Dear Reader: Today’s story I have classified as horror, but it could also be considered fantasy, mystery or some other sub-genre altogether. I’ll let you be the judge.
Neon lights at night are the signposts of iniquity and lawlessness. The twenty-four-hour convenience store on Jefferson and Broadway with its blinking neon lottery light, a haven for drug dealers and addicts alike. The tattoo parlors up 6 Mile and Woodward with their flashing neon skulls, dens of human trafficking. Casinos, bars and rent-by-the-hour motels, all of them advertising by neon a haven for the ungodly. Edwin Rivera was certain that included the Skipper Motel, a dump catering to pimps and prostitutes, and where the former police detective was scouting a new client.
The neon lights for the Skipper Motel were the only glitz and glamor it had to offer, but Rivera knew it was just another signpost. An electrified glass tube of neon and argon wrapped around the spokes of a large wooden captain's wheel, flickering in and out with no particular rhythm. Rivera was parked underneath it, and his dashboard lit up a faint red every time the electrodes at the ends of the tubes pulled in excess wattage.
There were no other light poles in the parking lot that would expose his misdeeds. The motel was only two floors of exterior corridors, illuminated seafoam by a few working flood lights in order to give the illusion that it was akin to waterfront living. Not that anyone would be looking in his direction anyhow. This was the kind of place that only makes you look away, for fear that it would suck you into a vortex of depression and hopelessness.
There were three other cars, not including Rivera's rusted Charcoal gray 1998 Nissan Altima. One was the motel attendant's vehicle, and it was parked at the front office. The second was a brand new, orange modified Toyota Supra, driven into the parking lot thirty minutes prior, where a teenage couple full of nervous anticipation got out and went into room number thirteen. Apparently, daddy could afford the car, but junior was on the hook for the cost of accommodations. His girlfriend looked too unsuspecting to protest. Last, was a beat up nondescript blue sedan from the late 80s. The preacher's car, and the man he was about to meet.
Rivera smoked one last cigarette, and then pulled his ankle holster with a loaded snub nose .38 out of the glovebox. He was already wearing a shoulder holster with a Sig Sauer P320, but he needed guaranteed backup. While he had his fair share of confrontations with gang members and ex-cons, this was his first job for a man of the cloth. That made him extra cautious. Low level street trash didn't bring any heat if they went missing, but if Rivera was right with his intelligence, then this man was a well-liked figure among the street crowd. A good apple gone bad could be desperate and dangerous.
He got out of the car, surveyed the surroundings once more, and walked across the parking lot straight to room number 6 on the first floor. Rivera knocked three times, all the while scanning to his left and right down the narrow corridor. Nobody would find it suspicious that he should be concerned for his safety in this part of town. The door opened. A thin man who stood an inch or two above six-foot, jet-black hair, circular framed glasses, white dress t-shirt, black tie, black pants and tan leather dress shoes stood before him.
"Mr. Rivera, I'm Reverend Novak. Please come in," he said. Rivera stepped inside and the preacher closed the door.
"You Mormon?" Rivera asked. Novak smiled, bright pearly whites.
"No, but I can see why you might think that. We're a non-denominational mission house," Novak said.
"You carrying?" Rivera asked. Most men wouldn't say if they were, but he wanted to test out Novak's disposition.
"Oh, no. I've been to the range a few times, but I'm not really fond of weapons. It sends the wrong message given our outreach in the community."
"You mind I pat you down anyhow?"
"Go right ahead."
Rivera did just that, and then spent a few seconds combing the closet and bathroom. Several months ago he was hired to help some disenfranchised poor soul leave her pimp without incident, but one of the other girls caught wind of it and ratted her out for spite. Rivera arranged to meet the fly away prostitute at the Starlite Motel, but unbeknownst to him, the pimp was well informed and hid in the shower. Without warning he popped out wielding a hatchet. Never bring a knife to a gunfight — problem solved. The girl, Sandy, owed him a debt of gratitude, and she had referred him to some big clients. Novak was also her referral, a connection through his mission where she was staying temporarily.
