I searched the guard quickly, removing a ring of keys, a large DEXTER IN THE DARK
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pocketknife, and an automatic pistol that he would probably not need anytime soon, and then I stepped cautiously into the hall, closing the door behind me. Somewhere out here, Cody and Astor waited, and I would find them. What I would do then I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. I would find them.
T H I R T Y - N I N E
The building was about the size of a large Miami Beach house. I prowled cautiously through a long hallway that ended at a door similar to the one I had just played bull-in-the-ring with. I tiptoed up and put my ear against it. I didn’t hear anything at all, but the door was so thick that this meant almost nothing.
I put my hand on the knob and turned it very slowly. It wasn’t locked, and I pushed the door open.
I peeked carefully around the edge of the door and saw nothing that ought to cause alarm other than some furniture that looked like real leather—I made a mental note to report it to PETA. It was quite an elegant room, and as I opened the door farther I saw a very nice mahogany bar in the far corner.
But much more interesting was the trophy case beside the bar.
It stretched along the wall for twenty feet, and behind the glass, just visible, I could see row after row of what seemed to be assorted ceramic bulls’ heads. Each piece shone under its own mini-spotlight.
I did not count, but there had to be more than a hundred of them.
And before I could move into the room I heard a voice, as cold and dry as it could be and still be human.
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“Trophies,” and I jumped, turning the gun toward the sound.
“A memorial wall dedicated to the god. Each represents a soul we have sent to him.” An old man sat there, simply looking at me, but seeing him was almost a physical blow. “We create a new one for each sacrifice,” he said. “Come in, Dexter.”
The old man didn’t seem very menacing. In fact, he was nearly invisible, sitting back as he was in one of the large leather chairs. He got up slowly, with an old man’s care, and turned a face on me that was as cold and smooth as river rock.
“We have been waiting for you,” he said, although as far as I could tell he was alone in the room, except for the furniture.
“Come in.”
I really don’t know if it was what he said, or the way he said it—or something else entirely. In any case, when he looked directly at me I suddenly felt like there was not enough air in the room. All the mad dash of my escape seemed to bleed out of me and puddle around my ankles, and a great clattering emptiness tore through me, as though there was nothing in the world but pointless pain, and he was its master.
“You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble,” he said quietly.
“That’s some consolation,” I said. It was very hard to say, and sounded feeble even to me, but at least it made the old man look a little bit annoyed. He took a step toward me, and I found myself trying to shrink away. “By the way,” I said, hoping to appear nonchalant about the fact that I felt like I was melting, “who are us?”
He cocked his head to one side. “I think you know,” he said.
“You’ve certainly been looking at us long enough.” He took another step forward and my knees wobbled slightly. “But for the sake of a pleasant conversation,” he said, “we are the followers of Moloch.
The heirs of King Solomon. For three thousand years, we have kept the god’s worship alive and guarded his traditions, and his power.”
“You keep saying ‘we,’ ” I said.
He nodded, and the movement hurt me. “There are others here,” he said. “But the we is, as I am sure you are aware, Moloch.
He exists inside me.”
“So you killed those girls? And followed me around?” I said, and I admit I was surprised to think of this elderly man doing all that.
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JEFF LINDSAY