3 Gates of the Dead (The 3 Gates of the Dead Series) (4 page)

“Joseph’s message. What’s it mean?”

I didn’t want to think about it. “I have no idea, Olan.”

“Don’t you think we should find out?”

“How in the world would we do that?”

“Dunno. Keep a sharp eye?”

I wanted to humor him, but despite what I said in the field, I didn’t see how their dead son could appear to Edna in a dream and then leave his footprints in a field. There was no doubt about someone’s footprints being there, I just thought there had to be other explanations. My doubts needed it. “Then keep a weathered eye, Commander.”

Olan smiled. He had served as a naval officer during the Korean War. “Good boy. I thought you’d fight me on this one.”

“Not at all.”

We walked inside the house and took off our boots. I headed for the front door. “All right folks, gotta get back to the church.”

Edna hugged me and handed me a Ziploc bag full of pancakes.

“Here, Aidan, take these.”

I smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Then she handed me another bag containing a large, white bone. “This is for Bishop. Bring him out to the farm as soon as possible to get some exercise.”

“I will.”

Olan walked me out to the car. “Aidan, one more thing.”

“What’s up?”

“I want you to remember something.” The farmer accent was gone.

“Okay.” I stared at him.

“Not everything that is real can be seen.”

Chapter Five

I couldn’t get those footprints out of my mind as I drove back to the city. What were they? How did they get there? Olan’s comment about preachers believing the supernatural haunted me. Was it true? Did God and belief in the supernatural go together? If I didn’t believe in God, did that make the supernatural impossible? It all seemed so vague and confusing, like the scene in
A Clockwork Orange
where Alex is forced to watch image after image in a rapid-fire, violent assault.

I listened to the radio’s low drone talking about Buckeye football. I wondered how each elder would react to what I told Mike about my faith that morning. I couldn’t imagine any scenario that didn’t result in my moving in with my only brother and his family in Indianapolis. They would be happy to have me, of course, but I didn’t want to become the mooching little brother.

I sat in the parking lot of the church and stared at the glowing white cross. I hated elder’s meetings. Every moment would be painful and every word filled with tension. Every situation seemed like a pile of dry wood covered in fresh gasoline, requiring only a single spark to burn the whole thing down. And most of them dragged on for hours.

The idea behind having multiple elders in a church was to keep each person’s power in check. It made sense in a logical, American sort of way. I’m sure it’s no coincidence that a lot of our founding fathers were Presbyterians. But there was a flaw in this great, democratic plan. Instead of having to deal with one jackass in charge, you had to deal with a herd of jackasses, or in the case of Knox Presbyterian Church, ten. They brayed, kicked, and bit each other, all in the name of Jesus. Though Jesus did ride into Jerusalem on an ass, so that gave me some hope.

I sighed and went into the building. In my office, I noticed a sheet of paper on my desk. Our secretary still had not learned to use email, a constant source of frustration to me. I lost paper all the time, so I asked her on multiple occasions to send my messages by email, a request she hadn’t granted in three years. Apparently, my “way with women,” as Brian described it, didn’t apply to our church secretary who still believed the place ought to be run like a 1920s Southern institution.

No need to look at this paper now
, I thought.

I headed over to Mike’s office and raised my hand to knock on his door when I heard him talking. From his low one-sided tone, I could tell he was on the phone. Even with the door closed, his voice drifted into the open hall.

“Baby, I can’t be there tonight. I have a meeting.”

Baby? Does he call Sheila baby?
I wondered. I’d never heard him call her that before.

“I know. I want to be with you too. I can’t wait to hold you again. Maybe I can come over after the meeting. I can just tell Sheila everything ran late.”

I stood there in the hallway with my mouth hanging open.

“Oh, baby, you know what I like. Yeah, the red one, wear it tonight.”

No, it can’t be!

“Yeah, you will get what you like. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

What the hell?

I felt the last vestiges of my faith leave me as if a vampire ninja had latched onto my neck. The room spun, and my legs went weak. The pancakes I ate at the farm were in danger of making an encore appearance.

“I gotta go. No, I really do. I can’t talk much longer. Aidan will be here soon. He always gets here early, so stop tempting me.”

