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

by J. D. Oliva

  The chords of an acoustic guitar faded up from the speakers. These songs of freedom? Redemption Song. Jericho smiled and nodded his head as anyone does when any Marley song plays, let alone his greatest work.

  "I got a guy in Hawaii that owes me a favor. Maybe head out there and become someone else."

  "This the last time then?"

  "'Fraid so."

  Ike stuck his hand out to a man he'd watch grow up. A man he had so much hope for. Disappointment knows no boundaries.

  "Stay outta trouble, E."

  "I'm gonna this time."

  They shook, and Jericho listened to the Wailer cry over the murder of the prophets, one last time.

  Jericho closed to the door and watched Ike's Cutlass pull away. The last thing he needed was to take another look at Roseland's broken dream. The green F-150 was still there. The farm truck was out of place in this urban background. The cowcatcher mounted to the front particularly stuck out. In retrospect, it's just as inconspicuous as the old Humvee. He missed that ride.

  Jericho opened the door and slid behind the driver's seat. Marley's words still echoed in his head in that way a song does when you know every line but don't listen to it all the way through. Like a ghost with unfinished business in your soul. He turned the ignition and pulled out from the space. He couldn't help himself. He had to take one last look at the legacy of Ethan Jericho.

  Miss Crissy was back. Clad in a pair of dusty jeans and a grody, old Fenger Academy Basketball t-shirt. With a shovel in her hand, she dug into the burnt remains, tossing the charred garbage into a dumpster. One of those doctor masks like people wear in Japan covered her face to help make sure she didn't breathe in the debris. Debris from a mess someone else created. Just like she did every day. Ike's right, insurance would pay for the damage and the rebuild. The RainyDay Center would be back. Roseland needed it. They needed Miss Crissy.

  In the Hagakure, the book of the samurai, Yamamoto-san says, There is something to be learned from a rainstorm. When meeting with a sudden shower, you try not to get wet and run quickly along the road. But doing such things as passing under the eaves of houses, you still get wet. When you are resolved from the beginning, you will not be perplexed, though you will still get the same soaking.

  Accept the fact that you’re going to get wet and getting wet doesn’t matter. Run from it, and you’re still going to get wet.

  Crissy wiped her brow. She could have called in a crew, but she didn’t. This is hers. Even if she didn’t make the mess, she is going to be the one to fix it.

  Master Yamamoto also says, Even if it seems certain that you will lose, fight. Neither wisdom nor technique has a place in this. A real samurai does not think of victory or defeat. He plunges recklessly towards an irrational death. By doing this, you will awaken from your dreams.

  The phone vibrated again. Through the cracked screen, he saw Rich Weaver's name.

  "Hey, Rich."

  "Mr. Escalante, I'm sorry to bother you again, but this O'Brien lady will not stop calling. I know you said to never, ever call the police when someone mentions the Advantage Treatment, but this is getting ridiculous. She's called forty-seven times."

  Jericho laughed out loud.

  "That sounds like her. Put her through, Rich."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah."

  Jericho took another look out onto his sister's cleanup efforts. He wanted to go out and offer his hand, but there's no way she'd accept it. Not that he even deserved to help her. But he could still clean up his mess.

  "What the fuck is your deal!"

  Jericho laughed again.

  "Hello, Miss O'Brien. You gotta excuse me. I got stabbed and spent the night in a hospital bed."

  "For real?"

  Jericho didn't respond to the question. After a bit of silence, Dana spoke.

  "I have a job offer for you."

  "I thought you might."

  LXI

  After finally reaching Jericho, Dana unloaded on him. Everything from the Church of the Golden Sun to what was happening at Willowbrook, trying not to miss a detail. She didn't like or trust him, but she knew what he was capable of when properly motivated. Like most people, money did the trick. Besides, it's not her money. The most important thing she got from Jericho was his phone number, which is much easier than dealing with the douchebags who worked for him.

  "Thank you," Dana hung up and looked to Julia and Michael. "Congratulations, you're probably the first reverend to ever hire an assassin."

