3 Gates of the Dead (The 3 Gates of the Dead Series)

by Ryan, Jonathan

  She folded her arms across her chest. “So, who says what’s nice? Someone has to enforce the law.”

  “So, God is a universal cop? That’s comforting.” I tried to keep the scorn out of my voice.

  “No, I mean, laws come from somewhere right?”

  “Sure. Society. It’s in the best interest of society for laws to be made.”

  She slowly nodded her head. “I see what you’re saying, but I don’t buy it.”

  “What, that there is no God or lawgiver? No God you can’t define other than good feelings or ‘must be’s’ that you can’t prove?” I leaned in so far that our faces almost touched.

  Jennifer backed away. “I guess, but I have a hard time believing there isn’t something out there.”

  “Like what? It could be anything, as Dawkins says. It could be a flying spaghetti monster. You don’t know.”

  “True, I guess, I don’t know.” Jennifer frowned. “Still, I hardly think that God and a flying spaghetti monster are the same damn thing.”

  “How do you know?” I pressed.

  “Because, Aidan, I’m not a dumbass. God is something you can define. A flying spaghetti monster is a stupid concept some asshole came up with.”

  “Who says God isn’t the same thing?”

  “I do, and so does just about everyone else. Anyone could see the difference between your pasta god and the possibility of a real God,” she said.

  I let out a long sigh. “I guess I don’t believe in God anymore because I see no other alternative. I think the whole, vague, spirituality thing is a crock, no offense. Either believe in God, do what he says, or don’t. Why try to have both? It’s just hypocritical or holding on to the notion of God without any of the responsibilities.”

  “So, does that go for other religions?” Jennifer played with her empty glass.

  “Yeah, pretty much the same concept across the board.”

  Jennifer wrapped her arms around herself. Her eyes looked at the table, but from her face, it seemed as if something had just broken inside her.

  “Listen, Jennifer, I’m sorry. I got a little intense.”

  “No, Aidan, you are right. I just never thought about it myself. I guess God was a teddy bear I didn’t want to let go of. Maybe I just need to grow up.”

  “No. I mean, if you want to believe in God, it’s okay. I just can’t do it anymore.”

  She stared at me. “You really have thought this through.”

  “Yeah, I guess I have.” I paused. “Or I’m trying to anyway.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “My faith?”

  “Yes,” she said, staring out at the people walking past our table.

  “Of course I miss it. It has been a huge comfort in my life, and now it’s gone. There is nothing to take its place.” I fiddled with the saltshaker.

  Jennifer hesitated for a moment. “Let’s go for a walk, look at the galleries.”

  We paid and headed out the door. The steel archways stretched over High Street, lit with the glow of soft, white light. People filled the streets, walking through the galleries and chatting. A college student band full of white boys with dreadlocks strummed on guitars. People plunked change down into their empty cases. A woman dressed as a groom and a man dressed as a bride twirled in a bizarre, dirty dancing style waltz as they parted the crowd.

  “You know,” I said. “I once brought my brother to a Gallery Hop.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said it was crazier than anything he saw on a trip to San Francisco.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” she asked.

  “One older brother. You?”

  “Two sisters. My poor dad never got the bathroom.”

  We both laughed, and it broke the tension from our dinner conversation. As we walked through each art gallery we talked, and she even touched my arm a few times. It’s amazing how much you miss being held by someone, how much you begin to crave it. My skin tingled as it soaked up the lightness of Jen’s fingers.

  We made our way into a particular art gallery, attracted by the artist’s Monet-style self-portrait just outside the door. I picked up a brochure and read it aloud. “My name is Tara. These paintings represent an artistic task that I set out for myself. That is, to paint as much as I could for five days without any corrections. What you see is an honest representation of those days without any visual editing.”

  Jennifer gave a half smile. “Visual editing, hmm?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, well, it’s an interesting idea. Let’s check it out.”