Satisfied with the state of affairs Rivera laid out the terms.
"I'm sure Sandy told you the conditions, but I'm going to say it again just so we're clear," he said. "Everything comes at a risk. The greater the risk, the higher the cost. No price is fixed and it's also non-negotiable. If it requires extra muscle that cost is passed on to you on top of my fees. Payment upfront. In cash. There's only one risk I won't take — murder for hire."
Novak's expression didn't change in the least. He was unnaturally composed, and that put Rivera on edge. People put in these positions are either nervous or excited about what's to come, especially when murder is mentioned, but the preacher handled himself like it was a church picnic.
The room started to close in on Rivera, dirty cinder block walls painted a dingy beige, the faded burgundy carpet stained in multiple places and the smell of stale smoke.
"Mr. Rivera, I think you'll find that what I'm asking, while complicated, has very little risk. You may even question why I'm not using more conventional means."
"I don't judge so long as you can pay." That's when he noticed a small round table and two chairs near the corner by the front window. A taped manila padded envelope, no address on it, was laying on the tabletop.
"I would like for you to deliver a package," Novak said.
"FedEx or UPS will do that for you a lot cheaper."
"This delivery comes with a few conditions. Please, can we sit? I've been on my feet all day." Novak sat down at the table expecting that Rivera would follow without question.
"Are you a religious man, Mr. Rivera?"
"No."
"If you don't mind me asking, why is that?" Rivera didn't like getting personal. The less a client knew about him the better. Novak's sincerity made him drop his guard, but it was more than that. It was a disquieting inquisitiveness. A calming charisma. Although the question seemed harmless enough.
"I walked a beat for five years before making detective. It was easier to find babies than it was to find God in the trash this city leaves behind."
"I understand. Are there circumstances under which the mothers of those children could be offered forgiveness?"
"Is this a Sunday school lesson, or are we doing business?"
"Now you'll have to forgive me. I don't expect you to agree, but I want you to understand my point of view. People will often make decisions that align with their environment, but not necessarily their conscience. It's not up to me to judge, but under certain conditions it is up to me to bring it to their attention." Novak's expression was one of expectation. It was obvious to Rivera if he wanted to get out of here with the assignment, he better convey some level of understanding.
"People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Is that it?" Rivera said.
"Something like that." Novak leaned forward in his chair, folded his hands, and placed them on top of the envelope.
"When the environment is the one in which you and I are very familiar with, broken homes, gangs, the poor and pitied, it's much easier to gauge a person's propensity for repentance. They will either accept their brokenness, or they will reject the message. However, they have very little to hide by the time I reach them. There's simply not much more to lose. In contrast, it's extremely difficult to reach into a person's soul when you have to dig through a façade. To reach the wealthy we need to first make them aware of what they stand to lose before they understand what's to gain."
"Blackmail," Rivera said.
"In your world. Possibly."
"How much does he, or she, stand to lose?"
"Everything."
Rivera pulled into the Fellowship Community Church parking lot, which consisted of eight thousand parking spaces. In stark contrast to the Skipper Motel, there were plenty of lights made from cylindrical bases of clean cement, a brushed chrome pole, topped off by modern brushed chrome fixtures. They stood in groups of two, dispersed on islands of lush green grass surrounded by pristine curbs. None of them were lit since it was only 10am on a Monday morning. The lot itself was a sea of cement, every space with brightly painted yellow lines. It was paved and finished to perfection.
The entrance sign was a tall triangular monolith unto itself, with three sides covered mostly by digital screens, advertising anything from Sunday services to a men's breakfast and a nationally recognized pre-school. The last screen in the rotation advertised a celebration for a successful building campaign to increase seating from twenty thousand to thirty thousand.
