Solomon's Grave

by Daniel G. Keohane

  Another painting, snow-capped peak rising above a vast plain, not as powerful as the Gilbert, but pretty to look at.

  He said, “And what about you, Mister Quinn? What do you believe in?” He continued moving slowly, almost sideways across the room, trying to convince himself he was pulling Quinn along rather than being pursued by him. Nathan had gained some control in the short conversation.

  “Do not try and convert me, Reverend. My beliefs, and yours, could not be further apart.” Any trace of amusement in Quinn’s voice was gone.

  Nathan stopped finally and looked at him. More as a statement than a question, he said, “You’re an atheist, then?”

  Quinn laughed. It was a shallow sound, without mirth. “Hardly. I believe in your God very much. I simply choose not to serve him.”

  Nathan knitted his brows. The connotation was undeniable. He resumed his slow trek across the room, needing to focus. The way this conversation was heading, he could imagine his father’s angry reproach. How dare you come and preach at my club, he might say. A week earlier he would never have imagined his father scolding him for such a thing. But now... Dad, I don’t think you understand the nature of this place.

  And you do?

  Nathan was beginning to think he did, at the very least the nature of the man who was behind him right now.

  He stopped in front of another painting. Unlike the others, this had an ornate dark wood frame. It looked quite old, but the colors were striking, dimensional in their fiery hues. Nathan began to say, “What do you—” but then could no longer speak.

  The painting before him was of a desert, deeply colored in oranges and browns. The burning red sun had fallen behind a pyramidal structure. It was a temple, a massive backdrop when compared to the minute hooded figures marching away from the viewer, toward the temple’s dark red stone. All were washed in the hues of the dying sun. The walls rose up in stepped tiers, a slightly skewed rendition of an Incan temple.

  Nathan knew this place.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The pilgrims were no more than slight, impressionistic dots along the bottom, dwarfed by the structure’s magnitude and presence. He imagined them moving as he watched, felt himself pulled forward, lost in the nightmare which had once again invaded his waking world.

  He needed to look away, pretend this painting meant nothing. It was too late for that. Seeing this representation of his own private nightmare was too much of a shock. Its impact was not as it might have been, had there not been so many other enigmas these past few days. Just another mismatched jigsaw piece dropped in front of him.

  “A lovely painting, isn’t it?”

  Quinn had moved beside him and gazed at the picture.

  Nathan’s voice was a harsh whisper. “What is it?” Any cards he’d hoped to play close to his chest had just been scattered across the floor. The best he could do was feign indifferent curiosity.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, Reverend, you look a bit shaken.”

  His confusion melted back into anger, or maybe this was simply what abject terror felt like. It filled every corner of Nathan’s body. The wall around the dark frame, the room itself, was crinkling away. Only the painting’s sharp colors offered any clarity. He needed to focus elsewhere, turn away. Instead he whispered, “What is that, that building in the painting?”

  The other man said nothing, not right away. Instead he looked alternately between the temple image and his guest.

  Nathan wasn’t sure if he’d answered. He didn’t think so. He closed his eyes, and the pressure around his head lightened a little. He turned to his right before opening them again, no longer trying to keep his composure. He wanted to run screaming into the parking lot but also grab this man and shake the answers out of him.

  “Tell me,” he said again, with a voice only slightly louder than before, “what that is. Now.” This last word surprised him. He didn’t like threatening anyone, even subtly. But it was too much. Too much to take in. Too much to accept.

  Something changed in Quinn’s eyes. They had opened wider and his face softened in some unspoken understanding. An understanding which brought with it a slow, but genuine smile.

  “I could say,” Quinn said, “that I do not know. But that would be a lie and we both know it.” His new stature, both physically and vocally, brushed away any assertiveness Nathan may have been building. In its place was defensiveness. The urge to leave was stronger now, but he was close to... something. Some answer which this man seemed about to give him.

