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

by J. D. Oliva

  And they waited for the Prince of Lies.

  The Master of Hell.

  And they waited.

  And waited.

  The parishioners, the chosen hierarchy of Willowbrook and their armed security team looked away from the sky and back toward each other. They seemed confused. Is this heaven? Did they get passed over? What happened? No one knew what to say, so instead, they remained silent until one single voice erupted in laughter.

  "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you just read a bunch of bullshit."

  Confused, Kevin and Julia looked into each other's eyes. They followed the prayer perfectly. Their pronunciations were perfect. Everything was perfect. Where was the Devil?

  "Tenebris patris quaerimus faciem tuam. Amen!" Kevin's voice cracked. "Amen! A-fucking-men!"

  "Maybe y'all need to sing and dance a little?" Jericho laughed again.

  "Shut the fuck up!" Kevin Summerville shouted.

  BOOOMM

  The walls shook. The guards and parishioners dropped to the knees expecting to be whisked away by the Lord before the demon hordes burst through those doors. Kevin smiled and raised his hands to the sky.

  BOOOMMM

  The doors did burst open, but it wasn't Satan and his unholy army pushing their way in.

  "Chicago Police! Don't move!"

  A SWAT team barged through the doors into the sanctuary. Kevin reached into his pocket and pulled out a handgun. The silver-plated Desert Eagle he stole from Jericho's compound. Before he could aim, Jericho pulled his sleeve up, revealing the last steak knife Dana slid into her pocket. With the flick of his wrist, he sent the blade sailing directly into Kevin Summerville's throat. His head dropped, and blood spilled onto the pages of the Devil's Prayer.

  Julia screamed and grabbed the gun from Kevin's hands. Before she had the chance to aim, the police surrounded her. With tears streaming down her face, she looked over the small army pushing its way inside their church.

  "Julia put the gun down," Dana said calmly.

  "No—Kevin—no.... I can't."

  "Julia, remember your sermon? Remember blind faith?"

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Jericho asked under his breath.

  "I got this," she whispered back. "Remember? We don't let other people or forces take the wheel. This is your choice. You're in control here. There's no reason this goes any further. Look at all this damage."

  Julia nodded. Dana was right.

  "I'm in control."

  "That's right. You're Julia Summerville. You're a brilliant author. A Ph.D. A reverend. That's your life. This... this is just a distraction. You got caught up. Put the gun down, and we can figure it out."

  "It's all gone. None of it matters. Dana, you remind me of our little girl. She would have been around your age. I just wanted to see her again. I miss her."

  Dana didn't know anything about a daughter. The very mention surprised her.

  "You will see her again someday," Dana said.

  "No, I won't."

  Julia put the barrel of the gun to her own head.

  "No!" Dana shouted.

  Julia twitched and tensed her muscles, but she couldn't pull the trigger. The tears were too much. She let go of the gun and slumped down to her knees.

  "Please, forgive me. Please!" She cried as the police moved in.

  The security guards and parishioners surrendered without a fight. Julia Summerville was cuffed and escorted off the stage of the Willowbrook Church.

  Dana grabbed Jericho and hugged him. This kind of raw emotion isn't something he was used to, so he gently tried to push her away. It didn't work.

  "O'Brien, you're hurting me," Jericho said, pointing to the open wound in his stomach that was still bleeding.

  "Sorry," she said. "How did you do that?"

  "The knife thing? It's all in the wrist."

  "No, the prayer. How did you switch it out?"

  "I didn't."

  "What?"

  "O'Brien, tell me you didn't really think that was gonna work. Tell me you didn't believe a single monk wrote a huge Bible in one night after making a deal with the Devil. You didn't believe this prayer thing was real this whole time."

  After what they'd seen last winter, she wasn't sure what to believe anymore.

  "How did the cops show up?" She asked.

  "I called them before I got here. I wanted to handle some of it on my own first."

  "Well, well, Mr. James E. Smith," a new voice spoke.

  "Donnell!"

  Dana hopped off the stage and hugged the beat-up detective.