  We walked past the reception desk and into the main room. I saw the first painting and gasped. “What the hell?”

  The artist had depicted a large footprint, painted blue. A stream of red blood poured out of a wound from the middle of the foot.

  “Well, that’s a bit disturbing,” Jennifer said.

  “To say the least.”

  “Let’s look at the next one.”

  The bloody footprint theme exploded throughout all the paintings. The artist had painted it into buildings, landscapes, and people. The last painting made my heart race and the hair on the back of my neck stand up. A tall, willowy girl who looked exactly like Amanda stood with her arms stretched out in a cross formation. Across her throat, a red slash gushed blood and on her forehead, the Hebrew word Nebo had been painted in what looked like jagged knife marks. Her blue eyes were open in death and bore right through me.

  “Jennifer,” I rasped. “Look!”

  She stared in disbelief. “I don’t believe it.”

  Jennifer walked over to a small, red-haired girl with a ponytail. “Excuse me, Tara? Can I ask you a few questions about that painting?”

  “Oh, yes, disturbing isn’t it? I haven’t been able to sleep since I painted it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, her brow furrowed. “But I’m curious, where were you when you painted it?”

  Jennifer, who’d been so breezy and relaxed the whole evening, had switched back into detective mode. She radiated tension as she folded her arms. The art gallery had become an interrogation room.

  Tara played with her fingers, nervous. “In my studio, of course.”

  “Do you have anyone who can back that up?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  Jennifer pulled out her badge. “I’m curious.”

  Tara stiffened. “Do you have a warrant?”

  I cringed.

  “No, but I can get one if I need it,” Jennifer replied, her voice soft but firm. “I hope I won’t. I just need to know about these paintings. It’s really important. It might help us solve a murder.”

  Tara went pale and gripped the desk in front of her. “No, that can’t be! It was just a picture in my head. Emily was with me the whole time, weren’t you?” She turned toward her nose-pierced friend standing a few feet away.

  I ignored the rest of the conversation and stared into the blue eyes of the painting. I could almost see Amanda in them. It felt like she had died and been trapped on canvas.

  I turned away from the painting, the same way I wanted to turn away from all the things that had been happening to me. I couldn’t ignore them, but they were highly inconvenient with my newfound lack of faith. Something kept hitting me in the face. The footprints. The dream. The painting. It almost felt like Amanda was trying to lead me to her murderer from beyond the grave.

  But why go through all this trouble? Why not just appear to me and tell me the name of the guy so I could track him down, like she did in Father Neal’s office? I couldn’t understand it.

  I had to get out of there. I left Jennifer to her interrogation and stumbled outside. I sucked in the cold night air. Jennifer came out a few moments later, shaking her head.

  “Well, their story seems to check out. At least, I couldn’t find any reason to doubt them. But I’m having them come into the station in an hour, just to be sure.” She pause
d. “Sorry to have to cut this short.”

  I nodded. “It’s okay. Bishop needs to go out anyway.”

  We walked in silence back to Jennifer’s condo. She stood in the doorframe, looking at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You still love Amanda, don’t you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “That look you had when you saw the woman in the painting.”

  I paused. “Yeah, I guess I do. I know it’s weird. I mean, she’s dead now, but I keep feeling as if she is right here with me.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not weird at all, Aidan.”

  “I was ready to marry her. I still have the ring, actually.”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you okay?”

  She pointed to the scar on her face. “Do you see this?”

  “Yeah, how did it happen?”

  “My ex-husband,” she answered in a dry, flat tone. Her voice sent chills up my spine.

  “I’m sorry, what happened?”

  She gave a slight smile. “I caught him with his girlfriend, and he got mad at me. But let’s just say he got worse than he gave. He limped through the whole assault trial.” She hesitated and looked at her watch. “Gotta run to the station. Talk to you later.”

  I squinted. “Wait, why did you tell me?”

