3 Gates of the Dead (The 3 Gates of the Dead Series) (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

I awoke to the sound of the coffee alarm. My clothes were rumpled from falling asleep in them around four in the morning. Sleeping in my clothes made me feel as if I had done something vaguely naughty that would earn me the rebuke of my mother.

I sat up on the bed. Normally, at that point, I would have prayed, but that option was out. I just had to face the day alone.

With a sigh, I made my way to the bathroom. I lathered lime-green shaving cream in my hands and applied it to my face. As I stretched my face for the razor, a blast of cold air sent goose bumps up my body. I turned to look at the window and caught a blurred figure out of the corner of my eye. I whipped my head around and saw nothing even though it felt like there had been someone standing right next to me.

“Bishop?” I called out.

A loud crunching noise came from downstairs. It hadn’t been Bishop. He was obviously too preoccupied with his bone.

I dabbed more cream on and began making slow, deliberate strokes down my face with the razor. The warmness of the water soothed my skin and nerves as I went back to work on the hard stubble. Another cold blast, but this time it lingered as if I had stepped into a freezer, and a blurry, woman-like figure moved just out of the corner of my sight. Surprised, I dug the razor into my cheek and a red line of blood formed on my skin.

“Who’s there?” I yelped as I held my hand to my cheek.

I stopped the water and listened. No one. No sound.

“What’s going on?”

I shifted my eyes back to the mirror to see if the image would return. It didn’t. The temperature returned to normal, and a light scent of vanilla filled the air. Almost like Amanda’s skin cream.

I finished getting ready and took Bishop out for a walk. A growing sense of unease filled the pit of my stomach.
It’s just stress
, I kept telling myself. The last few days had been bad, the worst since my parents died in the fire a few years ago. I spent a few days in the hospital after their funeral. The shock caught up with my body and sent me into hallucinations and panic attacks accompanied by a strong desire to die.

The doctor told me the hallucinations might return at points of high stress in my life. This certainly qualified. Maybe I needed to go back to the doctor for a bit of help, but I had hated taking medication. It inhibited clear thought and made me tired.

“Or maybe, Bishop,” I said as I returned him to his crate, “I just need to deal with it. What do you think?” A soft woof was the only reply, which probably meant, “I’m only a dog. I eat, sleep, and shit all over the clothes you leave on the floor. Can’t help you if you are falling apart.”

I drove to the church and went right into my office. I didn’t feel like enduring Sherry’s disapproving stares at my jeans and t-shirt which had a picture of a dinosaur and was emblazoned with the words “Never Forget.”

I answered email and tried to read while I waited for Jennifer. I couldn’t concentrate, so I began surfing the Internet. I lost track of time as I read idiotic comments by SEC fans on the ESPN Web site. By their remarks, you would think that no one north of the Mason Dixon should ever bother picking up a football. I logged in and began writing a crushing argument as to why the Buckeyes were the best damn team in the land. A light knock on the door brought me back to reality.

“Pastor Aidan?”

A whiff of coconut reached my nose, and I turned around. Jennifer stood in front of me in tight gray slacks and a form-fitting black sweater. Her scarred mouth curved into a smile.

“Detective, er, Brown. Just finishing up some work.”

“So, it’s part of a pastor’s job to defend the Buckeyes’ honor? And it’s Jennifer. Call me Jennifer, remember?”

I smiled. “Aidan then, none of the ‘pastor’ stuff, and yes, all self-respecting Ohioans must defend the honor of the Buckeyes. And is it part of your job to read over my shoulder?”

We both laughed. Our eyes met for the first time, and then she looked away to my shelves of books. “Have you read most of these?”

“Nah, they’re just there to give me credibility. I think I got most of them at yard sales.”

She laughed. “Seriously, you’ve read all of these?”

“Yeah, most of them, but some are just reference books. You know, Bible verses, cultural studies and all that.”

Jennifer walked around and looked at the titles. “And you get a space of your own. I have a half-open cubicle down at the station.”

“Yeah, saw that. That’s gotta suck.”

“It’s not bad. You get used to it. Besides, I’m hardly at my desk anyway.”