Off in the distance a second one hundred thousand square foot monolith filled the horizon. Pillars of natural stone, large glass windows and the same brushed silver as the light posts were used for trim work and rooflines. A massive spire rose up in front of it all, with a bronze cross embedded into the stone, radiant spears of bronze light shooting out from the center. The shrubbery, and for that matter, all of the greenery was immaculately landscaped.
Even though it wasn't a Sunday service there were a couple hundred cars parked mostly in front of the building. Rivera considered most were probably staff, including very attentive security details, cameras and measures to deal with ne’er-do-wells like himself with ulterior motives.
He had explained to Novak after receiving all of the fine details that the cost of his services would be $2500. The next day, Sandy delivered an envelope with crisp, clean, non-sequential one-hundred-dollar bills. Rivera couldn't decide what was more surprising, that Novak came up with the money so fast, or that he had the presence of mind to eliminate any suspicion by sending someone else to deliver it.
Rivera parked in a visitor's spot close to the entrance, which was still easily fifty yards from the series of front doors. He wore jeans and a brown tweed suit coat with a blue dress shirt underneath and tan shoes. It gave some impression of respectability. He decided to leave all of his firearms in the vehicle. There was a tinge of uncertainty with every job, but this one was constructed carefully, planned out meticulously by Novak, and he knew all he had to do was follow simple directions. Church life in general was completely unfamiliar to Rivera so he trusted that Novak could navigate the institution with relative ease.
As Rivera approached the front door he noticed off to the left, on the wall, was a small neon sign that read in a sans-serif font Open 24/7/365, and in the script below that, God Never Sleeps. There was a small doorbell, and a speaker below that for what Rivera assumed were after hours emergencies. For whatever reason this conjured up images of ringing a red phone on some poor unsuspecting assistant pastor's bedside nightstand. Even in church someone had to do the grunt work.
The front desk was a semicircle not too far from the door, and an up-beat, beautiful blonde young lady greeted Rivera with a level of genuine exuberance that he actually found refreshing. She pointed him in the direction of the church offices down a long hallway and off to the left near the back of the building. He was met with smiles and greetings all along the way, and he thought it ironic that he was being welcomed into their inner sanctum on a job that was less than friendly.
When he finally reached the offices there was a change in atmosphere, more guarded and reclusive. The secretary here sat behind a Plexiglass screen on the other side of a brick wall. All of the offices were behind a single set of doors accessible only by key cards, which were on the same side of the wall as the woman. She was older, a woman in her sixties, starting to gray, her disposition less friendly, more inquisitive and protective.
"Hello, may I help you?" she said. Rivera looked down at her nametag.
"Irene, I have a package delivery for Pastor Joseph James. Would you be so kind as to let him know?" Rivera said, putting on as much charm as he could stomach.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I need to handle all deliveries, and they're to be inspected and opened before they get to Pastor James."
"I thought that might be the case. See, I work for a parcel service, and I've been instructed to hand it to the pastor in person, and in private. It's a sensitive matter."
"That may be, but it won't be possible," she said, her tone changing to one of firmness. "They don't like us to say so, but a figure of religious influence like the pastor is often the target of criticism, which can come in many forms."
Who they were, Rivera didn't know, but it was obvious he couldn't charm his way through Irene.
"Maybe you could page him for me and ask? I would be happy to speak with him by phone from right here if that makes you more comfortable."
"Sir, I don't think you understand. Pastor James is an incredibly busy man, and he is in meetings most days all day. I'm going to have to ask you to leave it here, or you'll just have to take it with you."
"I'll tell you what. You call back to his office, and let him know that Sandy has a package for him. If he's not interested I'll be on my way." Rivera's patience was thinning, but he didn't want to draw too much attention to himself. She eyed him with a great deal of suspicion, but after a pause she picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Hi pastor, this is Irene up front," she said with some level of discomfort in her voice. "Yes, I completely understand. I'm sorry to interrupt, but there is a gentleman up front here who says he has a package for you. No, I know, but he says it's from someone named Sandy?" A long pause. It was enough for Rivera to recognize immediately that Novak was right — mention Sandy's name and the veil would be lifted.