  "I highly doubt that," Julia deadpanned. They both chuckled like it was a joke, but it still made Dana feel a little uncomfortable.

  It had been more than two hours between her first call to Cherry Vale and Jericho finally answering. She told Julia that the man on the other end was either playing phone tag or negotiating. She knew Julia didn't believe her, but what else could she say? In that time, she let Michael take her back to her apartment, pack her things, and try to plan out the next step in case Jericho didn't agree to work with them. For all of her resourcefulness, she had zero backup plans. This was an all-or-nothing shot.

  When she and Michael reached her place in Lincoln Park, Curtis the cat jumped into Dana's arms. He's weird and overly friendly for a cat, which is a big part of his charm. He even liked sitting with that surly bastard, Jericho. Dana went to grab the cat carrier when she stopped and reconsidered. She was in deep with some bad people, which was part of the fun. But these people may know her name. If they did, it wouldn't be too hard to find the apartment. She loved that cat, but there was no doubt he's better off without her around for a while, let alone pulling him into the fire.

  Instead of loading him into the carrier, she sent a text.

  Hey, gotta go outta town for work for a few days. Can you come by and pick up Curtis?

  Almost immediately, a response came through.

  I'll come grab him after work. Everything ok?

  No, not at all.

  “Want me to take the carrier?" Michael asked, pointing to Curtis' mobile home.

  "Nah. He's gonna stay with some friends."

  Dana looked back down to her phone and finished her text.

  Same as always. Love u Daddy.

  Love you too, Pumpkin.

  Dana showered, changed into some fresh clothes and headed back to the suburbs with Michael. He tried to make small-talk the entire ride back, which is probably more for his enjoyment than hers. She barely paid him any attention. The more time she spent with him, the more he started to annoy her. Like, why wouldn't his damn hair move? What kind of product doesn't let a guy's hair even breathe? It's almost as annoying as the Christian Rock station he kept on the entire time. The message behind the music is as subtle as a tack hammer to the face.

  "You okay?" He asked.

  "Fine. Just little nervous, I guess."

  Michael put his hand on her knee and smiled.

  "It's all right. Just understand, we're on the right side of all this," Michael said with a two-dollar smile.

  "Get your hand off my leg."

  Michael's calm demeanor cracked. He isn't as warm or comforting as his mentor, and Dana knew his hand wasn't there for the right reasons.

  "Sorry," he said, finally shutting the hell up.

  That was a half-hour ago. After talking with Jericho, Dana felt slightly better.

  "Now comes the uncomfortable part where we sit around and wait," Julia said.

  She's right. Who knew what the next step was from here? She didn't have any doubts that a motivated Jericho could get things done, but where would he even start?

  Julia grabbed Dana's hands.

  "You need to relax," the Reverend said.

  "It's hard. I'd rather be out there with him, trying to figure this thing out. I'm not good at doing nothing."

  Julia laughed in that reassuring, motherly way. She's so sweet. If she wasn't already married, there was no doubt in Dana's mind she'd definitely try to hook Julia and her dad up. He needed someone like her in h
is life. Her parents had divorced a few years ago, and he really needed to move on.

  "Me neither. Dana, I want you to pray with me."

  "What?"

  "I know that sounds kind of weird, but it would make me feel better. We've already been through quite a bit together. I feel like you're one of us now."

  But she isn't. Part of her thought being one of us sounded like a great idea. The Church was fantastic, and there isn't a doubt she'd fit in perfectly, but the timing seemed off.

  But, "Um, okay," came out of her mouth.

  Both of them got down on their knees. They each shut their eyes and clasped each other's hands.

  "Heavenly Father, I've used the phrase take up your sword so many times over the years that I never thought about what those words actually mean. But as things here take a rather dark turn, we implore you to stand by your solider—Dana, and what's his name?"

  "Who?"

  "The assassin guy."

  “Ishi—“ She stopped herself before getting his entire name out. Dana didn't know the proper etiquette for dealing with a contract killer, but he seemed touchy about his name. She spent weeks researching it after last Christmas and couldn't find a thing. Plus the name Jericho is something he never told her. Maybe it needed to stay quiet.