I stood up. “Sorry about my clothes. If I don’t have appointments, I tend to dress down.”

She smiled and played with her scar. “No worries. I don’t normally dress this nice, but I need to talk with some families today from the case last night.”

I put on my coat and then turned off the light.

“Oh, yeah, what happened last night?” I asked as we walked down the hall.

“Unlike the bloodbath in the cemetery, it was a routine drive by.” She stopped and shook her head. “Aidan, I’m sorry. I’m so used to talking with other cops.”

I gave her a small smile. “It’s okay. Really, don’t worry about it.”

“How are you this morning?” She searched my face.

“I’m … well … okay, I guess.”

“It’s tough to take. I know,” she said as she touched my arm.

I nodded. “Do you ever get used to all of this?”

“Investigating murder? No, but you learn to deal with it.”

“How?”

She frowned. “I don’t really know. I try not to think about it much, that’s one way. I guess the other is to be flippant and crass. This job can really mess you up. Some of my friends are functioning drunks, and most of us have no personal lives. It’s hard to deal with the heart of human darkness and then turn it off, you know?”

“I can understand that. A lot of pastors are not only functioning drunks, but many are porn addicts. They’re lonely, depressed, and isolated. Eventually, they crash and burn. I’m guessing between our two jobs, the flame out rate is the same.”

“I bet.” Jennifer looked away as we exited the church building.

“So, should I follow you?” I asked.

“Well, it would be easier if I just drove, if you don’t mind.”

The thought of being alone in the car with her got my blood pumping. The “other brain,” as my dad, the seminary professor, used to call it, started to take over. At that point, I told the “primary” brain to take a vacation. It had done the work to lead me out of my faith and deserved some time off.

But then I thought about Amanda, how she died, and how much I still loved her.

We got into Jennifer’s black Mustang.

“No siren?” I asked.

She smiled. “No, I use my own car, one of the privileges of being a detective.” She sat there for a second with the car running.

“Jennifer, are you okay?”

“Yeah, trying to decide something.”

“What?”

“Whether I should take you to the place where Amanda was murdered.”

I had no desire to go, but I didn’t want that tropical depression of unease to turn into a full-blown hurricane panic attack.

We rode in silence until we were on the road.

“There is something I want you to explain to me,” Jennifer said.

I furrowed my brow. “What is it?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“I’m not a detective. Didn’t Lieutenant Weaver have any ideas?”

“I don’t need another detective’s opinion. I need a preacher’s.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.” She looked at me as we waited at the light. “What did you do last night?”

I cried myself to sleep.

“Oh, just kind of fell into bed. I didn’t feel well, must have been something I ate, or maybe being accused of murder had something to do with it.”

I hate when I don’t think before I speak.

Jennifer frowned. “I explained why we suspected you, and I apologized.”

“I know … I’m sorry … I suffer from verbal diarrhea.”

She looked at me with a small smile. “My brother says that all the time. It reminds me of that
South Park
episode where everyone crapped out of their mouths, especially the people that had become atheists.”

“That’s me.”

She turned to me and arched an eyebrow. “An atheist pastor?”

“No, I shit a lot out of my mouth,” I lied. It was too soon to tell her.

Jennifer let out a full, throaty laugh. “That’s just disgusting.”

We drove in silence through the gray streets of Columbus as the wind blew snow across the road. I kept fiddling with the threads on my jeans while we entered the cemetery. It had always been a habit of mine to play with something whenever I got nervous. It occurred to me that, as a cop, Jennifer could probably tell all the signs of anxiety, and I didn’t want her to interrogate me again.

I cleared my throat. “So, tell me about the Confederate Cemetery.”

She smiled. “Not a history buff, eh?”

“Not really. It was actually my worst subject in school. More of a science-oriented guy.”

“And so you became a preacher?”

“Yeah, odd isn’t it?”

“No. Well, no more than an art major becoming a cop,” she said as she parked the car.

“An art major, eh? I bet that makes for good donut talk.”

Jennifer wrinkled her nose in disgust. Wow, she was even cute when she was mad.

“I don’t eat donuts, and neither do most cops. We are not all Chief Wiggums, you know.”

