The Devil's Prayer: A Supernatural Thriller (The Books of Jericho Book 1)

by J. D. Oliva

  Pulling the wallet from her pocket, she dumped the contents on the bedspread. A glut of business cards spilled out. She spread them across the covers, looking for the black card with the embossed silver J. The card Chris Shane had given her the last time they saw each other. She flipped the card over and dialed the number on the back.

  A cheery receptionist answer, "Cherry Vale Security."

  "Yes, I'm calling to ask about the Advantage Treatment."

  LVI

  Detective Donell Watkins hobbled into the room. He couldn't be more than thirty, but his body told a different story. This young, seemingly healthy detective had a nasty limp where his left foot dragged behind the right. His body hung slightly on that left, like the muscles on the right were far more developed. Some kind of nerve damage slowed a man who should be able to move much better at his age. It almost seemed like he survived some sort of animal attack

  "Hey, yo, Swirsky. Why don't you give me a little minute with this guy? I kinda wanna have a conversation.”

  "I already took a statement," Swirsky shot back.

  "That's good. I just want to talk. I think him and I might have a little something in common," Watkins said locking on to Jericho’s eyes.

  "Fine, whatever," the husky detective shrugged.

  Swirsky, frustrated by Watkins' presence, shuffled his way out of the room, slow as possible. He isn't happy and wanted to make sure Watkins knew it. Swirsky was a jerk, but he was smart enough to know when something isn't right, and he didn't trust the man he referred to as the crippled detective alone with this guy.

  Watkins nodded to Jericho. I got you. Jericho nodded back.

  "Hey, Ike. Gimme a minute with this guy," Jericho whispered to his new uncle.

  "You sure?"

  Jericho nodded again, and Ike, still not sure what to make off any of this, followed Swirsky out of the room. It was the two of them once more. Like old times.

  Watkins dragged the dead foot behind him and collapsed into the chair next to Jericho's bed. Watkins was in tremendous pain, but fought hard to keep it at bay. Watching him struggle, but not give anything away, made Jericho feel a little soft.

  "I ain't sure which of us is worse off, Detective."

  Watkins laughed. "Yeah, I don't move like I used to. Have we met before?"

  Jericho shook his head. At that moment, he saw the sunglasses. They were on a table slightly out of his reach. He wanted to ask Watkins if he could hand them to him. But that would be rude, plus the sight of him in those shades might confirm something he's not comfortable admitting.

  "Hmm. So your name is Mr. James E. Smith. You remind me of a guy I met last Christmas."

  "I dunno nothing about anything. I'm just a dude from Utah."

  "Yeah, I bet."

  "So, this guy that I'm talking about, that you remind me of—last year I made a mistake. I was out following another cop, crooked guy with a mean streak. Bad dude. This guy gets attacked by something—something I don't want to ever talk about again. This thing turns to me. All I remember is this pain shooting down from my neck all the way to my knee." Watkins took his good hand and, with his finger, drew a line from his ear to his thigh. He probably couldn't reach his knee. "For a minute, I was sure I was gonna die. All I could think about was my little girls at home. How I was never gonna see them or hold them again. Then the craziest shit happens. This black Hummer bursts through a fence, and it just pops this thing!" Watkins punched his own hand, and the snap of the skin actually snapped Jericho to attention.

  "Then it runs off. I'm alive 'cause of that Humvee. I'm hurting. Every day is tough, but I see my girls. A couple days later, I find myself like you, laid up in a hospital bed. This guy comes in. He's big, kinda like you. Got these locks," Watkins pointed to the dreads. "Kinda like you. This guy asks me a couple questions, and I was in a bad way. I really couldn't answer, but tried to help. I'm pretty sure it's the guy driving the Humvee."

  "That's an interesting story, Detective."

  "You believe in karma, Mr. Smith?"

  "Never thought about it."

  "I'm a good Christian boy, so I don't know if it's cosmic karma or something, but I like to help people in trouble. And you look like a man in trouble. Know what I'm saying?"

  Jericho did. Karma isn't a Shintoist concept, but the rules of the universe apply to us all.