  "Ms. O'Brien, good to see you're not still causing trouble," he smiled at an old friend. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to take Mr. Smith's statement. Make sure we get his version of what exactly happened here."

  Confused, Dana turned back to Jericho, who smiled and patted her on the shoulder.

  “Take care, kid."

  "Where are you going?"

  “I gotta talk to this cop. We gotta finish business.”

  LXXVII

  The morning sun rose over Amsterdam. Bram Meijer awoke at daybreak, same as he had every morning for the last fifteen years. He threw on a pair of shorts and his Underarmor AFC Soccer Club shirt and set off for his morning run. Early morning is the best time to jog in the city. The crisp air coming in off the North Sea and the pre-morning rush made for a peaceful run in a major urban square. If he waited an extra hour, things would be much thicker, less pleasant, on this cool summer morning.

  After thirty-five minutes and two-and-a-half kilometers, Bram returned to his flat in the De Pijp neighborhood. He unlocked the door and turned on the faucet, sticking his face directly into the stream to quench the post-run thirst.

  BING DING BING DING DING

  The same ringtone he heard yesterday when he received a call from the mysterious Mr. Thunderfoot. Bram grabbed his phone and saw a different Skype user.

  "I heard you may be in some trouble," he said.

  "I usually am." Dana O'Brien smiled

  Her face was inside a small video window. A jagged cut ran cross a sickly pale face with heavy bags under her bloodshot eyes. Amazing someone could look so terrible and beautiful at the same time. The background was dark, which shouldn't be a surprise considering it's almost 1:00 am in Chicago, but she seemed awake.

  "I got a call from your friend, Mr. Thunderfoot, yesterday."

  She paused for a moment to think about what he meant before rolling her eyes.

  "Oh, him. Yeah, we both really stepped in it this time."

  Bram wiped the sweat still trickling off his brow.

  "Are the two of you safe?"

  "I think so. For now. Inspector Meijer, I have one hell of a tale for you."

  "Is that so?"

  "Oh yeah. I'm going to send you the story when I finish it later today."

  "You look like you need a few hours' sleep."

  "I could, but that's not happening."

  "I bet it's something that would sound much better over a drink," Meijer laughed.

  "Well, you just hop on the first flight to Chicago, and I'll regale you with the best parts. The ones that won't make the official version."

  "Don't tempt me!"

  They shared a slightly uncomfortable pause.

  Dana looked around, almost like checking to make sure she was alone.

  "I just wanted to say, thank you."

  Meijer found his tongue tangled, unsure how to respond. It's not uncommon for journalists and cops to help each other out, it's another to receive any sincere gratitude.

  "Well, Miss O'Brien, save those thank yous. Drinks are on you when I come out to Chicago," Meijer said, knowing it would never happen. No matter how much he would have liked it.

  "Deal." Dana smiled. "Keep an eye on your email."

  "Like a hawk," Meijer smiled back as her face disappeared from the Skype video window.

  LXXVIII

  Ike Reed's Cutlass Supreme pulled up to the curb at the corner of 48th and
Ellis Avenue, a few blocks east of Cottage Grove Avenue. Ike stepped out and put his hands on the steel gate separating the sidewalk from a turn-of-the-century, eight thousand square-foot, Colonial-Revival-style home. With its ionic columns and brick front, the house looked like a smaller version of the White House, but in red.

  Ike lived in Chicago his whole life and could count the number of times he'd been to Kenwood, one the most exclusive neighborhoods on the South Side. Kenwood and Hyde Park were only fifty blocks from Roseland, but they might as well have been in a different world. This is the University of Chicago, historic home of some of the city's most noted minds. But Kenwood was different than the Gold Coast or the River North, other exclusive neighborhoods. Ike looked around the block and found the faces here to be a little more friendly and familiar.

  A new face, recognizable but not terribly friendly, was moving into the neighborhood today. With the yellow Hertz truck backed into a nearby corner and small team of movers hauling furniture past the steel gate, Ike looked a tad out of place.

  "Aye!"