"Pastor? Yes, okay, oh… sure," Irene said, now looking visibly shaken. "Just a moment," she said to Rivera after hanging up the phone. "Kevin, our head of security will escort you back to the office."
Rivera pictured Kevin, a white man in his sixties, close to retirement, a former police officer, or possibly former military. He would be dressed in suit and tie, but would be nothing more than a friendly face since the cameras do the majority of the heavy lifting.
After a minute or two the double doors opened, and a large jacked black man, easily six-foot four, two hundred plus pounds stood in front of Rivera, leering down at him. He wore size sixteen Nike shoes, black jeans, a black t-shirt with the church's insignia, and was built for intimidation. Rivera knew it wasn't Joseph James because he had found the pastor's picture on the church's website. This was Kevin, the head of security, assigned directly to the pastor, and that let Rivera know immediately how lucky he had been to even make it this far.
"Come on back with me," the man said with a deep, bellowing voice. There was no expectation that Rivera would do anything but follow his orders, and he was obliged to listen without hesitation. Today was one of the few days he would pull punches and holster the sarcasm with the help, especially since he was certain Kevin could toss him around like a rag doll.
They both walked a long hallway, cubicles dotting both sides of the aisle, curious eyes looking up from their work to try and ascertain why Rivera was being given immediate access to the king's court. The two men turned right, and to the left stopped at a single door with a separate key code access. The head of security pulled out his access key and tapped it to the pad. He opened the door inward and walked inside, Rivera following behind. The door shut and Kevin stood in front of it.
The office was full of opulent oak trim work, easily a cover feature in any home decor magazine with its mahogany leather chairs and sofa, a bookcase lining one of the entire walls, and the other wall decorated with pictures, a large full screen 4K television and kitchenette. The pictures were of nothing but the pastor sidling up next to various political figures and celebrities of some importance. Next to the TV a moose head hung unashamedly with two hunting rifles racked below it. Behind a dark oak desk with an Italian marble top a man sat, back turned, looking out the window into a large grassy knoll backed by deep woods. Rivera made the first move.
"Your man here needs to leave," he said, purposely choosing not to look back.
"Not a chance," Kevin said.
"It's okay. Leave us," James said.
"Joe, that's a bad idea," Kevin said.
James swiveled around in his chair to face the two men, an anger rising up into his face, redness flushing his cheeks and forehead.
"Kevin, get out!" he shouted.
There was a pause, and Rivera heard the door shut behind him. James was shorter and stocky, not too portly, and in his heyday would have made an excellent wrestler. He had a commanding presence, and was balding on top with nicely trimmed, deep black hair on the sides and back of his head. He wore a gray suit with a tie, a large gold wedding ring on one finger with a diamond center, and two platinum rings on his right hand. The entire ensemble was worth more than what Rivera was getting paid to do the job.
"You've got my attention," James said. Rivera held up the envelope and walked it over to set it on the desk. The pastor looked at it with eyes of discontent, knowing that whatever was in it was about to change his life irreparably for the worse.
"I'm just an errand boy. I was instructed to deliver the package, make sure you open it, and understand what's being asked. I don't know the contents," Rivera said.
"What is this, some sort of shake down? Sandy wants money, is that it? One night of indiscretion and I'm to pay for it handsomely, is that it?"
"Sandy didn't send it. She was just a foot in the door."
"So, who sent you?"
"I suggest you open the package. Like I said, I've got one job, and it's done."
A look of what Rivera took to be relief settled on James's face, the knowledge that somehow Sandy wasn't involved putting him at ease. Rivera didn't really know what was in the package either, was instructed not to open it — his reputation most assuredly on the line should he disobey. Novak knew a lot of people at street level and could spread the word fast that Rivera wasn't to be trusted, so he kept it taped shut, out of sight and mind until now.