  Realizing he would get no response, Peter Quinn continued, “It is a rendition of an ancient Ammonite temple, built for the great god Molech.” His voice took on a hushed reverence. And something else, a vibration that tickled Nathan’s ears. “The greatest of all gods of those days, more powerful than any other. He demanded constant sacrifice and worship. Those pilgrims,” he nodded to the painting, and his smile grew, “are celebrating the Feast of the Wind, one of many celebrations in honor of the master.”

  Quinn walked closer to the picture, leaving nothing between Nathan and the door.

  Nathan needed to speak, take back control of the conversation. Quinn, however, was not finished. “At least, I believe that is the festival depicted, based on the depictions of swirling wind in the background, kicking up sand devils among the followers.” He laughed at some hidden joke in the statement, but said nothing else.

  “Are...” Nathan began, then caught himself. He was going to ask if this man was such a worshipper, a pilgrim like the dots at the bottom of the painting. Of course he was not. A Satanist, perhaps, an avid researcher of old world religions, but the Ammonites were centuries gone and forgotten except by historical and Biblical scholars. He swallowed. “You know quite a lot about this. You’ve studied the old religions?”

  Though he kept an outer calm, Quinn’s face belied an inner excitement about the subject. “Studied... yes, I suppose that’s one way to put it. Quite extensively. Tell me, Reverend, as you are a scholar of such things in your own way, do you know when the worship of dark gods of such great power was at its peak?”

  Nathan knew only of what he’d studied in the Old Testament. The Ammonites—at least the demon Molech, whom they worshipped—were referenced throughout Scripture, as far back as Genesis. The fact that they had discussed this only last night did not strike him as strongly now as it would later that evening. By then, however, things would have gone so far out of control, it would be no more than a passing thought.

  A name, perhaps the most prominent of names in those biblical chronicles, occurred to him. Nathan felt the room began to spin again. Quinn answered the question for him, moving a step closer.

  “A few thousand years ago, during the reign of many famous Jewish kings. David, for one, though he did not pay much attention to the other sects of his time unless they were a direct threat to his small but, admittedly, powerful little nation.” Another step closer. “His son, however, ah, he was a different story. Displayed quite an interest in the Ammonites, did he not? Took some rather beautiful wives from among their ranks.” He was standing in front of Nathan now.

  I want to leave, Nathan thought. God, please, what is happening? As had happened when he stared too long at the painting, the room blurred around the face of Peter Quinn. Nathan was in trouble. Every pore in his body that was not sweating screamed at him to leave... now! But he was frozen, paralyzed. It was too late to run. He’d had that chance earlier and did not take it.

  “David’s son,” Quinn said, almost in a whisper. Nathan could almost taste the power in the voice wrapping around his head. “Solomon. I have studied your book, the stories of his time almost as much—more in some cases—as your contemporaries. I know details most of your kind choose to ignore. Solomon was enraptured with his Ammonite wives.” His breath was sweet across Nathan’s face, like incense. “He understood the power of their master, of the true god of that time.” He chuckled. “Irritated your little Yahweh to no end.”

  God, h
elp me.

  “Does anything I say strike you in particular, Reverend Dinneck? Why did you react so excitedly to this painting? To this story I’m telling you, now? Tell me.”

  The voice, barely a whisper, a breath, was a vice he could not escape. He had to tell Quinn about his dreams, about John Solomon’s grave, the angels. Had to tell him everything. More than that, Nathan realized that he wanted to.

  When he opened his mouth to speak, a voice across the room shouted, “Hello? Anyone home?” The room came into focus so sharply Nathan gasped and stumbled back. Quinn had such a sudden rage about his face Nathan thought he was going to snarl and leap upon the newcomer.

  Josh Everson took another step into the store, his hand still holding the front door’s handle.

  “Nate? God, Nate, what’s wrong?” He half-ran into the room. From the look on Josh’s face, Nathan decided he must look as bad as he felt.

