The Book of 21 (34 page)
John pressed toward the door and could see Amy standing at one of the long, narrow windows. She stared at the street far below. Her right arm hung at her side, and her hand clenched his Beretta. She could apparently see something down below that made any threat from the stairs irrelevant.
As he entered the room, the approaching sirens of several police cruisers told John what she saw. He watched as Amy reached up and put her left hand onto the window frame. She shifted her weight, and almost seemed to sag with despair.
“You got me, John,” she sighed.
Until that moment, he was unsure whether she even knew of his presence. After hoisting the revolver and taking aim, he said softly, “It’s over.”
“My daddy always told me I was a mean little bitch.” She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Someday, he said, if you keep lying and hurting people to get what you want, you’ll get what’s coming to you.”
She tilted her head up toward the sky, and he could see tears roll down the side of her face. He stood still, pointing the gun at her back. He was too tired to play the game anymore.
“Well, I was
really
good at it. He never could catch me.” She turned toward John and gave a weak smile as she wiped her tears away. “I got better and better, and the rewards got higher and higher. The thing was, the stakes did too.” She scoffed, and continued, “I didn’t care. Hell, who could catch Amy, right? She’s too smart.” She smiled and shook her head. “He would have liked you. John McDonough—the man that finally gave that little bitch Amy what she deserved.” She paused a second, and her expression went blank. “I wish that useless old bastard would have been a little less stupid. I wish he would have caught me, and tanned my hide before the stakes got so high.”
John stared at her. He refused to blink, even though his eyes were beginning to sting again from the sweat of his brow. He was sure the story at the bar last night was a sham, and this story probably was too. Most likely, she was looking for that second of hesitation—just as he did down in the nave. He remained motionless and kept his aim steady; he knew that any waiver in concentration meant death.
“Put down the gun,” he said firmly, offering her one last way out.
Amy glanced at the stairs behind him, and then looked him in the eye. “I’m done, John. I’m not going back down those stairs. This is how it ends for me.”
John took aim at her torso and cocked the .38 to let her know that he was ready to end her, if he had to. He then warned, “Let’s not get stupid.”
“Too late,” she wheezed through a laugh. She looked down at the gun in her hand, and said, “This is the only control I have left. If I let you take me in, I’ll be dead in a few hours. I’d rather take care of this myself than see what they have in store for me.”
The sound of footsteps, echoing up the stair behind John, was her cue. She started to slowly raise the gun, keeping it close to her body. John realized that she was being careful not to point it in his direction. He remained motionless as she brought the gun to her temple.
The two of them stared at each other for a few seconds. John gave a nod and Amy returned a weak smile. She then pulled the trigger, sending shards of her skull and chunks of her brain spraying across the small room.
The footsteps behind John stopped.
“Detective McDonough?” Fanelli yelled up the stair.
John dropped the gun and sat on the cold stone floor. He looked at the lifeless corpse of Amy Ritter. He wondered just how much of what he had heard was true, and just how bad her life really was. He had no idea who the real Amy Ritter was, but he wondered just what sad chain of events could cause her life to end like this.
A few seconds later, he heard Fanelli step into the room behind him. Fanelli took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. There was silence for a while. Then Fanelli sat down next to him, and the two men stared at Amy’s corpse.
After a few minutes, Fanelli said, “Well, looks like this one is over, Detective.”
John sighed, “About fucking time.”
Fanelli chuckled and helped him to his feet.
With Fanelli’s help, John slowly made his way down the spiral stair. When he reached the bottom, he saw two paramedics carting Jake Moore out of the church in a gurney. Harry and Kim were at Jake’s side. After Moore’s gurney exited, another entered. The two new paramedics came to steady John and help him onto the fresh cart.
“The book,” he croaked, grabbing Fanelli’s arm. “Get the book and bring it to me.”
“What book?” Fanelli sputtered, as he scanned the altar and furrowed his brow.
“There was something there, by the altar,” he murmured, sounding almost drunk. “They thought there was something here they could use to blackmail the church.”
“Shit,” Fanelli hissed. He shook his head and roared, “Close off this church! Nobody in or out!”
Using Fanelli’s shoulder, John pulled himself up to look for the book. He scanned the floor, thinking that perhaps he mistook the location. The book was gone.
He realized Amy told him the truth about one thing; anything involving the Templars wound up in a dead end. Tears fell from his eyes, and he began to laugh. Then it all went black.
Epilogue
A year later, John sat at the bar in DiFlore’s Diner and stared at the screen of a laptop computer. He sighed and took another sip of coffee. All he needed was a title. He decided to not force the issue and closed the computer’s lid.
He opened his morning paper. In the marriage section, he found a picture of Jake Moore and Kim Wohlford. Next to the picture was an announcement of their engagement.
That glimpse of Kim and Jake was as much contact as he had with any of them since he left the force. He purposely missed the ceremony that awarded Fanelli’s Sergeant stripes, and ignored Harry’s occasional messages that invited him to dinner. After a brief smile, he decided that this small bit of memory was enough for one day.
Flipping back to the front page, he found that the headline on the Inquirer declared, “Circle of Conspirators Grows: Two More Indicted.”
“Wrong again, John,” he sighed.
He took another sip of coffee while his mind involuntarily wandered back over the events that had transpired since that day in the church.
