Solomon's Grave (19 page)

He
was
angry. So much so that Nathan expected to hear steam whistling from his own ears. This rage felt wrong, forced. He didn’t like it. A few minutes ago, he felt helpless, sick and terrified. Now he’d swung to the opposite end of the emotional spectrum. He was furious with everything around him. Maybe this was a defense mechanism, but defense against
what
? Nathan took a step forward, uncertain why he’d done it. Quinn’s smile faded. His gaze darkened.

“Many things can restrict a man from being what he wants to be, Reverend. Marital strife, even out-dated religious beliefs.”

He was being goaded, knew he needed to step back and calm down. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to find chinks in his faith, in his unwavering belief in God and Christ’s teachings. But this was so sudden, out of context. And it was said with a victorious gloating.
I shattered your father’s faith, young Dinneck
, the man’s voice implied.

“My father chose his faith, of his own accord. Like everyone.” What was the point in arguing like this? As he stood in a posture that could not be mistaken for anything but “squaring off” with Quinn, his thoughts were too jumbled to remember any specific goals he might have had in coming here today.

Quinn nodded. “And everyone has the right to choose for themselves if they want to learn other ways, serve other gods. Even if such a god proves to be nothing but their own wants and desires.”

The statement struck Nathan mute. Quinn’s voice had taken on a cadence, much like many evangelical preachers he’d listened to in the past. There was a
power
behind it. Sweat broke out again across his back, down his arms.

Speaking slowly, running his words through his own head once before speaking, Nathan took a step away, then two. “So, is there some religious or faith-based background to your group?”

He looked at the old paintings on the wall, not focusing on them but needing something other than Quinn’s challenging stare to take up his field of vision.

“Any faith or religious beliefs we might have are merely those carried into the doors by our members. We do not condone any specific creed.”

Nathan felt a physical strength in Quinn’s voice, a charisma to his speech. He tried to ignore it. Before him was a woodland scene, creek running through, a flat reproduction but still powerful in its motion, the name
Robert Gilbert
clear in the corner. Quinn moved with him, matching his slow steps but keeping two paces behind. In the corner of his vision, Nathan detected a trace of a smile.

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, help 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