Diabolical (24 page)

He exited the first room and found himself in a much more open, brighter area. The displays here were larger, grouped together in segments along the wall or in stand-alone cases. He passed sections labeled Greece and Rome, Native America, Egypt, Persia, Islam. The area curved around a display on Millennialism, veered into another area with a large sign that read REVELATION. Hatcher walked past it and leaned through a passageway toward the next area. He could see a plaque that read DOOMSDAY CULTS and another that referenced Beliefs in the New Age. What looked like a mock nuclear test bunker was set up in a far corner. An entire half of the room seem dedicated to Global Warming and Climate Change. Even people who didn't have religion had a religion.

Hatcher stepped back toward the Revelation section. The painting from the brochure was there, as were various other artifacts and drawings and scrolls. He scanned them all, then leaned against a wall. Frustration was starting to well up inside him. This had been a long shot and was now starting to seem ill conceived. He couldn't tell what, if any of it, was relevant. Maybe if he could just remember more of what Bartlett had said. He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. There had to be something that made the man mention this place, some detail.

He looked up as a museum attendant, a young black woman in a uniform blazer and white shirt, approached. She showed a row of imposing white teeth. Her smile was friendly but practiced.

“Can I help you?”

He doubted it. “I'm doing some research. For a blog. I'm just having a little trouble finding what I was looking for.”

“What is it you're researching?”

Good question. He inhaled sharply, pulling himself away from the wall. “A particular prophecy, one found engraved in a tablet.”

“Oh, well, did you look through the Revelation display?”

“I'm still going through it.”

“Okay. If you can't find what you're looking for, maybe you can talk to Dr. Pitsch.”

“Dr. Pitsch?”

“The exhibit coordinator.”

“Is he around?”

“She. I don't know. She's in the hall a lot, checking on things.”

“What do I need to do to talk to her?”

The young woman pulled a small walkie-talkie from her belt. It squawked as she thumbed the push-to-talk button. She raised the transceiver to her face, turned away as she mumbled a few words in shorthand. Another squawk, and a voice came back with a response Hatcher couldn't understand.

“You're in luck,” she said. “My supe says Dr. Pitsch is on her way down.”

He spent the next few minutes staring at the painting from the pamphlet, now before him on the wall. It showed a complex, sprawling scene, depictions of a hovering Christ surrounded by saints, with numerous souls climbing and riding clouds around them, ascending, others left behind in anguish and torment. But Hatcher's attention was quickly drawn to the lower center, the part that caught his eye in the brochure. An opening in the ground at the end of a snaking tube of raised earth, like a gopher trail. The entrance to a cave. A pair of eyes no larger than dots of light peered out of the darkness, set in a cadaverous head. Suggestions of other bodies, tumbling into oblivion, haunted the shadows. It was the reason he'd come.

“The damned, swallowed by the mouth of Hell.”

Hatcher snapped a look toward the voice. A woman stood a few feet away, a pleasant expression on her face that didn't quite amount to a smile. No need to practice one, he guessed. She was tall, sporting a pair of large round glasses, maybe a few pounds overweight. But not unattractive. What she lacked in beauty and figure she made up for in attitude, which beamed off of her like a heat signature. He could tell this was a smart woman who knew just how smart she was.

“You're the man who needs help with his research.”

“Good guess.”

“Well, you are the only person here.”

Hatcher glanced around. “I suppose I am.”

“It's early, on a weekday,” she said, hitching her shoulder. She held out a hand. “I'm Gladys Pitsch. So, how can I help you? Do you have questions about
The Last Judgment
?”

“The last judgment?”

“The piece you were just viewing. It's by Michelangelo. This, of course, is merely a print. The original is on the wall of the Sistine Chapel.”

“What was it you said about the mouth of Hell?”

She gestured toward the painting with her chin. “The opening in the ground there. It's called a Hell's Mouth. I noticed you were staring at it.”

“You could say it looks familiar.”

“Depictions of a Hell's Mouth were very common in these types of paintings. They're called Dooms. The walls of almost every church had them, prior to the Reformation. Is this what you want to ask me about? Natalie said you couldn't find what you were looking for.”

“I'm trying to find what I can about a tablet, something that talks about opening a gateway to Hell. I was told you have a display here that would shed some light on it”

Her eyes dimmed slightly and her mouth hardened. She stared at him and blinked. “What kind of tablet?”

“I don't know much, except that it was engraved in some weird language spoken by Solomon. And found somewhere in the Middle East. Jerusalem, maybe.”

The woman seemed to take a few moments studying Hatcher's face, sizing him up.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” She took in a breath and her demeanor appeared to relax. “A gate to Hell, you say.”