James opened up his drawer, pulled out a large letter opener shaped like a sword. Engraved on it were the words, Sharper than any two-edged sword. He picked up the package, and while looking at Rivera, gauging his reaction, he sliced up under the top of the envelope, opening it from end to end. Without delay he turned the envelope over, letting the contents fall to his desk.
Rivera had expected some salacious photos of the pastor and Sandy, or some other prostitute, maybe a flash drive, or other paraphernalia. Even he was startled when a handwritten note slid out, which was tied around a single decaying human finger. The finger was tagged like a gift to its recipient, with flecks of dark soil pouring out around it, and it had a ring on the finger, uniquely woven gold, like a vine, obviously custom made for whoever the unlucky soul was that had been wearing it.
The pastor jumped up from his seat and let out an audible gasp, the color draining from his face. Rivera almost panicked, sure that James would run from the office, call back Kevin from security, or even worse, phone the police. Slowly he slipped back into his seat and placed his head into his hands. It was the perfect pause to exit while the pastor was in shock. Before he could speak, James looked up and started talking in low tones.
"It's my brother-in-law's finger. I know because that's the ring I gave to him."
"This isn't a confessional. Nothing I need to know," Rivera said. James ignored him and kept talking in fits, first slow and then faster like he was trying to reason past whatever the finger meant to him personally.
"We started a business together. Back home. Before… all this. He was a drunkard and gambler. We had a good thing going. Everyone just figured he got in with the wrong crowd. It would have happened sooner or later. If it wasn't me, then someone else, but it ate me up inside. I took what was left and started this church from next to nothing. Nobody knew. Nobody knows. It's impossible. He's buried so far back in the mountains that nobody could find his body," James said. Then, his sorrow turned, and Rivera saw a side of the man that was raw and wild, an animal whose leg was caught in a trap.
"Who in the hell sent you!" James shouted.
"I'm going to assume the tag has the instructions. I suggest you calm down and read it. I've fulfilled my obligation here, and I'll be leaving now. I suggest you do what it says and keep it to yourself." James didn't say anything else, but his eyes were still lit a fire with anger, their piercing glare eating into Rivera's back as he walked out of the room. Kevin was nowhere to be found so he made his escape quickly.
The cigarette was a welcome release to Rivera, a light buzz relaxing him. There he sat in his car gathering his wits out in the church parking lot, considering whether or not what James said was true. How did Novak know about James's brother and the murderous indiscretion? Maybe it came to his attention from a third-party, and he was just making good on a promise to bring about justice. Rivera had been asked to do a lot of strange things. This made the top of the list by a long shot. Maybe $2500 was asking too little.
Finally, he started the car and turned on the radio before backing out of his space. The news anchor was recounting a roundup of the weekend's events.
The Sheriff still has no leads on the two teenage lovers, who were murdered in a cult-like ritual in room thirteen of the Skipper Motel late on Saturday evening. Authorities are asking for any witnesses to come forward that may have leads. Fingerprints at the scene are being gathered and processed. Up next, this week's weather with Charlie Brookmire.
"Damn, unlucky number thirteen," Rivera said to himself.
Novak and Rivera stood underneath a dimly lit streetlight in an abandoned lot between two burned out buildings deep inside the bowels of the inner city. Across the street were several more burned out and dilapidated homes, one obviously a drug den considering the two black Escalades parked in the driveway. The next phase of the job came as a surprise, but when Novak offered $5,000 for a security detail it was a no-brainer. There they waited in silence for the arrival of the pastor Joseph James.
No questions were to be asked about the purpose of the meeting, or the contents of the package, and Rivera wasn't to say a word. The job was simple. Watch, listen and then wait. The two men had arrived in separate cars, and if all went as planned then they would leave the way they came. Why Novak chose this place was a mystery though, since any real protection came from meeting in a public place, lots of people to dissuade any rash decisions. The money was good, so Rivera continued to keep his mouth shut.