  “Izzy?” Julia said in surprise.

  Yep, sure, Izzy the Assassin. Why not?

  "Heavenly Father, please stand by your soldier..., Izzy as he marches into battle in your honor."

  Marching into battle for God's honor is probably the last thing that he had in mind, but it worked fine for now.

  "Also, please look after my new friend, Dana. She's a valiant warrior in the struggle of her life. Show her the guidance and the patience necessary as she journeys toward her new life and commitments."

  What does that mean?

  "Dana?"

  She opened her eyes and saw a very earnest smile on Julia's face.

  "Yeah?"

  "I'd like you to join our Church. Officially."

  "What?"

  "I know the timing is strange, but this monster has the prayer right now. If, Lord forbid, he reads it out loud and—" Julia Summerville, a well-spoken intelligent woman struggled to find the proper way to say jumpstart the apocalypse. "You know. We'll all be saved. God will protect us."

  "You mean the Rapture?" She said using a phrase she heard in a movie once.

  Julia nodded. "That's one way to say it. We're going to be safe. It would absolutely devastate me if you weren't saved, too. Everything you've done and sacrificed, to have you passed over, it'd be too much. You don't want to be passed over, do you?"

  How exactly is she supposed to answer this question?

  LXII

  Daniel Prince always felt at home on the golf course. The green grass, the fresh air, the competition, it all worked for him. He took the game more seriously than most, even the people he usually played with. The clients, the dignitaries, politicians, the blue-bloods, all enjoyed the game, but they didn't appreciate it like he did. He also refused to imbibe alcohol on the course. It cheapened the game and was disrespectful to the opponent. These are sacred grounds.

  It's also a place he normally wouldn't ever take a call. But seeing as he was shooting nine holes on his own rather than a full eighteen or thirty-six with a client, he allowed himself to answer. Just this once. As soon as he sunk this putt. Any muscle-head with decent hand-eye coordination could hit the ball for distance, but putting was different. Putting is a skill based solely on one's patience. No one was more patient than the Prince.

  LeMay clearly had no patience. After his conversation with Zion, it was becoming obvious his protege isn't as patient as the business required. Which is sad.

  The Prince drew back his Ping and tapped the ball into the hole. Now he could take the call.

  He pressed the button on the Bluetooth mounted to his ear. "This is Prince."

  "You set me up," the caller said.

  "Ethan. Good to hear from you."

  "You just didn't show up in Provo to say hi. You set me up."

  The Prince was having such a great day. After that hole, he was one stroke under par. He bent over and lifted the ball up from the hole.

  "I did not set you up. I sought you out and told you I had a difficult client. I was trying to get you to read between the lines, but like always, you're too damned self-absorbed to pick up anyone's social cues."

  "Your boy went too far. Now I'm gonna kill him."

  The Prince slid the putter back into the bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. Only the weak and fat used golf carts. Men walked the course.

  "Yes, Mr. Zion’s been upsetting a lot of people lately. I might have to let him go."

  "Don't do me no favors now."

  "I tried to do you a favor. I offered you some side work. If you had taken the job, I could've let you in on what was happening. But you turned me down. After that, I had no choice. I couldn't sell out a client. You know the business.."

  "You're right. Next time I see you, I'm gonna cut your throat."

  The Prince put the ball on the tee and eyed up his next shot. A long par five with a sand trap amusingly referred to as Death Valley.

  "That's the nature of the business, Ethan."

  Prince tapped the side of the Bluetooth and drove the ball four hundred yards. The driver went back into the bag, and Prince slung the strap over his muscled back. He might as well give Zion a call.

  LXIII

  BANG BANG BANG

  "Let's open that door!"

  BANG BANG BANG

  Zion's left eye peeked open. He peered to his left and realized he's still inside the shitty hotel room on the South Side. The same place he went out of his way to make shittier. Mixing his personal brain chemistry with recreational chemistry is never a good idea. Somehow the motel's clock radio was the only thing that survived his rampage. It read 5:15 pm. Essentially an entire day flushed away.