“Come on, not even once in a while?”

She looked at me with what must have been her hard-ass cop look. The muscles on her face tightened, and her eyes bore a hole through me. It would have been convincing if not for the twitches at the corners of her mouth. “Well, maybe,” she blurted.

“So anyway, the Confederate Cemetery, tell me about it.”

“Well, during the war, there was a large Union training camp in Columbus. They turned it into a prison camp. Most of those camps, both North and South … well, thousands of men lived in conditions worse than a third world country. You can imagine…”

Flashes of sick men shitting in holes came to my mind. I stared at the floor of Jennifer’s car. “A very public place for a murder.”

Jennifer nodded and looked at me. “Yeah, it is.”

As we got out of the car, the sun that threatened to peek through disappeared, replaced with the winter sky. The cemetery had a low gray-rock wall with an iron fence sticking out from the top. A rust-colored state historic sign hung on the stone arch gate, marking the importance of the cemetery as a former Union army training site and Confederate prisoner of war camp. Two uniformed policemen stood guard. They nodded to Jennifer as she showed them her badge.

As we walked into the cemetery, I saw white granite headstones with dark water stains from the melting snow. The burial markers stretched out about twenty-five yards on each side.

“Wow, there are a lot of them,” I said. “How many?”

Jennifer responded by pointing to a large boulder with 2,220 chiseled into the rock. I marveled at the number as I looked up to the archway where the word “Americans” was etched into the blocks. On top of the English-style gate, a large gray Ohio cross rose over the gateway. Half-moon slash marks had been scraped all over the cross. At first, I thought someone had vandalized the monument, but as I looked closer, I realized whoever sculpted it seemed like they meant for it to be a part of the work.

“That’s a bit unusual,” I said.

“What’s that?” Jennifer asked.

I pointed up. “Those half-moons carved into the cross.”

Jennifer frowned. “Yeah, no one knows why they are there.”

“Really?”

She shook her head. “From the stories I’ve heard, they are meant to be grins.”

“Grins?”

I shook my head. “Was the artist on something?”

She chuckled. “I don’t know what kind of drugs they had at the beginning of the twentieth century. Sadly, since the cross was donated by an anonymous donor, no one could ask the artist.”

I nodded as I turned around to take in the cemetery. “I can’t believe I have never heard of this place.” I touched one of the cold grave markers.

“My dad used to bring me here as a kid,” Jennifer said as she stopped to look. “He loves coming to this place. He is one of those Civil War re-enactors.”

“Bet he loves Blue Jacket hockey then.”

She smiled. “Nice. Most people in Columbus never make the connection.”

“I didn’t until just now,” I chuckled. “All those games wasted.”

The wind gusted, and I shivered. We stood side-by-side, close enough that I could feel the heat of her body. I thought of Amanda.

“Where did they find her?”

She hesitated. “I didn’t really bring you here to see that.”

I furrowed my brow. “Okay, but I still want to see it.”

She looked up at me, her eyes searching mine. “Are you sure?”

“No. I mean, not really, but I guess I need to see what happened.”

She nodded as she touched my arm. “I understand. Let’s go around the cross.”

I started to shake, and my stomach churned. This was it. I would see where Amanda had been murdered. I shoved my hands in my pockets, not wanting Jen to see my trembling weakness. We walked around to the back. I expected to see bloodstains on the ground or the police tape I’d seen on cop shows. Nothing.

“I don’t see any blood.”

She pointed. “Look at the cross.”

I glanced up and clenched my fists. A deep red, almost black, color stained the granite all the way down. Trails of darkened blood snaked down the back of the cross in crisscrossed patterns. My throat tightened. “What the … what did they do to her?”

Jennifer frowned and fiddled with her scar. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

I wanted to run home and crawl back into bed. But it was too late. I had to know.

“Yeah, tell me.”

She pointed upward. “They hung her on the cross dressed in a white ceremonial robe. After that, they slit her throat and let the blood spill down.” She spoke in a clinical voice as if she were reading a scientific study. It unsettled me, but then I remembered what she said about detaching herself so she could do her job.