No more. I didn’t want to hear any more. I went outside and kicked at the nearest snow pile, sending white chunks into the air. Each thump of my foot filtered my rage into the helpless snow as it flew all over the sidewalk. I let the words fly as I filled the air with expletives. The foul language filter in my head had obviously shut down.

The session of elders would have to be told. They’d slow-cook him with their fire, feeling vindicated and even more secure in their self-righteousness. Damn them, and damn the whole thing. I no longer wanted any part of it.

As I looked at the ice-chunked snow, it occurred to me that maybe I didn’t need to say anything. I could just tell Mike I had resolved my faith issue. He didn’t need to know that I had lost my faith completely. I didn’t have to tell anyone a thing. No one deserved the truth, not Mike or the elders.

Mike’s fall just illustrated what I had seen in just about every elder in our church. I had seen into the dark sewers of their hearts, with all of their hypocrisy, cheating, lust, and now infidelity. Not to mention the people I dealt with from the congregation. It seemed as if their darkness had overwhelmed and become a part of me. Why did I have to be any different from them?

I had spent all of my college years, plus four years in seminary, working to get into my position. Unlikely I would be able to find any other useful job, except maybe teaching. Even then I would have to go back to school for my certification, which would take a few years. That would mean more time working at a local bookstore while I went to school at night.

Yep. Money and security. Good reasons to keep my mouth shut. If they wanted to play the hypocrites, then so would I.

My phone began to vibrate. I pulled it out of my pocket and saw the yellow envelope blink. Someone had sent a text message, but there was no number or name. I pressed the button to view.

They are going to wake him. Cut my … cut my … at the gates … cut my ….

None of it made any sense to me. I couldn’t help but wonder if this might not be some joke or a weird marketing campaign. Or maybe some idiot just had the wrong number.

A car door slammed and diverted my attention. Then another, and another. I looked up to see that the elders had arrived for the meeting. It was time to go back inside.

I looked at the text for a moment and then deleted it.

Chapter Six

“…And further, I think the position of the pulpit distracts from worship. It should be situated in the middle of the platform.”

This was the sort of stupid shit that drove me nuts. We talked about this kind of useless crap for four hours as it slowly went downhill from a false piety session, to pastor-beating hour, and then finally to pompous free for all. It always reminded me of the British Prime Minister’s questions to Parliament on C-SPAN. The difference in this case was that most of the Members of Parliament had a sense of humor.

“I don’t really think God cares where the pulpit should be, so I think we should leave it.”

The discussion about the pulpit had been going on for months. I’d always been amazed at how every little thing in the church was thought to be a significant step forward in God’s kingdom, from how the pulpit should be positioned to the snacks kids were getting in Sunday School. Not that I cared anymore, but at least they could make things interesting.

I looked down the long conference table at Mike as everyone droned on through the agenda. I didn’t see any sign he had been sticking his shepherd’s staff where it didn’t belong.

What did I expect? Signs of guilt? Remorse and fear expressed through a trembling lip? Maybe sweat on his bare head? Mike had obviously been screwing someone for at least a few months. My guess was guilt had long since gone out the window.

His face wore the same fixed expression he always had during these meetings, a mixture of amusement combined with irritation. The twitch in his eye had become more frequent, but not so much that anyone used to it would notice.

When the pulpit discussion finally wound down, Mike spoke up. “Well, if there is no other business tonight, I would entertain a motion to adjourn.”

A throat cleared at the end of the table, making a sound similar to a Viking blowing his war horn. Elder John Calvin Eisner had a theological library that would put his namesake to shame. He also had the background of being a frustrated pastor, having been fired after only six months in his first church. The maker of war and a math teaching retiree, he spent his retirement torturing pastors. He had gray slicked back hair and always wore a tie to session meetings. Some people loved his act and called him “the picture of wisdom.” John never listened to the good idea of not listening to your own press.

He looked up the table toward Mike with a smug smile — part Rush Limbaugh, part Barbara Streisand — without warmth or real humor behind it. He always wore this smile when he was about to destroy someone verbally. When he did, it made him look like a hungry hyena.

