directly from the faucet, something she'd never do with a hangover, let alone with her wits. The water hit the spot though. Sad to say, this is the best she felt since boarding the plane.
"Curtis," she called. But again the cat didn't answer.
She dragged her feet across the wood floors of the dark apartment, tracking through the living room, headed to her bedroom. She lived alone, and unlike most people in the city neighborhoods, she could afford the rent.
"Curtis, where are you?"
PRRRRR
That's when she heard her friend's familiar purr. A purr usually reserved for when he got a lot of attention. But how? She turned toward the purr and assumed Curtis was in his usual spot in her cheaply made, horribly assembled Ikea chair. There he is, exactly as she figured, but he's not alone.
"Welcome home, Dana."
That voice. Dana flipped the light switch and found her best friend curled up in a very familiar person's lap.
"Good to see you again," Jericho said.
XXVI
Jericho scared the shit out of Dana.
Mission accomplished. Driving twenty-two straight hours across the country in a gas-guzzling pickup truck and using some fairly basic lock-picking skills he learned in childhood was easy. Her security system should be harder to hack, considering Cherry Vale installed the Falcon Package on the building last year. Good thing he had Rich Weaver call the building manager shortly after New Year's. Not that Jericho would tell her. Appearing like Batman out of thin air was something he took a lot of pride in. The less the marks knew how the magic is done, the more powerful the magician seems. At this point, he was only smoke and mirrors.
"We had a deal," Dana said.
She looked groggy when she walked in a minute ago. Adrenaline fixed that. Jericho was more than happy to nap in this surprisingly pleasant piece of easy-to-assemble Swedish furniture. The comfy cat helped, too.
"We still do. I've got a name for you. Paolo Garces."
Dana raised an eyebrow. "What do you know about him?"
"Didn't know a damn thing till he showed up on my doorstep yesterday afternoon," Jericho said, stroking the cat like Don Corleone. He knew the image he projected.
"Your doorstep? You live near Provo?"
RRROOAWWW
The cat shouted when Jericho let go of him. Curtis landed on the floor and sprinted into Dana's room. How did she know? So much for that hidden compound in the mountains. At this point, is there anyone who didn't know where he lived?
"Why you ask?" he asked, trying to hide his concern.
"Cause he was killed in a bathroom stall at Provo Municipal Airport."
Being on the run, Jericho hadn't done a good job keeping up on the current events.
"Can't say it surprises me considering who else showed up."
"Wait? What are you talking about?" the naturally curious reporter asked.
"A bunch of thugs paid me a visit. They're pros, but a little sloppy."
"Business rivals?"
"Not exactly," Jericho smiled for some reason. He had no idea why at this point. His training told him to portray strength even in times of weakness. This is the weakest he'd ever felt. But he couldn't show her that.
"I can't say it surprises me you're involved in this, but doesn't mean it makes sense. Were you involved in the robbery in Otterlo?"
For being terrified less than a minute ago, he's impressed she managed to regain her composure and take over the direction of the conversation. The kid grew a lot in the last half-year.
"Had no idea that was a thing til I read a little story. Turns out my little writer-bird's learning to fly."
"Damn straight," she snapped back.
"Like I said, yesterday this Garces shows up at my place asking for protection. I turned him down."
"Why?"
"Because that's not the kinda work I do."
"Didn't we meet when you got hired to kill a cop who turned out to be a—you know?"
Jericho didn't like losing control of the conversation, but she's making this difficult.
"I'm retired."
Dana seemed confused for a minute before a switch went off in her head.
"Oh, I get it," she said, clearly remembering how Jericho looked after the catastrophe at the Shane Christmas party.
The look on her face didn't settle well with him. Maybe he really had lost a step?
"Anyway," he tried retaking control. "He leaves this portfolio at my place without telling me. These jabronis got the jump, cause I didn't know I was a target. Fight or flight, know what I'm saying?"
"Then you saw my name on the byline and came here."
Jericho pointed at her as if to say bingo. He would've winked too, but she wouldn't see it behind the
sunglasses.
Dana stood silent for a second with her arms across her chest before raising an eyebrow of her own.