  “Excuse me,” Quinn said, raising a hand. “Mister Everson is it? We were having a private conversation.”

  “Excuse me, yourself,” Josh said without looking away from Nathan.

  Quinn’s composure slipped a little, and he said with a more conciliatory tone, “Please, you are trespassing. The reverend and I were having a—”

  “Nate, you OK?” Josh asked.

  Nathan nodded, but couldn’t remember ever feeling less OK in his life. “Josh. What... what are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not really sure. I mean, I saw your car, and...” His voice trailed off. He looked as confused in that moment as Nathan had been a minute earlier.

  Nathan looked over at Peter Quinn. He had moved a few paces away, his mouth a tight line.

  Nathan remembered with a sudden shock how close he’d come to telling this man everything. He’d been powerless not to. The voice... no, such an ability was reserved for stage tricks and vampire movies.

  Of course, so were a bunch of other things that had already happened. All he wanted was to get outside.

  Quinn’s demeanor was all business again, but a trace of sweat had broken across his forehead. “I apologize, Reverend, but I have other business to attend to soon. Thank you for stopping by. I’ll tell your father I saw you. He’ll be pleased.”

  Nathan doubted that. Still, for some reason he didn’t think Quinn would tell his father. Why he thought that, he couldn’t say, but so many things were occurring to him in the frenzied state of mind that he decided not to question it.

  He said to Josh, “I’ll head out with you.” His friend looked relieved. Nathan took one last look at the painting of the Molech temple, assured himself that it hadn’t been a mirage. He shuddered visibly and turned away. Peter Quinn was watching him, and the same half-smirk returned to his face. He called after the men as they walked to the door, “Perhaps we can continue our discussion another time, Reverend.” Back in control, his voice said. A minor setback only.

  “Maybe.” Nathan grabbed the door handle. Josh kept a loose grip on his arm as if preparing to catch him if he fell. Nathan had no intention of falling down, or ever speaking to Quinn again, if it could be helped.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Nathan barely felt the cool air against his skin as they stepped outside. His legs were heavy, filled with clay. Too much, he thought. It’s all too much.

  His world had always been clearly defined. Even his faith was a straight-edged resolve that never wavered. Now, he found himself in a place where mystery heaped itself upon more mystery. Supernatural was a word he never cared for in the past. Now it fit too neatly. Nightmares scratching their way into the real world. Daylight becoming more and more a bad dreamscape, not something of solace to wake up to.

  Should talk of demons and ancient religions really be alien to him? The Old Testament spoke incessantly on the subject. God Himself warned the Israelites to worship only Him. Why would He bother acknowledging such dark creatures within the universe if they didn’t exist?

  Peter Quinn certainly believed in them.

  Dad, what have you gotten yourself into?

  When they reached his car, he wanted to fall to the sidewalk and pray for God to clear his mind and open the thickening gray clouds in his head.

  Of course, if he fell to his knees, Josh would probably call an ambulance.

  “What was all that about?” Josh leaned against the hood of Nathan’s car, beside a large paper shopping bag.

  Instead of answering directly, Nathan gestured to the hood. “That yours?”

  Josh craned his neck to look beside him, and said, “Oh, yeah, right.” He picked up the groceries as he said, “You looked like you’d just seen a ghost or something.”

  “Or something,” Nathan conceded. “Your timing was impeccable.”

  Josh scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Pretty weird timing, more like it. I don’t even know why I’m here.” He looked into his bag. “I mean, chips, soda and a loaf of bread... oh, man, Shirley put the bottle on top of the bread.” He nodded toward The Greedy Grocer. “I’ve really got to send my employees to Bagging School or something.”

  Nathan looked at the club’s closed door. He turned and leaned against the driver’s door and stared at the convenience store. “Why are chips and crushed bread weird?”

  “Just that I was done with my opening shift a half hour ago. Cashed out; Shirley cashed in. She’s good enough that I don’t need to hang around. Instead of leaving, I decided to get some stuff I needed. Like a craving or something.” He slapped the bag. “Don’t even need chips. I mean, isn’t this the same stuff you got the other night?”

