by J. D. Oliva
Thanks
Dana
Before clicking send, Dana went back into the voice memo.
“The thieves didn't open fire in the middle of the museum. Why did the security guards start shooting in an enclosed area surrounded by innocent people? Not very secure, if you ask me." Dana again listened to herself. "What's crazy is that anyone who knows anything about this is dead. That's a lot of blood for no profit."
"Unless the payoff is something more important than money," she added.
Dana looked up to the small green cross above the entrance that stood out against the rest of the Cathedral's white brick. What is more important than money?
XXXIII
Father Luke spent the rest of the afternoon reading and translating the Devil's Prayer in his office near the sanctuary of Holy Name. A strange rush went through his body when he read the words. This is a text he wasn't supposed to ever see, let alone read. A poisonous passage written in the Dark Lord's blood. He was like a little kid sneaking out of his room to watch a horror movie. But instead of some fictional monster stalking some scantily-clad teenagers, this is a call to the ultimate evil. A prayer designed to end the world.
Luke Smyth wasn't a Chicago native. He grew up in a small town in southeastern Minnesota called Hawk Hallow. A traditional, suburban upbringing, the Smyths were avid churchgoers, though Luke had no inclination toward the priesthood in his youth. After attending a year of Columbia College in downtown Chicago, Luke was called to the faith and enrolled in the seminary.
He spent the last five years at Holy Name, a popular young priest at the city's most renown church. Still, there is something about Luke that many of the old guard in the diocese didn't like. He's a little too open. A bit too modern. His crazy thoughts and social stances made some of the more traditional clergymen uncomfortable.
Reading the words of a reclusive monk who, according to apocryphal history, ran afoul of the church brass and was trapped in a last resort situation where he had to betray his beliefs to survive, he felt strangely connected. Luke read this prayer as a cautionary tale. This is what happens when the Church stops thinking of its people.
Luke wondered if he could actually call down the Apocalypse with these words. If so, he held the fate of humanity in his hands. No man should have that kind of power. He thought about heeding the mysterious man's words and destroying the prayer. But this is history. A dark chapter of history, but history nonetheless. It probably belonged in the Vatican's Secret Archives.
"Father Luke? What are you reading?"
Luke looked up and saw the Monsignor. An elderly man in his late 70's with pale skin and a slight hunch that exacerbated his sagging waistline. He's the kind of old-world thinker who usually wouldn't pay the young priest any mind, but there was a bit of commotion in the sanctuary this morning, and people who work in the normally dull cathedral tend to talk when things were slightly out of sorts. A visit from a young woman and a large man with dreadlocks being the definition of out of sorts.
Luke wanted to say nothing. But that would be a lie. People in the archdiocese didn't like him, but that didn't mean he needed to be a problem. There was a hierarchy, one he had no real interest advancing in, but a hierarchy.
"I want you to take a look at this, Monsignor."
The confused old man stuck out his bottom lip. Luke's father would have told the Monsignor that if he kept that lip pointed forward, a bird would likely fly overhead and crap on it. Luke wouldn't be quite as crass, even if he thought it was funny.
The Monsignor shuffled his way over to the young priest's desk. He struggled to read the handwritten letters at first and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out bifocals that made him look older. Luke struggled not to laugh, watching him mouth each syllable.
"Father Luke, what is this?"
"I think it's from the Codex Gigas."
"The what?"
"Legend says it's a Bible transcribed by a single monk in the Middle Ages. Supposedly there are a handful of missing pages. This might be some of them."
The Monsignor understood exactly what Luke meant, but tried to play it off. The elderly priest's hands trembled as he slowly pulled off his glasses. If he tried holding back any fears, he failed. Luke didn't know how to play off the Monsignor.
"How did you get this, my son?"
"Some visitors came by this morning. A young woman and a large man with dreadlocks."
"How did they get these pages?"
"They didn't tell me. But they wanted nothing to do with them. I can't say I blame them," Father Luke shrugged.