“Mike, I have a serious concern I need to bring before the fathers and brothers this evening.”

Mike looked down the table, swallowed hard, and nodded. He braced his body as he prepared for the whips.

“I want to question the content of Sunday’s sermon. I am concerned whether you were actually preaching the Word of God or not.”

I couldn’t count how many times John had made that accusation over the past few months. The other elders around the table shifted. Some would agree with John, some would side with Mike, and others wouldn’t have the guts to stand up for anything.

Mike waved his hand. “Okay, John, go ahead.”

I had to admire Mike in these situations. He never lost his temper. I wondered how he did it. Maybe the same way he lied to the whole world about being a faithful husband. I guess if you hid something that big, you learned to control yourself pretty well.

John kept smiling. “Well, it has to do with your handling of the word ‘wise man’ in the story of the wise men who visited Jesus.”

Mike furrowed his brow as I stared at John. What in the world could he object to with the words ‘wise man?’ That part had lasted maybe two minutes and had only been a clarifying point in Mike’s sermon, which had been on the subject of worship.

“I am not sure I understand,” Mike said, his hands clasped behind his head.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday, Sunday, Bloody Sunday…

All eleven heads turned to me as I reached for my cell phone. I must have forgotten to turn off the ringer. Heat rushed to my cheeks as I fumbled in my jacket pocket.

“Sorry, everybody!” I hit the button to stop the ring and saw it was Olan calling again.
What in the world?

I looked at Mike. “Oh, it’s Olan; I wonder if he’s okay … should I answer it?”

He shook his head. “No, Aidan, just call him back.”

“Sorry again, everyone.” I put the phone back in my pocket.

John smiled, his expression oozing the oil of condescension. “There is no need to ask for forgiveness, Aidan. Your concern for the flock is laudable.”

I wanted to roll my eyes. Only conservative Presbyterians talked like that anymore. They ate this sort of stuff up like pancakes covered in syrupy, false humility and a glob of spiritual pride with the butter of the desire to beat the shit out of anyone who disagreed.

“Mike,” John continued. “I’d seriously object to your understanding of the word ‘magos,’ in that you said it actually means ‘magician’ and not ‘wise man.’”

“That’s not quite what I said.”

“Yes, it is. I have listened to the recording twice since yesterday.”

I’ll bet he did. The jerk didn’t have anything else to do since he retired. My anger rose.

“Yes,” Elder Bill said. “But he also clarified that the term ‘magos’ in the time of Jesus referred to a person who was both a practicing magician and advisor to an authority figure, usually a king. This is especially true of the wise men that were from Persia.”

“But that implies they were astrologers and that God spoke to them through astrology by watching the skies,” countered Jude, a lawyer whose face was plastered on half the billboards in the poorer areas of Columbus. In one of those strange ironies that proved God —
if
He existed — had a strange sense of humor, Jude had been named after the Beatles song and not the book in the Bible.

“I think that is exactly what the text says, doesn’t it?” Mike pointed out, smiling a bit.

No, Mike, don’t smile. They will eat you alive. They can’t stand to be laughed at.

Everyone got out their Bibles, and the room filled with the sound of rifled paper.

“My translation says ‘wise man,’” John said, smiling again.

I couldn’t take it any longer. I wanted to wipe that stupid smile off John’s face with one of the large Bible concordances on the shelf behind him. It would certainly give new meaning to the phrase, “Thy Word shut my mouth.”

I spoke up. “Yes, John, that’s true. The Greek word’s literal translation is ‘wise man,’ but if you look at the history of that word, it is directly applied to magicians. The people in the first century would not have recognized the distinction you’re trying to make.”

“So, Aidan, what you are both saying is that the Bible encourages magical practice? No wonder you love
Harry Potter
. I’m beginning to wonder about our seminary!”

“Listen, guys,” Mike said, holding up his hand. “I can give you my books and all the reference material I used. All of them are from theologically conservative commentaries that say exactly what Aidan and I are saying. And also…” He broke off at the low rumble of my cell phone vibrating in my pocket.

I glanced down. “Olan is calling me again. I think I better answer while you all finish. He was in the hospital the other night, after all.”