  Jennifer paused in the doorway. “Love leaves scars, Aidan. Some visible, some not. But they all hurt like hell.” She reached out and touched my arm. “But it doesn’t mean we stop trying to love.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  My phone rang as I was getting ready for church the next morning.

  “Aidan?”

  “Mike? You sound terrible.”

  “Yeah, I feel horrible. I hate to do this to you, but I can barely speak. Would you mind preaching this morning?”

  He had never done this before, but as an assistant pastor, I always had to be ready for something like this. “No, I don’t mind. I’ll pull one of my old sermons from seminary. It’s only seven-thirty, so I should be able to get things in order by then.”

  “Thanks, Aidan. I really appreciate it.”

  I showered and dressed, making sure all ends of my shirt tucked into my pants. Old ladies of the church noticed that sort of thing. I sometimes wondered what would cause more of an uproar, going into the pulpit stark naked or leaving my shirt untucked. It would probably be an even tie.

  I got to the office and pulled an old sermon on Jonah that I had done years ago. My preacher autopilot took over. Most of the congregation would sleep through the sermon anyway.

  Bill led the first part of the service; Opening hymns, confession of sin, and the offering. As the last chords of the Doxology ended, I stepped up to the pulpit and began my sermon.

  “As I said before the service, Pastor Mike came down sick, so I’m filling in for him. I chose a passage from the second chapter of Jonah that I thought would be good for you all this morning.”

  The fluttering of pages in the congregation signaled that they had all brought their Bibles to church, like good Presbyterians. As I began to read from Jonah, I realized my mistake.

  Why did I choose this sermon?

  Everyone stared at me, so I continued, pausing after each verse. “I called out to the LORD, out of my distress, and he answered me; out of the belly of the dead I cried, and you heard my voice. For you cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas, and the flood surrounded me.”

  My breath shortened, and my heart speed up. My vision narrowed as I struggled to form coherent thoughts. I took a few deep breaths to get over the panic. I was in the belly of the dead, the belly of my own unbelief.

  I found myself a dying hypocrite preaching to dying hypocrites.

  The sanctuary spun around, and I gripped the pulpit to prevent myself from passing out. I excused myself and grabbed a glass of water so that everyone would think I just had a dry throat. The rest of the sermon erased from my brain. In a panic, I went with the old preacher standby of evangelical buzzwords. I flung out “grace,” “redemption,” “sin,” and “repentance.” Everyone ate it up. I just wanted to get out of the pulpit and into the solitude of my office. The words kept echoing in my mind, “belly of the dead, belly of the dead.”

  In a daze, I led the congregation through the final hymn, gave the benediction, and made my way to the door. Everyone gave me the usual, “Good sermon, Pastor Aidan,” which told me no one actually listened.

  I retreated to my office as soon as I could get away. I slid into my chair and saw my cell phone had two messages, one text and one voice.

  I clicked on the text. It was from Jennifer.

  I had fun last night. Had to come into the office. Call me when you get home from the ghost hunt.

  The ghost hunt. I’d nearly forgotten.

  The voicemail message was from Father Neal.

  “Aidan, this is Father Neal. Meet me at the church at six-thirty. I will tell you about the Bone Masters tonight.”

  That did it. Now I would have to go. I sighed and sat back in my chair. My mind began to wander, imagining what the night would hold.

  A sudden knock sent me right out of my chair to my feet.

  “Aidan?”

  “Olan? You scared the shi … tar out of me!”

  “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to. Me and the Mrs. want to know if you will come over for lunch.”

  Olan steadied me with an old but strong hand.

  “Of course, I would love to,” I said. “Do you mind if I bring Bishop? He needs to run around a bit.”

  “Course, bring that ol’ boy around.” His smile fell, and he grew serious. “Edna wants to know how you are doing with everything going on. She won’t ask you directly and warned me not to ask. Thought I would give you a heads up.” Olan patted me on the shoulder. “Are you doin’ okay? You look a little pale.”