The half-delirious words he uttered right before he passed out, had probably saved his life. “They thought there was something here they could use to blackmail the church,” was reiterated by Fanelli to the commissioner’s snooping press secretary, and the commissioner passed it along to the press. The words were enough to explain the situation away as a bunch of weirdoes who dreamed that they could get something of value, and left no worries about the fact that the book was gone.
Though he later said the book was there, the brass contended that he must have a faulty memory caused by his loss of blood and the resulting lapse of consciousness. Given Mezzalura’s speech about the ability of certain parties to make people look foolish, he figured it was wise not to push the issue too much. The book was gone; continuing to insist that it existed proved little, and insistence without proof would only land him in the camp of loony conspiracy theorists he saw on the science fiction channel.
For about a month, he considered whether he should go after them, find the book, and expose their sorry circle of extortion and murder. The problem with this path was that he had no idea who even had the thing now. The trail was cold; there was nowhere to start.
Moreover, he never knew what the odd Phrygian glyphs in the book actually meant. Though the book
could
be an artifact that really gave the bearer some sort of power, he doubted that. If it was anything related to the old tale, it was probably just the written version of the story. He knew some books had a way of taking on a larger meaning than they actually possessed, and vengeance had a way of biting one in the ass. He lacked the desire to put his life on the line again for some old folktale; if some group was too stupid to expose their own blackmailers, then he would let them pay the price.
Internal Affairs, however, did not walk away from the situation as quickly. Upon investigating Shalby’s actions, they found links to another cop. With Internal Affairs tracking down cops inside the department, and Homicide tracing Mezzalura’s associates, Philadelphia finally had its witch hunt. John often wondered, though, whether the accused were actually dirty or just the target of someone else’s projected guilt.
After a few months of watching things unfold, and John showing a lack of action toward exposing the book, the department presented him with a sudden offer of cash settlement for his “wrongful” suspension. They claimed it was only fair, since his suspension left in harm’s way. He wondered whether it might simply be hush money, but since he had already decided to keep his mouth shut, he took the check. It amounted to about three times his yearly salary. He promptly tendered his resignation and decided to find a way of life that he actually enjoyed, instead of coming back to a profession that he took because of a childhood vendetta.
He was done with playing policeman; he had spent most of his adult life holding other people responsible and putting his life on the line in the course of this duty. Now he wondered why he had let himself do it for so long. The job seldom earned him any thanks. Moreover, while it let him make sure that others were protected to create and do things with their life, it left him without any accomplishments of his own. He had enough of that life; enough of people calling him a pig for holding them responsible and protecting the public while his own hopes and dreams were slowly eroded away by time.
After leaving the force, he tried his best to avoid thinking about that world and started writing. While the practice was initially for therapeutic purposes, he soon realized that he found something he liked to do. He found himself spending more time typing than he probably should, and when not writing, he was thinking about it. Now he sat with his first manuscript complete, except for the title.
He opened the computer and stared again at the manuscript page. Too many possibilities, and too little direction, just like those days a year ago.
Taking another sip of coffee caused the words “weak dishwater” to pop into his mind. That reminded him of Harry’s tirade over a cup of coffee, just after John awoke in the hospital. He never did figure out just what set Harry off. He shook the idea from his mind and tried to focus when a priest sat next to him and ordered a cup of coffee to go.
The priest casually eyed John’s laptop and asked, “Are you a writer?”
“I’m trying to be, Father. By the way, you may want to rethink the order for coffee.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine. After all, we all have our trials in life,” the priest chuckled. “As for your profession, these are tough times to be on your own. In times like these, we see many people cling to their faith, and many people strike out on crazy and inane endeavors to give themselves peace.”
John took a sip of the ugly coffee, and calmly asked, “What are you saying, Father?”
“Just that the church may provide some solace if you find yourself at a crossroads.” The priest paused to take a Styrofoam cup of coffee from Effie and pay her. He then turned back to John and said, “Feel free to come to the church if you ever feel you are in need. We always welcome friends.”
John watched the priest leave and wondered whether the good Father was really just trying to be helpful, or if there was another message that he should hear. He tried to let it drop, deciding he had pondered enough cryptic double-talk for this lifetime, but still, the priest’s words ate at him.
For a few minutes, he debated whether he should pull this trigger. If the good Father knew what John was about to do, he might not be considered such a friend. If the priest had a deeper meaning behind his words, the one act that made John happy might cost him this olive branch. He smiled, and knew he could do without the worry.
He knew that clinging to promises of help and safety might really be less secure than braving the fire. In the end, those promises might lead to larger risk—even risk to his life—over something that meant nothing to him. He needed to do this, and finally have something to show for his life. He needed to create and make his own way, and take the risk that came with that.
He would unleash the old gods—at least in his own life. He would start feeling both the highs, and the lows, that came with that type of freedom. He opened his laptop, and typed the title:
The Book of 21
.
About the Author
Todd Ohl lives in the Washington DC metropolitan area.
The Book of 21
is his first novel. For more information, please visit
http://www.toddohl.com
.
Table of Contents
Chapter 2: A Stop for Breakfast
Chapter 4: A Letter from Beyond
Chapter 6: Hallman’s Apartment
Chapter 15: The Light of the Moon