I didn’t tell them that Olan just had acid reflux. I wanted an excuse to get out of the room. I stepped out and answered.

“Olan, is everything okay?”

“Well, no. Edna had another dream.”

I sighed. “Okay, what was it?”

“She had a dream of Joseph again. He just kept saying one word over and over again.”

“What did he say?”

“He drew his hand across his throat and said, ‘Cut. Cut. Cut.’”

I felt as if someone had slid ice down my neck. I didn’t want to tell him about the text message. “What do you think it means?”

“Don’t know, but Joseph felt strongly about it.”

“How do you know?”

“Edna said she could just feel it.”

I couldn’t reply. The part of me that had just given up faith in the supernatural wanted to write the whole thing off. But doubt about my doubt gnawed in the back of my head like a zombie.

I rubbed my eyes. “Olan, I don’t know what to say. I’m too tired to think about it. We were in the middle of a session meeting when you called.”

“Oh! Forgot all about that. Sorry, Aidan. At my age, the ol’ attic gets full of cobwebs.”

“Nah,” I said. “I think it’s what a Purdue education did to you.”

“Ha, you ol’ son of a gun. Call me back when you think you have an answer.”

“Sure thing, Olan. Have Edna drink some water and go back to sleep. See you soon.”

I walked back in the room and heard Mike talking in a raised voice.

“I am just saying that God can use any means He wants to get people’s attention. I’m not saying He does it every day, but in this case, He was using something the wise men could understand … a sign in the sky to point them to Jesus.”

John shook his head, his face crunched in a grimace. “So, you are saying the Word of God is not enough? That He uses other means to bring people to Himself?”

“No, that isn’t what I am saying. I’m just saying that God uses things in people’s lives to help them see the truth, and the Bible puts the final touches on that.”

Silence filled the room. John again cleared his throat and spoke in what he probably thought was a grand, serious, and pious voice. “Well, I think I finally understand where Mike is coming from, and I am disturbed. I think at the next meeting, we need to question whether Mike should be our pastor in the near future.”

The meeting broke up, but no one stayed to chat, leaving Mike and me alone. He looked at me, shrugged, and started to get up.

“Mike, come on,” I said. “Aren’t you bothered in the least by all of this? You could lose your job.”

“I doubt it will come to that. They’ve been after my job for months, and they haven’t gotten anything. All they have are half-baked complaints that fall apart on close examination. They would have to go through the presbytery anyway.”

I nodded. “True, I guess.”

“Unfortunately, if they keep on like this, they will destroy our witness in the community,” he said, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head.

No, you screwing another woman will.

“I know. That’s a problem,” I said, staring at the floor.

Mike cocked his head. “Are the doubts still gnawing at you?”

“No, actually, that’s over,” I lied. “I think I was just feeling down this morning. Now, I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

Mike smiled and looked at me. His eyes were hollow and disturbing. There was no trouble. No panic. No guilt.

Then I knew. He didn’t believe either. He had traded everything that was good about himself for the pleasure of a woman. The guy I looked up to — the one who taught me everything I knew — had no better answers than a woman dressed in red getting something that didn’t belong to her.

“Yeah, I could use some rest myself. What did Olan want?”

“Something about ushers on Sunday. He forgot we were meeting tonight.”

He smiled. “Wish I could forget about it.”

“Yeah.”

Mike gathered his things. “See you tomorrow, Aidan.”

“Sure.”

Enjoy your illicit fuck.

I didn’t even remember locking up and getting in the car, but before long, I was on the highway heading south toward the city. My thoughts swirled around in a jumbled mess.

If this was who God was, I didn’t want any part of Him or His people. His people were liars, hypocrites, and just downright mean. I always thought Christians should be nice, but they rarely were. And to me, that meant God didn’t exist, or if He did, He was just as mean as His people. I realized that Dawkins and Crossan had done their work on me intellectually. My emotional ties had been the only thing holding me to my faith, and now they were gone.

Numbness seeped through me. I always thought the loss of faith would feel more like devastation, like a nuclear bomb going off in the soul. I felt nothing — just an aching, radioactive space.