  "All that damage and you're still a cop?"

  "I got a promotion and a nice desk job. Might've been a sympathy thing, but I'm okay with it."

  Jericho nodded. "I bet your mama's happy you're off the street."

  "You got no idea, brother," They shook hands, and Jericho was shocked at the weakness of Watkins' grip.

  "What happened in that alleyway, I can't ever tell anybody. No one would believe me anyway. Some nights I lay awake, and I don't even believe myself. So when I hear a strange story, and it doesn't make sense, I think about my strange story and how I kinda owe a guy."

  "Everybody owes someone something."

  "Maybe I have a conversation with Detective Swirsky. I think your story is one-hundred percent legit. You're a victim of circumstance, Mr. Smith."

  Watkins stood back up in a slow, lumbering stretch that hurt Jericho to watch. As Watkins dragged the dead foot behind, Jericho thought about all the near misses over the years. They both saw that thing. Jericho left with wounded pride. Watkins wasn't so lucky.

  Or maybe he was?

  LVII

  Zion should have caught the last red-eye out of Chicago. It didn't matter to where. He should have left town with those pages and got ready to make the drop-off and be done with this Jericho nonsense. But he didn't.

  Instead, he took the Ford Fusion down Michigan Avenue and picked up a couple girls and a bag of goodies. He brought both to a shitty motel near Midway and had some fun. Money well spent. And why shouldn't he spend, this is easily the most challenging job he'd ever taken. Jet-setting to Denmark, then Utah and Chicago in just a couple weeks. He was exhausted. Erik Zion earned a little fun, even if it cost a little more than it should.

  Zion finally woke up at a quarter past 2:00 in the afternoon. The girls were still out. He debated whether to go one more round or kick the filthy pigs out. Probably needed to take a piss before deciding which. Zion reached for his sunglasses. His eyes were getting better, but far from healed. Morning light is always the worst. After this, he might need to focus on working at night for a bit. Walking to the bathroom, he picked his phone up from the blanket. Last night he was quite the photographer, as he recalled. Of course, he was too fucked up to remember the details. The pics should help fill in the gaps. Unlocking the phone, he saw fifteen missed calls from LeMay. What did that sod want?

  Zion pressed the button to call the client back as he unleashed his stream into the porcelain bowl. That felt good.

  "Zion!" LeMay shouted.

  "Oi! Mr. LeMay, I got your bloody pages."

  "I know. Everyone on the planet with a social media account knows."

  Of course people knew. That was the entire point. How else was he supposed to get Jericho's attention?

  "And?"

  "And?! And I think you've drawn a little too much attention to this project."

  "Oh, and I suppose staging a fake robbery was much more subtle?" Zion said, shaking the droplets off his member.

  LeMay went silent. Of course Zion is right.

  "You didn't need to go after Jericho after you had the pages. That was all for your ego."

  "Wrong. I needed to cut that sonuvabitch's throat after what he did. But it's mission accomplished now."

  "I need those pages."

  Zion left the toilet and looked back at the disgusting trash in his bed. He wasn't sure which site was more nauseating: the piss in the bowl or these coked-up, scum hookers. He oughta cut their faces off and keep their money for himself. Who could stop him?

  "Fuck off, LeMay."

  "What?"

  "The price on these little pages just doubled."

  "That's
not the deal!"

  "Deal's change. Don't like it? Guess they go on the open market."

  "Zion!"

  "Too late. Open market it is!"

  Zion hung up and threw his phone at the wall, shattering the screen. The loud thud didn't even register a reaction from the coke-whores. Stupid bitches. Zion's long arm reached over and grabbed the old school phone on the nightstand. He banged the base of the phone against the wood top five times before smashing it into the wall. The girls jumped up and huddled together.

  "Get the fuck outta here, you stupid cunts!"

  He lunged for the bed, crashing down between them. They jumped up, not sure what's happening. The dark shades hid the fire burning in his eyes.

  Zion leaped up on top of the bed, ready to kill both of them.