  BANG BANG BANG

  "This is the police! Open the door!"

  Zion slowly pulled himself up from the bed. Still exhausted, he turned to one side and the other, trying to find his work bag. Finally, he caught a glimpse of it on the table next to the door. Perfect.

  "Hold on one second, mate."

  Zion slid the lock chain into the keyhole before checking the peephole. One uniformed officer stood behind the door. Zion's long left arm reached into the bag while he propped open the door with his right.

  "'Ello, Officer. There a problem?"

  "Yeah, we've gotten several complaints, and the front desk says you won't leave."

  "Gosh, I'm sorry, I was asleep, sir. I must have just slept through the commotion."

  "I bet. Come on, open the door. It's time to go."

  Zion looked around at the random paraphernalia and destruction around the trashed motel room. It reminded him of granddad's stories about rock stars in the 70s. Funny, but nothing a cop needs to see.

  "I'll be on my way," Zion said, trying to shut the door.

  "No, you're gonna come with me right now."

  "All right, boss."

  Zion closed the door and unshackled the chain lock. He reopened the heavy door. In one swoop, he pulled the curved keris from the bag, and as the door opened, the blade caught the cop's throat. His jugular severed, the cop fell into his killer's arms before the door finished opening. Zion dragged him back into the room and dropped the twitching carcass to the floor. Now he had some time to clean up.

  BZZT BZZT BZZT

  Zion remembered throwing his phone after talking with LeMay, but couldn't remember where it landed. He followed the sound of the buzzing to the bathroom floor.

  "Fuck me," he said, looking at the cracked screen. That's easily three hundred bucks, but still cheaper than the twelve-hundred it'd cost for a new phone.

  Zion shook his head and answered.

  "Mr. Prince."

  "You fucked up," said the voice on the other end.

  "Just out here taking care of busin
ess, boss."

  "Telling the client you're going to sell his property on the open market isn't taking care of business."

  Zion wiped the cop's blood off his forehead. In retrospect, that was stupid. The adrenaline and the goodies gave him some extra balls. Not that he could tell the Prince that.

  "I fucked up."

  "Yeah, you did. Twice."

  "What's that mean?"

  "You didn't kill him."

  "Who?"

  "Jericho."

  "No, no. I fucked him up. I cut him. I watched him burn."

  "Dead men don't make phone calls. I'm sorry, Erik, but you've become a liability. I'm going to have to let you go."

  "No, you can't do that. I still got these pages! They're yours! They're worth a fortune! "

  "I don't need them, Erik. The client did."

  "But we can make a deal with LeMay. He'll pay even more!"

  "That's not how we deal with clients. Goodbye."

  Zion threw his phone against the wall again, destroying whatever was left. The dead cop still bled out on the brown carpet. He thought these useless pages would make him a player. It made him a target.

  Zion was fucked.

  LXIV

  Last Christmas, Jericho stepped into Ike's Pawn Shop for the first time since high school and made a significant purchase that led to his retirement. Six months later, it seemed a little poetic he'd make another visit to christen his comeback. But Jericho's not sentimental, nor did he have any intention of making this return permanent. This is a last man standing deal. The samurai is supposed to die in glorious battle. Time to find that moment.

  Jericho opened the front door, and a bell went off. Ike stood at the counter taking a close look at a cheap 'gold' watch even a novice could tell was fake.

  "What happened to Hawaii?"

  "Islands don't go nowhere. Just got some unfinished business first."

  Ike smiled and turned back to the customer. "Why don't you come back later?"

  The customer, an older man probably in his sixties, trying to pawn what looked like the kind of watch a cheap company gives someone who sacrificed fifty years in loyal service, obliged. That's not a life someone like Jericho could face. He's not brave enough. The old man, with his tired and weathered face, looked like a fighter hungry for one more round. Old men understand that desire. The need to stand and fight one more time. The oldtimer nodded like he knew what Jericho was doing there. Maybe he did. Maybe Ethan needed some extra validation. The old man patted his muscled shoulder—thank God, he touched the good one—and shuffled out of the shop.