He noticed some movement in one of the windows of the adjacent structure. Probably a squatter, or a meth addict pacing around upstairs like a zombie aimlessly. For a brief moment he thought he recognized the person leering, partially hidden in the shadows, but before he could catch a glimpse, James pulled up under the light in his white Lincoln Town Car. As instructed, he was alone. He exited his vehicle cautiously, obviously deeply afraid of this part of town as well as the circumstances under which he found himself.
"I don't know who you are, or what you want, but I can only assume it's money." James said, trying to sound unphased by the state of affairs.
"I'm going to do the talking," Novak said, characteristically cool and collected. "You know why we're here. Repentance is right around the corner. Are you ready to come clean, relinquishing the burden of your sins?"
"I don't know what you mean. I've got nothing to come clean about, so nothing for you to blackmail me with anytime soon."
"Let's understand one another. We both know you murdered your brother-in-law in cold blood. A fit of jealousy and rage. That's just for starters. The years have seen you amass a great following, but along the way you've also amassed a great deal of wealth, greed and worst of all, pride."
"Yeah, says you and your lackey here. You dug up a dead body, jumped to conclusions, and then found yourself wanting a taste of the big time. Yeah, let's understand each other. You just want money so let's get on with it. What's your figure?"
"No, I want to offer you forgiveness. Release your burden, come clean, find reconciliation and mercy. All you need to do is confess your misdeeds here and now, to me and my witness, the only two men at present aware of your deep inner desire for restitution."
Rivera knew immediately that Novak had misplayed his hand, and James was just as aware. His expression changed, calling not a bluff, but a lack of understanding for the lengths one will go to protect an image and a seat of power. All those years spent trying to rehabilitate criminals, and there was nothing Novak had learned about how desperation changes a man. He was about to learn the hard way when James pulled a .357 Magnum out from under his jacket.
"If you're the only two that know about it, then I guess I can take care of this myself," James said.
"I've made arrangements, James. You think a man with my skill set makes it alive this long without a few insurance policies?" Rivera said. "You kill me, and it all gets out to the press first thing tomorrow morning." Novak wasn't phased in the least. He stood still and quiet.
"One thing about me you don't know. I'm an excellent poker player. I know when to call a bluff," James said, cocking back the hammer of the gun.
Before Rivera could draw, he watched James pull the trigger not just once, but three times in quick succession, the last of those hitting Novak in the head, bits of brain and skull fragments exiting the rear. He was fast, but Rivera knew how to draw from the hip, placing six shots dead center on James before he could turn his attention. The man's face grew pale, his eyes wide, and he dropped on his back with a loud thud.
Rivera approached slowly, making sure that the man was down for good, but growing increasingly aware that he needed to make his way out of this situation quickly. He didn't bother with Novak, knowing full well the man was dead instantly.
Standing over James's body, Rivera kicked the gun away, deciding his best approach was to call an insider on the force. His alibi would be that he was driving through the city, noticed a man holding another at gunpoint, decided to play the hero, and that's all the details required to close the case file. That was until he noticed Novak standing right next to him.
Rivera stumbled back, not watching his footing as he tripped over James's arm. His mouth was agape, dread welling up inside, filling him with pins and needles head to toe. Trying desperately to find the words, all he could mumble was, "I saw. I know what I saw."
"I was blind, and now I see Mr. Rivera. So true indeed," Novak said. His face, hair and shirt were stained a dark red, real blood, the faint smell of copper in the air.
"Would you be so kind as to help me drag the body into one of these buildings here, Mr. Rivera? I was never a man of great physical strength, but I suspect together we could get the former pastor inside and light it ablaze. I'm certain there will be no witnesses."
Rivera still didn't know what to say. His mind was reeling, unable to focus on what had just happened, but in a moment of clarity he knew Novak's plan was the correct course of action. Novak reached down and grabbed James's limp legs while Rivera took a hold of the arms, and they slowly dragged him in through an opening in the brick, laying him down on the first floor among a slew of rubble, trash and various debris.