"In your opinion, Father, what should we do with them?"
"My first thought is to contact the Cardinal. These should be in the Vatican, right?"
The Monsignor nodded like he agreed, but Luke knew he had no idea what to do either.
"Of course, that's only a suggestion. What's your opinion, Monsignor?" Luke asked.
The old man didn't say a word for what seemed like minutes. With expressionless confusion like that, the Monsignor should take up poker. No one could ever read that face.
"We should discuss this with the Cardinal," he finally said.
"Of course." Father Luke tried to push the folio toward the Monsignor. "Would you like to see—"
"No, I think whatever that truly is should be guarded by someone more young and strong, until the Cardinal tells us what he'd like to have done." The Monsignor patted Luke on the shoulder.
"Of course, Monsignor."
The elderly priest rubbed Luke's shoulder for a moment. Something about it felt unnatural. Luke couldn't figure out why, but his very touch made him shudder. Pulling away from the Monsignor is a wrong move, politically speaking. He had to play if off. For now.
Eventually, the old man let go and shuffled his way out of the Father's chambers. As he lumbered into the sanctuary, he paused to turn back and took a last gaze upon the Savior on the crucifix. The Monsignor shook his head, almost ashamed. He reached into his pocket and removed a Nokia flip phone.
"I need to speak with Mr. LeMay."
XXXIV
Dana jumped in the back of her Uber, a 2012 Honda Civic, barely paying any mind to the driver. She didn't bother to look up when she said, "Art Institute."
A little, red number one showed up above the email icon. From Mila Jensen.
I would like to talk. Do you have Skype?
Mila
Of course she had Skype. Not being connected to WiFi meant her data is going to get eaten up. But while her father may not have been the most loving man in the world, he taught his little girl how to write off her business expenses. Including a cellphone bill. Besides, it's going to be way cheaper than an actual phone call.
Absolutely. My ID is my email address. Call ASAP.
D.O.
Dana hit send and wondered if she'd really call. Hard to tell. Mila opened up much more than expected, but that was over a week ago and who knows where her head was—
DUM DEE DUM DUM
DUM DEE DUM DUM
Skype rang from an unrecognized sender. Dana popped in her AirPods and answered, surprised Mila sent a video call rather than regular audio.
"Mila?"
“Ms. O'Brien?” She answered.
Dana shot back a little smile when she saw Mila Jensen's face. A week ago she was a thin pretty girl with long blonde hair, but this person had short, dark hair. If not for the blue eyes piercing out from behind a bruise, this might be a different person.
"Um, yes. Mila, you look—"
"Different, I know. The night after we talked, I asked some questions. Then this," she said, pointing to her eye. "I quit the museum, and I'm living with my parents in Arnhem."
"Mila, what happened?"
"I asked who our security guards worked for. The next night, I was at a pub and was attacked when I stepped outside. The owner stopped the man before he could finish. But that didn't stop me. I have the name of the company."
"What is it?"
"Gouden Zo
n."
Dana had no idea what that meant, but it's a lead.
"What else do you know about them?"
"Nothing. They're trying to keep it that way." Mila spoke with a proud, defiant curl in her upper lip. She is fighting the good fight.
"I know why The Monk was stolen," Dana was about to blurt everything out, but looked up at the driver. An unremarkable-looking man with a long, hipster beard, glasses, and two purple ear gauges. He didn't look like someone she should be worried about, but better be safe. "I'll email you the details. But I need to know anything you can find out about Ivo Prochazka."
"There is no Ivo Prochazka."
"What?"
"The reason you can't find anything is because there never was a person named Ivo Prochazka," Mila said.
"Alan Smithee," Dana whispered to herself.
Dana took a film study course in college. It was supposed to be a blow-off class. An easy A where you'd watch movies. But it wasn't quite what she expected. Instead of watching blockbusters or the kind of popcorn movies she was raised on, the class treated her to the works of Kubrick, Truffaut, and Fellini. It was more interesting than expected. In class, she learned Alan Smithee was the name directors would credit when they weren't proud of their work.