  Ike turned to the front entrance and saw that familiar face between the columns.

  "My man!" Ike walked through the gates and huffed his chunky frame up three concrete steps where Ethan Jericho waited for him with an open hand and half hug. "Look at this place!"

  "Yeah, I'm downsizing," Jericho smirked.

  "Shut your mouth. It does remind me you owe me for dinner at Tommy's." Ike laughed as he pushed the kid from the old neighborhood, having no clue he was serious.

  "Yeah, time for a change. Smart man told me we need to plant roots, else we blow away in the wind."

  "Shit, I said roots, y'all got the whole damn forest."

  Jericho laughed, watching the movers carry in a brand new couch. The old ones, like everything else back in Provo, was eaten by fire. Fortunately, the money from Willowbrook hit the bank sooner than he expected. A pleasant surprise. Enough to purchase and furnish the Kenwood place, with the leftovers funneled into the new RainyDay Foundation Charity that would officially be in Ike's name. Rebuilding the business was something else.

  "Miss Crissy know?" Ike wondered.

  "Nah. I wanna be close, but she don't need to know how close."

  "She'll come around."

  No, she wouldn't. That's okay. He just needed to make sure the Center was safe. There's some new property on the market in St. Charles. Maybe he should look into that?

  "What about your little business?"

  "Business? I'm legit now. Cherry Vale Security is my focus, one hundred percent."

  "What about the other stuff?"

  "No other stuff. I'm retired now. That was like my last stand and shit."

  "Right. So, what do you need help with?" Ike asked.

  "I didn't ask you to help me move. I asked you here to come hang out," Jericho chuckled.

  "Well, shit, how sad you gotta be to hang out with an old man?"

  "This sad," Jericho laughed, pointing at himself. "C'mon, I got sweet tea in the fridge."

  Ike shuffled his way past Jericho into the home.

  "God damn!"

  Jericho shook his head and looked out onto his new property. The Provo thing was done. It's time for a fresh start. He needed the change, and though he wasn't a religious man, he felt something calling him back here. The old place was paid for in cash to make his lifestyle a bit simpler. He's not that lucky this time. He had a mortgage on this place, or more accurately, Luis Sanderson did. Making payments on a place like this is going to be an adjustment. Sure, he could easily afford a smaller home in one of the other neighborhoods. But the man developed a taste for nice things. The key is not falling into old habits.

  BZZZZT

  "Cherry Vale Security," Jericho answered.

  "Um, yes," a young female voice on the other end said. "I need to talk to someone about the Advantage Treatment."

  "I'm sorry we don't offer that package anymore."

  Jericho pulled the phone away from his ear and was about to hang up and move forward. Then he looked back down at the caller still on the other line and put it back up to his ear.

  "But maybe you'd be interested in our new Golden Phoenix option?"

  Eh, what the hell. One more job isn't going to kill anyone.

  LXXIX

  They say the island of Kauai is one of the most beautiful places on Earth. With lush forests, sandy beaches, a tropical climate and an economy that isn't supported by tourist dollars nearly as much as the Big Island or Maui. The small island is a quiet, peaceful place with breath-taking views. Views Erik Zion could no longer behold.

  After Jericho drove the point of his sword through Zion's chest, he assumed he'd bleed out on the wet blacktop. If not from his chest, then from his wrists, which were no longer attached to his hands. But neither happened. Immediately after he heard the woman inviting everyone into the Church, he was scooped up by God knows who and thrown into some vehicle and taken God knows where. Zion didn't say a word, expecting death was near, but it wasn't.

  Doctors worked to make sure he survived. They did not make sure he lived, just survived. What kind of a life is no sense of sight and, for all purposes, no touch? He also developed a permanent wheeze thanks to the samurai sword jammed into his lungs. Survival is a cruel joke. Death would have been much better. But he wasn't given the option, and for some reason, his body kept fighting long after his mind tried to quit.

  For a few weeks he was trapped, no one bothered to ever tell him where he was or who they were. Not that Zion cared. One day a group of men came into his room and said, "You're coming with us."