"Thank you for your services, Mr. Rivera, that will be all. I suggest you leave quickly, keeping this evening's events to yourself," Novak said.
Rivera walked out of the building quickly as he was told, picking up speed the closer he got to his car, fumbling with his keys, then pausing, unlocking the door and stepping inside. Taking a deep breath he shuttered, eventually starting the vehicle. He backed out of the abandoned lot slowly and drove home to drink himself to sleep.
The week ahead Rivera decided not to take any more jobs. Several angry voicemails were left due to promises broken, threatening his namesake, but he didn't care. Nothing could get the events of the night out of his head, including the slow-motion replay of Novak's head, a whiplash of blood and gore.
As best he could tell, Novak must have rigged the entire charade. All except the death of James, which was certainly real. It's quite possible Kevin, the head of security, was on the inside, who replaced the bullets with blanks. The gore was a trick of some amateur practical FX wizard that Novak knew. It’s the only thing that made sense.
In short order he had the entire sequence of events reconciled, the entire play orchestrated in detail on paper, one of the most intricate schemes to which he had fallen victim. Sometimes, though, echoing within the inner recesses of his subconscious, where beliefs too ancient to conjure up were stored, he considered that Novak was more than what he advertised on the surface. Possibly, he was a power as old as time, that was about to rise up and sway anyone's free will that was prepared to take cash as payment.
Right about the time Rivera had settled the matter he took to the Internet to research what had come of James's disappearance and death investigation. All of the sorted details of his affairs, backroom deals and of course the murder of his brother-in-law came out into the public. It shook the religious community to its foundation. They needed a savior to build back the shambles that were now Fellowship Community Church. Only someone of miraculous charisma and of pure spirit could heal those wounds. As if by beckon call, that's when the video surfaced on the Internet.
Rivera was right about the watchful eye in the burned-out building. While nobody knew the secret identity of the individual filming, Rivera knew now that it was Sandy. The entire incident was on display, going viral, not because it showed the horrific death of Joseph James, a charlatan who had duped his last flock. Everyone was instead focused on the miracle man, who not only tried to bring about James's reconciliation, but who managed to cheat death in a very clear 4k video. The angles were just right so as not to reveal Rivera as the trigger man, all a part of Novak's plan.
In the coming months Novak took over as lead pastor at James's former church, preaching a gospel not of forgiveness or repentance, but one of manifestation and self-assurance. People were flocking in droves to bear witness. Rivera was convinced it would be a long running and successful con, but there was an itch of doubt he just couldn't scratch. The only one to do that would be Novak, who called out of the blue on a Tuesday morning, waking Rivera from a deep slumber.
"Mr. Rivera, did I wake you?"
"Uh, yeah, no, it's okay. You shouldn't be calling me."
"Oh, it's quite alright. Neither of us have anything to fear. I have another job for you." A long pause went by while Rivera considered whether he should hang up the phone. His curiosity needed to be satisfied, pulling him toward Novak, who was now a magnetic force.
"What are the details?" Rivera questioned.
"The former head of security, Kevin, is no longer an employee. He will need a different kind of replacement."
"You forget. I'm not a man of faith."
"You have doubts. That's true. They're not about the existence of a god."
"How did you do it?"
"It was no trick, Mr. Rivera, as I take your meaning. There are forces that roam our world, and the next, waiting and willing to guide us on how to control life and death. As it stands though, I have nothing to prove. You will need to come to your own conclusions. Back to the real question at hand — are you interested in the job?"
"I don't doubt you can pay. Make me an offer."
"That's what I like to hear. How does two hundred and fifty thousand dollars sound for one year's work?"
"Did you really just say a quarter of a million dollars?"
"Yes, but it comes with an additional risk. One that you were previously unwilling to take."
"Yeah, what's that?"
"Murder, Mr. Rivera. Murder."