End of Days by Frank Lauria Read Free Book Online

hole. Perhaps the hammer that spiked the cross had missed a blow or two. Jericho shone his light inside.
    There was something in there.
    Chicago winced as Jericho rolled up his sleeve and pushed his hand past the cobwebs and roaches. When he pulled out his hand, he was holding a pickle jar. A pickle was still floating inside. Except it wasn’t a pickle.
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” Chicago asked in a hushed voice.
    â€œHis tongue.”
    *   *   *
    Chicago was sorry he had asked. He gaped at the blackened lump of flesh floating inside the jar.
    Jericho picked up a pair of long shears from a nearby stool. “He must have cut it off himself,” he mused, regarding the jar like Yorick’s skull.
    â€œWhy would anyone cut out their own tongue?” Chicago rasped, his voice strangled.
    Jericho looked at him as if the answer was obvious. “To keep from talking.”
    He handed the jar to Chicago and moved to an old, tilting refrigerator. Chicago quickly set the bottle down and followed.
    When Jericho opened the refrigerator door, a screeching black shadow leaped out at him. He fell back, reflexively swatting the creature aside.
    Still yowling, the black cat sprang out of the room. Chicago wished he could do the same. His heart was flailing at his ribs like a wild bird.
    Jericho peered inside the refrigerator. Another jar. This one filled with something black that moved.… A mass of flies were crawling over a sheet of paper inside the jar. Jericho reached in, took the jar, and shook it. Immediately the flies buzzed off, revealing an image on the paper.
    It was a photograph of a lovely young girl, perhaps twenty years old. She was smiling.
    Jericho handed the photograph to Chicago. “Ever see her before?”
    Chicago shook his head.
    Jericho rummaged around and found another old photograph in the writing desk. He studied it under the candlelight. It was a young priest, standing in front of St. Peter’s in Rome.
    Jericho recognized the young priest’s intense, emaciated features. It was the shooter. Except the priest he’d captured in the subway tunnel looked a thousand years older and ravaged by disease.
    How the hell did he know my name? Jericho wondered.
    â€œThis guy’s no hit man,” he said aloud.
    â€œMaybe he’s an unhappy investor.” Chicago suggested impatiently. “Let’s get the hell out of here, this place is making me itch.”
    Wham! The door was suddenly kicked open, filling the room with frantic shouts. Jericho dropped into shooting position, Chicago at his side.
    â€œDrop it!” someone yelled.
    Jericho squinted and saw uniformed policemen at the door. He lowered his Glock. Reluctantly, Chicago did the same.
    â€œHow the hell did you two find this place?” Detective Marge Francis asked, stepping gingerly into the filthy room.
    Jericho grinned smugly. “Lucky guess. What did you find out?”
    Detective Francis hesitated. Finally she decided to answer.
    â€œHis name’s Thomas Aquinas. He used to be a priest.”
    â€œA homicidal priest … that’s a new one,” Chicago noted.
    â€œYeah, well, it gets better. He studied at the Vatican. One of their alleged visionaries. Came here in ’81 to St. John’s Church uptown. Six months ago he disappeared. The priests up there said he was having a spiritual crisis.”
    Jericho shrugged. “Tell me what I don’t know.”
    Chicago nodded and looked around. “That’s one hell of a crisis.”
    â€œThis doesn’t make sense,” Jericho said slowly. “What’s a priest doing shooting at a Wall Street banker?”
    â€œMaybe we should ask the girl.”
    Jericho’s annoyed glare felt like a sunlamp. Too late, Chicago realized what he had said.
    Detective Francis pounced on it. “What girl?” she snapped, green eyes clamped on Chicago’s face.
    â€œDid I say girl…?” he