  "Get the fuck outta here before I cut your fuckin' tits off!"

  Flailing his arms uncontrollably, Zion tried to hit anything in his way. Both girls quickly grabbed their clothes and shoes. Considering the psychotic breakdown, they should have panicked, but both had clearly been in situations like this before. Another job hazard. They were scared, but kept their cool as they shot out of the decrepit hotel room.

  Zion crashed into the door, pushing and kicking the barrier like it was Jericho himself. He needed something to hit. He punched and kicked and threw his long body around the room like those Tasmanian Devil cartoons, tearing through anything in his path. He flipped the bed over, threw the TV against the wall, and yanked the toilet seat from the bowl, throwing it through the bathroom mirror. Zion fought and punched at the ghosts inside the room until there was nothing left. He collapsed back into the box spring.

  A moment later, he went comatose. As dead to the universe as he left Ethan Jericho last night.

  LVIII

  LeMay wanted to launch his phone at the glass partition in the Lincoln Town Car. But that would have been stupid. Destroying property is what a child does. Zion's phone is probably in pieces right now. LeMay is a grown man, and grown men handle their problems with their intellect. Instead of crushing his phone, which would have felt great at the moment, he called his wife back.

  "Yes, dear," she answered.

  "Zion's gone off the rails."

  "I told you."

  "You did. But it's worse. He's refusing to hand over the pages. He threatened to put them on the open market."

  LeMay looked at his security team in the back of the limo. Four men dressed in fine suits, armed to the tee. They were the best mercs money could buy and not a single one of them can do a goddamn thing against a rogue Zion. They're useless.

  "That is bad. But there may be a new player involved."

  "What?" LeMay hated when his wife talked in riddles. She was too damn smart for her own good, and he hated having to admit when he didn't understand what she meant.

  "One of our little birds told me another party is interested in acquiring those pages."

  They had people everywhere. Little spies who dropped them small lines of information. That's how they found out about The Monk and his little secrets. If one her operatives said another party was interested in the prayer, they needed to act quick.

  "Is this interested party who I think it is?"

  "Of course."

  "Dammit, Julia," LeMay said with gritted teeth.

  Willowbrook was always going to be a problem. He needed to eliminate them. He hung up on his wife and looked at his meat-headed head of security.

  "We need to get to Chicago."

  LIX

  Donnell Watkins left the patient known as James E. Smith of Provo, Utah, and Jericho found himself alone in the hospital bed. Ike would be back soon. He felt the stitches in his abdomen. He is incredibly lucky the blade didn't rip through his stomach or his intestines. It would be even luckier if Watkins' promise to let everything go is real. Either way, sitting around this hospital and waiting for this seemingly well-constructed house of lies to collapse is a terrible idea. His stomach was going to hurt, and the stitches are most likely going to rip. A little superglue would help things a bit. The muscles will heal, and he could deal with the pain. He mastered methods over the years to control how the mind processed pain.

  It hurt, but he reached for the sunglasses and finally shaded his eyes from the harsh fluorescent sting. His back and stomach would be fine in time, just like his eyes. He'd learn to move forward. Jericho pulled out the IV drip and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled himself to his feet, fighting the urge to scream. That's weakness. Don't acknowledge it. He grabbed the jeans hung over the footboard and pulled them over his legs. Denim isn't as forgiving as his usual cargo pants. The pain bit into his core, and Jericho sunk his teeth into his lip to try and dull the sting. He tasted the slight copper tinge creep over his tongue. This is going to be harder than he thought.

  "What the hell you doin'?" Ike said, walking back into the room.

  "Gettin' outta here."

  The rotund pawnshop owner rushed over to help Jericho get back to his feet.

  "Be careful!"

  "I'm fine," Jericho whispered.

  "What're you thinking?"

  "I'm thinking I best be gone when they figure out I ain't James Smith."

  Jericho scanned the room, trying to find the black shirt he wore last night and remembered that it was probably torn to pieces from the stabbing and blood. Not to mention the fire.

  "I need a favor, Ike."

  "Yeah, sure. What?"