  Zion didn't say a word. He didn't care. He wanted to die and assumed if he gave up and checked out, eventually he would. He was escorted to what sounded like an airport and put on what was probably an airplane. Again, no one bothered to tell him. After an unwanted flight that took who knew how long, Zion was ushered out of the plane and into a vehicle that sounded like a jeep. An hour or so later, he was pushed from the car. Unfortunately, it already stopped. He sniffed and recognized the tropic sent in the air.

  His captors rushed him into some building. Hopefully, this is where they'd finally put a bullet in his skull and end this all.

  "Mr. Zion, what happened to you?"

  "Mr. Prince?"

  "That's right, Erik. I am so sorry."

  "Mr. Prince, where am I? What am I doing here? What's been happening to me?"

  The Prince placed his hand on Zion's shoulder and tried to usher him into a seat.

  "Just rest for now."

  The Prince took the seat at the other end of his mahogany desk. He pulled open a drawer and inside was a stack of near thousand-year-old vellum pages etched in perfectly scrolled red calligraphy. But that's not what the Prince is looking for, he had those pages in his possession a long time ago. Instead, he pulled out a small bottle of cognac.

  "Would you like a drink, Zion?"

  The blind man nodded and then started to sob.

  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Prince. I got sloppy. I fucked up. Now look at me."

  Zion tried to weep with his head in his hands, but when his face only felt the hard stubs, the tears hit harder.

  "You sound like a desperate man, Erik."

  "I wish I was dead."

  "No, you don't. You want Jericho," The Prince's voice shifted into a dark tambour.

  The tears stopped, and Zion lifted his sightless head.

  "Yeah, but how?"

  "Perhaps you'd like to make a deal?"

  THE END

  Ethan Jericho will return in Nightcrawler

  Available November 19th on Amazon.

  The following is an excerpt from Nightcrawler

  Ethan Jericho’s lungs burned. The cool night air blowing off Lake Michigan stung the inside of his nose. A few weeks after settling into his new home in Chicago’s Kenwood neighborhood, he’d finally developed something of a routine. The evening run along the Lakefront Trail, which ran from Sheridan Road on the northside near Belmont H
arbor, just south of Wrigley Field, all the way to 71st Street on South Shore. It was eighteen miles long, not that Jericho did the entire trail, at least not yet. But he carved a nice little path from 71st up to Solider Field. It was a hard path, but scenic. Running along Lakefront gave what’s arguably the best view of the city. It was a much different view than when he was a high schooler running up and down Stone Island Parkway. But running at night was still something he preferred.

  Since moving back home, he was already down ten pounds and started feeling more like himself again. The wounds were healed, and he was moving forward with the new business. Not that things with Cherry Vale Security had changed, but relaunching the real business, what was now called the Golden Phoenix, was slower than he expected. After months on the shelf and being suddenly thrust back into the business fat and out of shape, Jericho found himself looking forward to returning to his old self.

  Jericho paused in front of the Shedd Aquarium. A park existed between the Aquarium and the Adler Planetarium. This was his favorite view. To the left was a skyline, accented by a hundred years of different architectural styles and influences that gave the city its own visual flavor that was different from New York or LA. Certainly different than Provo, Utah. To his right was miles of blue lake stretching further than the eye could see. In that view, it might as well have been an ocean. This was one of the most touristy parts of the city, but it was incredible at the same time. That’s why Jericho preferred to be here in the early morning hours, before the rest of the world could pollute his view.

  Jericho wiped his brow and hit the ground before bursting back to his feet. The burpees were back to being part of the morning routine. Long distance lungs weren’t enough. This job required explosive movements and split-second reaction. Two hundred burpees honed the explosiveness in his core and gave the lungs a different kind of burn. It hurt and he loved it. Training made his muscles sore, and soreness is the body's best reminder that it was still here. Still fighting. Training meant pain, and pain meant life. Embracing pain was embracing life. A life free of pain was a life that was over. Jericho isn’t ready for that. Not yet.