Someone painted the thing. They knew exactly what they were doing, and they probably weren't too proud of it. But it didn't clear up how why those pages got put inside the frame. Or who put them there to begin with.
"I'm not familiar with his work," Mila said.
"Never mind. Mila, is it possible to find out where that painting came from? I remember you said it was donated sometime after the war, but is it possible you can get more specific? Names, dates, that kind of thing?"
Mila looked nervous, obviously she didn't want to go back. Dana couldn't blame her. The idea of asking those kinds of questions already led her into trouble, but Dana didn't know anyone else in the Netherlands—wait...
"I can make a couple of calls."
"Thank you. There's a guy who can help you."
"How?"
"Just trust me. We're getting close to bringing these guys down," Dana smiled, trying to comfort Mila from a continent and an ocean away.
Mila nodded and disconnected the call.
Dana scrolled her finger from the Skype app down to her Photos icon. She clicked and flipped past ten other pics. Most of them were work-related, the most recent being the Missouri license plate on the back of the green pickup truck. Mr. Jericho—and, yes, she knew his name—isn't nearly as slick as he thought. That's when she found a pic of a business card for an Inspector Bram Meijer of the Amsterdam Police.
XXXV
The green F-150 pulled up in front of a small storefront at the corner of Michigan Avenue and 111th. This part of Michigan Avenue is a long way from the Magnificent Mile and the Gold Coast. This is the far South Side. The far forgotten side. This is home. Other than the quick stopover last Christmas Eve to visit Ike's Pawn Shop, this is the first time Jericho had set foot in Roseland since 2004. Life was a lot different back then. So was Ethan Jericho.
Roseland was a quiet, agricultural community at the turn of the last century. Industry changed that. The steel mills and factories of the Southside and Northwest Indiana provided good livings for the people of this community. The Pullman Company, still based in Roseland, was the center of the midwest's steel industry. At its peak, Roseland was a thriving multi-cultural, blue-collar community. Dick Butkus, a legendary linebacker for the Chicago Bears, filmmaker Robert Zemeckis of Back to the Future, and the guys from the band Styx grew up here. That was before the mills closed and Pullman pulled back its payroll. The collapse of the steel industry should have killed Roseland.
When he grew up on these streets, the Sherwin Williams paint factory finally died. So did the neighborhood. Poverty, crime, drug abuse all ran rampant. This is only fifteen miles from the heart of Michigan and the Mag Mile. Might as well be fifteen light-years. Today, it's a zombie neighborhood. Whatever was left, withered and rotted.
The storefront at the corner of Michigan and 111th had a sign in front that read, RainyDay Center. A community center ran by a woman afraid of losing her son to the gangs and violence. A high school dropout who built a safe-haven for the children of Roseland. RainyDay is a place they could eat, study, and when they grew up, find work. The center gave them a place to belong. One woman built this foundation, and eventually won the support and love of the community. Even the gangs respect her and the mission. RainyDay is kind of a safe zone. All this created by one woman scared her son would end up as bad as her brother.
After taking a few deep breaths, Jericho stepped out of the truck. He traveled the world with only his wits and instincts to defend him. He battled evil from the cartels south of the border to the monsters of imagination without fear. At the moment, he's on the run from an international assassin. One who reminded him a little too much of the kid that used to find trouble on this very corner. Fear is something Ethan Jericho could deal with better than most, but standing there in front of this building, for what he's embarrassed to admit is the first time ever, terrified him.
They didn't have places like this in Roseland when he was growing up. Maybe if they did, things would have been different. Yeah, he had football and wrestling, but trouble always managed to find him. As he opened the glass door, he realized not much changed. This is a huge mistake, but he excelled with those.