  "I'm sure this place has a gift shop or something. I need a shirt."

  "What kinda shirt?"

  Jericho shot him an are you serious face.

  "Whatever they got."

  "All right," Ike said, helping Jericho lean against the bed.

  In a flash, Ike was gone. The speed was impressive for a man with that belly. Jericho held his breath as he steadied himself. It's a little more manageable this time. Walking isn't so bad. Twisting hurt like a bitch. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He looked into the mirror over the sink and twisted around to see the damage in his back. It hurt as much as he expected, but he needed to see how bad the wound looked. Yep, pretty terrible.

  Vibrations shook the left pants pocket. He forgot about the phone, figuring it got destroyed in the fire. Jericho slowly pulled it out, a move that fired sharp pain up his back and down his legs. The screen was shattered, but he could see a call from Rich Weaver, the man running Cherry Vale while he did...whatever the hell this is.

  "Hey, Rich."

  "Um, Mr. Escalante. I have a problem."

  You got problems?

  "What's the problem, Rich?" Jericho asked, figuring it's something about the Kassen Grocery thing.

  "I've got a young woman on the other line. She wants to talk about the Advantage Treatment."

  "Rich, I've told you, we don't offer that package anymore."

  "I know. I told her, but she's called seventeen times."

  "Seventeen?"

  "Yes and, she's screaming at me, demanding to talk with you directly. She told me to tell you her name is Dana O'Brien and says that you two know each other."

  How the hell did she find that card? This entire business model is broken. If he had any intention of staying in the game, he had to reorganize everything. But he had no intention of staying in the game. He's done. Last night cemented it. He's old, slow, and needed to be finished.

  "We don't offer that package anymore, Rich."

  Jericho hung up the phone without another word. No doubt, Dana saw the stream of the priest. That is his fault. He shouldn't have brought those pages here in the first place. He should've burned them up back in the mountains. Another gigantic fuckup that cost too many lives. Another reason to leave this business behind.

  Jericho needed to walk away. So what if those guys had the Devil's Prayer? The whole thing is a bunch of bullshit, to begin with. It wasn't like someone's going to read the words, and suddenly the entire planet would blow up. That isn't reality. Running his fingers alon
g the stitches in his gut was a grim reminder of what is reality. Pain is reality. What happened to the RainyDay Center is reality. The Devil's Prayer is a bunch of bullshit. He was done with bullshit.

  "Yo, E!"

  Ike returned with a folded blue shirt in his hand.

  "Got something for you," he said, tossing it to Jericho.

  The pain stung as he reached up to catch it. Jericho unfolded the shirt.

  "Come on, man!"

  Jericho held out the light-blue Chicago Cubs shirt, an insult to any self-respecting man who grew up on the South Side.

  "They had one in pink. Want me to trade it in?"

  No, that's not better. Not much worse, but not better. Jericho carefully pulled the shirt over his locks, something that could be tricky when he didn't have fifty stitches. Looking at the mirror and seeing the Cubby blue draped over his massive shoulders hurt more than anything.

  "You look good," Ike said with a nod. He's a lousy liar. "Good for you, anyway."

  "Come on."

  "Where we goin'?"

  "I gotta get my truck. Then I'm outta here. For real."

  LX

  Ike's ’97 Cutlass Supreme pulled up next to the charred remains of the RainyDay Center. They both sat quietly for a moment, looking out onto the skeletal husk of a building. It's all gone. Thank God, no one else was inside last night.

  Ike finally broke that long silence. "So, what's next?"

  "I dunno, man. I got too many enemies. I need a fresh start. Was thinking Jamaica or Havana, but I don't got my passport."

  Ike nodded and reached up for the sun visor revealing a row of compact discs. Jericho had something similar in his car back in high school. He pulled out an old CD. The Best of Bob Marley. Jericho guessed seeing the Tough Gong's homeland sparked something in the old man. He slid the disc in the slot, an act Jericho hadn't seen in over a decade, and hit the skip button a few times.

  "I love Jamaica. Never been to Cuba, though," Ike said.