  “I’m okay, or at least, I’m up on two feet, talking and breathing.”

  He nodded. “But that ain’t really livin’, son. See you in a bit.”

  After Olan left, I drove home to change into my jeans and get Bishop. When we arrived at the farm, Bishop pawed at the window, anxious to play with the dogs that ran alongside my car. Edna greeted us as we got out. Bishop bounded off, snapping and playing with his buddies.

  “Aidan! So good to see you, dear, and Bishop, too! I think I have an old bone for you.”

  “No thanks, Edna, broke my teeth on the last one.”

  “Oh, you! You’re as bad as Olan!” She slapped me on the arm with a towel, but her eyes were full of concern as if I would collapse into a puddle of tears.

  We sat down to a good Midwestern lunch of meatloaf, potatoes, and biscuits … all the stuff that would most likely kill you.

  “So, Aidan, fine sermon,” Olan said after a forkful of meatloaf.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’m sure it was a bit rough, had to get it together in about three hours.”

  He frowned. “Yeah, Mike’s alleged sickness.”

  I nearly spilled my coffee. “Why do you say that?”

  “Didn’t look sick at Graeter’s last night, did he, Edna?”

  “No, he sure didn’t.” Edna picked at one of the leftover biscuits. “I even told him that. And Mike said he was ready for the morning.”

  “Huh. Don’t that beat all. Must have had something come on all of a sudden,” Olan said, burping.

  Yeah, he had something all right. His red-clad lover.

  “So, how are things with your young, police lady friend?” Edna asked.

  I smiled. “Let’s go into the living room, and I’ll tell all.” Following Olan, I sat down beside him on the couch. “I see the church gossip hounds are well on the case.”

  Olan frowned. “Yeah, and I am disappointed you didn’t tell us first.”

  “There is really nothing to tell. We aren’t dating.”

  “Why not? Pretty girl, policewoman, and single.”

  Edna cleared her throat and Olan stopped. />
  “I’m sorry,” Olan said, offering me his hand.

  “It’s okay. I mean, Amanda is gone, and really, she was gone from my life six months ago.”

  Edna leaned forward in her chair. “Aidan, don’t minimize your grief. Amanda was such a lovely girl. I felt so terrible for you when she broke your heart. Now she is gone, and gone in such a terrible way.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell them how terrible.

  “Do they have any idea who did it?”

  “Olan!” Edna shouted.

  “I’m just curious, is all.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind,” I said.

  I related everything that we had found out, including my conversations with Father Neal and Pastor Mueller. “And so, Father Neal wants me to go on a ghost hunt tonight.”

  “Are you going?” Edna asked then glanced at Olan.

  “At first, I thought, no way. I mean, I’m a pastor with a scientific background. It makes it hard to believe that a ghost hunt is anything but pseudo-scientific spiritual bull.”

  Olan smiled. “Boy, you got too much mouth for your own good. So, answer the question, boy, you goin’ or not?”

  “I don’t know. I need to catch up on some sleep.”

  “I think you should go.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, aren’t scientists curious folk?”

  “Yeah, about provable things.”

  Olan chuckled. “I might be an ignorant Purdue grad, but it seems to me a scientist should always be curious about a possible source of new knowledge. Aren’t they supposed to be open-minded?”

  I grinned. “Good point.”

  “At least you’d have a good story out of it,” Olan said, rubbing his belly, a sure sign he would be getting the Pepto pretty soon.

  “I guess. I have to say I am curious.”

  “Ever watch any of them ghost huntin’ shows? They try to disprove a haunting before they recognize anything supernatural.”

  Interesting, I thought. I wondered if Father Neal’s group had the same approach. “No, but I guess I’ll be having my own real-life experience soon.” I stood up. “I should probably get going.”

  “Guess so.” Olan nodded. “Say, Aidan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful, son. You’ll be in danger tonight.”