Fortunately, he wasn't clad in his typical black leather combat uniform. He would have looked like the poster boy for what these kids weren't supposed to become. With a black t-shirt and jeans, he looked like a regular guy. If only. Looking around at the unfamiliar, yet strangely comforting faces, he saw young kids playing and coloring. Older kids playing ping pong and Playstation. Others did their homework with tutors. In the back corner, a teenager did flashcards with an elementary schooler. They were happy and smiling. They were safe. The mission's working. A young woman, probably in her early twenties approached.
"Hi, I'm Keisha. Can I help you?"
"Um, yeah. Is, uh, is Miss Crissy here?"
"Yeah, she's in her office on a call. Is she expecting you?"
No chance in hell of that. He just quietly shook his head side to side.
"Okay. Just a minute, I'll go get her."
The cute, twenty-something do-gooder turned to the back office, and Jericho sighed in relief. She didn't ask him—
"Oh, can I ask your name?"
Dammit.
"Uh, yeah. Tell her, um... tell her it's Ethan."
"Okay. One second," she smiled with obviously no clue that he is the last person who should be here.
That's good. For now, at least.
He took another look around the amazing house she built and felt guilty. One of them contributes much more to this world than the other. A little boy, maybe five or six, colored on a table close by. Jericho slid into the bench seat next to the child. The boy colored Spider-man, but instead of red and blue, his suit was black and red.
"Sup, little man," he said.
"Hi."
"What you coloring?"
"Spider-man!"
"Ain't his suit supposed to be blue?"
"No! This is Ultimate Spider-man. Miles Morales has a black suit!" the child said, matter-of-factly.
"My bad! It's been a while since I read any Spidey."
Jericho smiled, watching the little boy color a familiar yet different looking kind of hero.
"What?!" Shouted a familiar voice that he hadn't heard in a long time.
Jericho popped out from his seat next to the boy who didn't flinch. From out of the back office came Keisha and a woman who's very presence demanded respect. She's a little older, maybe a little heavier, but he knew that face anywhere. Judging from the daggers shooting out from her eyes, she recognized him, too.
Hard to forget your baby brother.
XXXVI
Ins. Meijer,
This is Dana O’Brien. You remember me, that
little American girl you slipped your business card before I told you I was a reporter. Lol!
Well, I’m back home in the US, and it just so happens that I know a lot more about that Potato Eaters/Monk thing. More importantly, I know exactly what’s behind The Monk....
Let’s help each other.
Dana
Fifteen minutes later, Dana received an email with the subject line Ins Meijer. But the email didn’t come from the .nl tag that would come from a Netherlands-based website, but a hotmail address. Who still uses hotmail?
Ms. O’Brien
This is Insp. Meijer:
Please use this email account and not my work one.
What do you mean behind The Monk?
Meijer
She baited the hook and got a nibble.
Meijer,
The Monk was a ruse. Something was literally hidden behind the painting, inside the frame. I can tell you what, but I’m going to need two things. I need any info on a company called Gouden Zon and protection for a girl named Mila Jensen.
We have a deal?
Dana
[email protected] responded:
Deal.
Gouden Zon is a company that was founded in 2018 that supplies security guards to private businesses across Holland. They have one client. The Kröller-Müller Museum. In the wake of the robbery, the company was relieved of their duty.
You’re it.
Bram
Google showed her the company's .nl home page, but the site was written in Dutch with no English translation. The pictures on the page were easy to spot as stock photos. This is a shell company, but for what? On a whim, Dana entered the phrase Gouden Zon into Google Translate. It came back to Golden Sun. That sounds familiar.
"What the hell does Golden Sun mean?" She accidentally asked out loud.
"Golden Sun?"
The second voice freaked Dana out. She completely forgot the Uber and its driver. The guy with the stupid-looking beard and purple gauges. Dana looked up, almost like a kid who got caught telling a fib. He's not supposed to hear her. Though these last few emails and calls made this trip to the Art Institute to research a painter that never existed a little pointless.