"You said something about a portfolio. Did you look inside?"
"I did."
"And?"
"Take a look," Jericho said, gesturing to the coffee table between them.
Dana found the black zip-up portfolio case laid on her coffee table. Maybe it's the lack of light in the room, but the truth is, she was so tired she probably would have eaten breakfast on top of it without noticing had Jericho not pointed the thing out.
She took a seat on the couch and unzipped the casing and was a little surprised to find the large manilla sheets with blood-red ink. She flipped through a few of the thick folio pages. Puckering her lips like a confused duck, Dana turned back to Jericho hoping for an explanation.
"Not what you expected?" Jericho wondered.
"Not at all. I thought for sure it would be a painting of a monk."
"That's kinda specific."
Dana grabbed her phone and handed it to Jericho.
"Sup with Friar Tuck?"
"That's the stolen painting. The Van Gogh stuff was a diversion."
"Your little article said they found it."
"First, I don't write articles. Second, I still can't figure out why they'd steal that painting just to leave it in the middle of the street in Amsterdam."
Jericho took another look at the immense manila page. The more Jericho ran his fingers against the lettering, the more he thought this couldn't be some sort of paper. More like an animal hide.
"Your—" Jericho paused, trying to find another word for article before remembering her opinion didn't matter, "article said the painting had a huge frame."
"Yeah. It was brass but painted to look like gold. If it were worth anything, they wouldn't have left it behind."
"Like you said, what happened in Amsterdam was a business deal gone bad. What if what the client paid for wasn't the painting at all, but the frame."
"But then why didn't they take the frame?" She asked, confused.
Jericho, a veteran of more than a few shady business deals, got it.
"Cause like you said, the frame's got no value. But what's inside the frame?" He nodded to the pages neatly stuff inside the black case.
"You mean, what if the painting was itself a diversion?" Dana looked out of her window on to the glorious view of an alley dumpster and a brick wall. "And what if the scowl on the monk's face was because he was hiding something?"
"Huh?" She lost him with that one.
"Nothing. I'm just thinking." Dana took a closer look at the pages, running her finger over the words. "In nomine patris tenebris, exaudi orationem meam."
"You can read that?"
"No, I just did it phonetically. It looks like Latin, which actually makes sense."
"Why does that make any sense?"
"Because the name of the painting is The Monk. Latin is the language of the Catholic Church."
Jericho nodded. That did make sense. He clapped his hands together. The sound rang out almost like a gunshot ringing out and made Dana flinch.
"Now we gotta find a priest."
XXVII
Zion rented a hotel room in Salt Lake City. Just far enough from everything, but not so far as to require any real travel. He needed the time to heal, both for his eyes and his ego. He checked into a Hampton Inn near the airport. The place is clean and commercial. Not the type of establishment guys in the game would frequent, which made it the perfect place to recover.
Zion's crew got the jump on the guy in Provo, but still got beat. Yeah, the client put specific parameters around this job that made it difficult, but they still should've brought him in. If they knew he was a pro, maybe they would have been better prepared. But of course this guy was a pro, why else would Garces go to him? LeMay thought he was another thief. Just some business associate in America. Short-sighted and stupid. That wasn't happening again.
Zion removed every lightbulb from all the lamps, even from the fixtures in the bathroom. He needed to make sure the lights stayed off in the room. Then he tacked the blankets to the window. Sunlight is the enemy. He may as well be a vampire. Whatever it took to recover. Zion tore a strip from an old t-shirt and wrapped the scraps around his eyes. Though he couldn't see himself in any of the room's mirrors, he looked just like Zatoichi, the blind movie samurai. He hated those stupid movies, but he'd seen enough of them to get the look. A lot of the guys in the game liked that samurai garbage. Now all he had to do is let nature run its course. His eyes should be fine in a few days.
The question is, what could an international assassin do with his downtime?
"Alexa, call The Prince."
The Bluetooth device did the rest of the work.
"This is Prince."
"You didn't tell me about any pros in Provo."
"Erik, hi. How're you?" Daniel Prince deadpanned on the other end.