  Nathan nodded at the shopping bag. Not exactly the same, but close enough. “Craving? You pregnant or something?” Their apparently pointless banter had a strengthening effect on him. He took a breath and leaned his backside against the driver’s door.

  “That’s just it. I’ve got plenty of bread at home. Half a loaf at least. Why I needed to stick around to get this,” he pulled the crushed bread out of the bag and laid it gently back in beside the bottle of soda, “is beyond me.” He sighed. “Anyhow, I saw your car when I was leaving and figured I’d poke my head in to see if you were, well,” he nodded toward the store, “in there.”

  Slowly, the implications of what his friend was telling him registered. One thing Nathan had learned in life was never to believe in coincidence. He had been about to confess everything to Quinn—a man who had pretty much admitted to being a demon worshipper, then Josh arrived just at the right time to stop him.

  He considered explaining all this to him, but decided against it. When he sensed God had intervened in some way in his or others’ lives, it usually filled him with joy, a sense of confirmation. This time, it scared him to death.

  “So,” Josh said, “what was going on with Whitey in there? About your dad, I assume?”

  Nathan nodded. “Figured I’d stop by to check it out.”

  “The place gives me the willies. Looks like a college dorm room inside—well, not yours, but Marty Connolly’s, definitely.”

  “You ever see my dad in there with anyone?”

  “No. After you came by Friday, I took a peek. Dark outside, and the lights were on,” he spoke with a mock Bela Lugosi voice, “but no one was home...”

  Nathan smiled. The expression felt alien to his face in light of everything that had happened.

  “So,” Josh pressed. “Why did Drac look like he was going to bite you in the neck just now?”

  Nathan felt infinitely better. A conversation of any length with Josh Everson made anything seem humorous. He wanted to tell him about his dreams, about Hayden’s disappearance, Tarretti and the cemetery. Even more so, the painting on the wall just now. It felt more and more like his only chance at mental salvation, the only way to put things in perspective. They could hash it out together and Josh would let him know that he wasn’t losing his mind.

  Because he’d come so close to saying it all to the wrong person, he was relucta
nt. He needed to sit in silence, in prayer, before anything else passed his lips.

  “Nate? What’s up? You’re looking all ghosty again.” Josh wouldn’t let him get off without some tidbit to make his shopping madness worthwhile.

  Nathan shrugged. “Not much. Quinn’s a little crazy I think, and he might be into some bad stuff.”

  “Bad stuff?”

  Nathan shrugged again, not knowing what to do with his body. “I thought drugs at first, from the way Dad’s been acting. But I’m suspecting something a little more dark, now.”

  He got a raised eyebrow in response.

  Nathan whispered, not wanting his voice to carry too close to the door. “I don’t know, really. I think it’s some kind of cult. Quinn’s into something nasty, maybe demon worship.”

  Now it was Josh’s turn to go pale. He wasn’t normally one to have a dark complexion as it was, so the simple fact that Nathan actually saw the blood draining from his face was unsettling. He raised a hand, “I really don’t know. Just a few things he said and all.” He hoped Josh wouldn’t ask what “and all” meant.

  A thought occurred to him, and he slapped his friend’s arm. It felt good to have something concrete to suggest. “Listen, Josh, you’ve got Internet access, right?”

  “Sure. I don’t suppose the old man had a computer at the church? I assume he’s turned up, by the way?”

  Nathan needed to change the subject, get Josh focused on something other than what had happened here, or to Hayden. He needed information. “Listen, maybe you can look something up for me? No, there’s no computer at the church and they still don’t know where Reverend Hayden is. People are looking.”

  “Sure, anything.” As he said this, Josh pulled a dirty pen from his Greedy Grocer shirt pocket and folded a section of the paper bag down as an ad-hoc writing tablet.