"Ain't calling to bullshit. I wanna know everything about the brother in Utah."
"Utah? Why you must have met Mr. Jericho. I'm a little surprised you're still alive."
"Yeah. I wanna know e'rything bout this little bitch."
Prince laughed. "You really don't. He's everything you'd like to be, plus fifteen years’ experience."
"That so? He work for you too?"
"Not for a long time."
"This isn't business. I'm supposed to be your boy now. I need information."
"That depends. I'm always willing to make a deal."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
XXVIII
The green Ford F-150, now bearing 1MA PR0 Missouri plates, pulled into a parking deck in the heart of the Loop. Last night was rough. Neither of them looked like they slept in months. They decided whatever this was isn't the end of the world and they should probably catch up on some sleep before finding a priest or something. A good twelve hours later, most of which Jericho spent sprawled out on her couch with a cat on his chest, they decided to chase down a lead.
Dana hopped out of the passenger side, while Jericho closed the driver's door. He checked the mirror and pulled his locks back into a tie. He wore the same the black t-shirt and jeans he wore the past two days. At least he was able to pick up some shoes from a Walmart in Columbia, Missouri. After a few hours of sleep and a fresh shower, he felt better, but still smelled a bit rank. Jericho slung the portfolio case over his shoulder and followed Dana..
"There it is," she said. "Holy Name Cathedral."
"Impressive." He tried pretending he wasn't from the city and didn't know the white brick cathedral at the corner of State and Wabash is the seat of the Archdiocese of Chicago. Dana knew too much. She didn't need to know this had always been his town.
The tall, white brick structure had been part of the city nearly since its inception. In the early days, there were two churches in this part of town. In 1851, at the corner of Huron and Superior, near the river, the Church of the Holy Name was erected. The Cathedral of Saint Mary was built a year later at the corner of Wabash and Madison.
Twenty years later, a cow kicked over a small lantern on the O'Leary family farm, wiping out over three square miles, killing three hundred people and leaving more than one hundred thousand homeless. If one believed the legends. Jericho used to be suspect of such legends. Recent events made him a little more accepting of the fantastic. The Great Chicago Fire burned both churches to the ground. Holy Name Cathedral was built four years later.
"So your idea is to bring artifacts assassins are willing to kill people in broad daylight over into one of the biggest tourist traps in downtown Chicago?"
There's hundreds of Catholic Churches in the city. Why Dana needed to bring the folio here, Jericho had no idea.
"Trust me," she said.
He didn't, but they're already here.
They pushed open the immense bronze doors and found themselves alone inside of the towering Gothic-style sanctuary. Dana grew up Catholic, but isn't exactly practici
ng. Jericho thought of himself more of a Shintoist these days. Neither had any clue where to find a priest, let alone one that understood what's slung over his shoulder.
Dana pointed to the confessional. A reasonable place to find a priest. She tried to step into the vestibule, but got stopped by Jericho. If any of them needed to confess anything, it was him. Jericho entered and shut the door behind. He'd seen enough movies to get how this went.
"Bless me, father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession."
"What sins are you confessing, my son?"
My son? Judging by that voice and the look of the guy behind the partition, he couldn't be more than thirty. The ostentatiousness of religion always turned Jericho off. Of course, he spent the last decade meditating in front of a small shine and plant. Who's he to criticize anything?
"This between us, right?"
"Of course."
"Cool. Two nights ago, I was attacked in my home. I killed three men and blinded a fourth."
"Is this a regular occurrence for you?" The priest asked.
"It used to be. I'm trying to enjoy retirement."
The priest went silent. Jericho figured the guy was trying to figure out if he's serious or not.
"God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace. And I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
"For real?"
"Go in peace."
Huh? A get outta Hell free card. If only it were really that easy.
"Get out of there," Dana finally said. "Father, can we speak with you for a moment?"
Both the priest and Jericho exited the confessional. The priest, a young man with a lean build and sandy blond hair, was taken aback when he got his first look at the six-foot, two-inch Jericho, who smiled in response.
"I'm Dana O'Brien with BuzzClip News." Dana stuck out her hand.