“Yes. One that would allow demons to pass through. Set them free on the earth. Ring a bell?”

Without responding, she pivoted and started walking back the way Hatcher had come. Hatcher followed.

She led him back to the open exhibit area and zipped around a tall glass enclosure surrounding some sort of primitive stone carving.

“Here we are.”

A large poster of a sketch adorned the wall, the view of it blocked from his prior vantage point by a vertical plenum. It was an image Hatcher was already acquainted with, the depiction of a winged creature with a goat's head and a human body. The same picture Bartlett had showed him in the motel room. The poster towered over several smaller plaques surrounding it. Next to it, a column of words running down the wall asked

“This is probably what you're looking for.”

“I've seen this before,” Hatcher said.

“That's not surprising. This is a very popular occult symbol, one that is often used to represent evil or demons, or even Satan. We sort of hid it back here, since it has a tendency to upset children. And some adults. It's called the Baphomet.”

“So I've heard. What the hell's a ‘Baphomet'?”

“It depends on whom you ask. No one is quite sure where the term comes from. Some say it's a corruption of the name Mohammed, others have proposed various Latin or Arabic roots. One scholar theorized it comes from the Greek word
Sophia
, meaning ‘wisdom.' It's been around for centuries as a pagan conceit, though this particular likeness was the creation of a nineteenth-century French occultist named Eliphas Levi. It is said the Templars worshiped an image much like this, that being what led to their persecution.”

“The Templars? Weren't they knights? Crusaders?”

“Yes, but much more. A number of people believe they discovered the secret of King Solomon's power, which is why they were so wealthy. And so feared by the ruling class.”

“And these people, they think this Baphomet thing was the source of that power?”

“No, just a symbol of it.”

She took a step to the side and gestured toward a compact glass cube on a pedestal. Inside the casing, a small item, green and corroded, sat on a black velvet lining. It took Hatcher a second to realize it was a ring.

A poster above the display read THE LEGEND OF THE RING OF AANDALEEB.

“Ancient lore tells of how Solomon was given a ring containing a mystical seal.”

“This ring?”

“Good heavens, no. This is merely a representational artifact. It was unearthed in a dig near Jerusalem and dates back roughly to the time of Solomon. So there's a good chance his ring would have looked something like it.”

“And what does that have to do with goat head over here?”

“If you were to believe the legends, the ring gave Solomon the ability to control demons.”

“Control them?”

“Yes. Summon them, and command them to do his bidding. All their dark magic and knowledge were at his disposal. It was the source of his power and wisdom.”

“And the Baphomet?”

“Some say the seal on the ring was a pentagram containing the name of God.” She gestured toward the forehead of the creature in the image. “Just like that one, there.”

“I don't understand. If Solomon controlled these demons, are you saying the Templars found his ring?”

“These are just stories, Mr. Hatcher. And completely separate ones, at that. They overlap mostly because of the speculation of conspiracy theorists. But to answer your question, no, the Templars wouldn't have needed the same ring. They would have needed to discover the seal.”

Hatcher glanced at the shape on the Baphomet's forehead. “That thing? It doesn't look too complicated.”

“Neither are passwords or combinations, if you know them. And it's only because of some evidence from the trials of the Templars and pictures like this that didn't even exist at the time that it seems so simple.”

Parts of what she said raised even more questions and didn't make much sense to him. But Hatcher got the impression her patience was already starting to fray.

“If they could control demons, why would they worship one?”

The woman shrugged. “That was what they were accused of, but it doesn't mean the accusations were true. Maybe they came to associate the image with the source of their vast wealth and decided to adorn items with it. Maybe they saw demons as a fountain of forbidden knowledge and decided this ‘Sophia' was a fitting symbol for their new wisdom . . .”

Hatcher perked up at the sound of her words trailing off.

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“You wanted to say something else.”

“Really, it's nothing.”

“Come on, now.” He forced a smile, willed himself to have it reach his eyes, even though he was in no smiling mood. “Don't make me turn this into an interrogation. I didn't bring my thumbscrews.”

She grinned and looked away. “Apparently, there's a legend about Solomon. How he began to regret his dealings with demons, gave up his ring toward the end of his life. He'd decided any interaction with such creatures corrupted the soul.”

“Okay.”

“According to this story, Solomon decided no one should have the kind of power he'd wielded. So he fashioned a spell and used the magic he had learned to trap the most powerful demon and all his minions.”

“The most powerful? As in, Satan?”

“Satan was forbidden from walking the Earth. This demon was more akin to his first in command. His name was Asmodeus.”

“Let me guess. This spell was inscribed on a tablet.”

“According to what I was told, I think so. Yes.”

“So, if you didn't have this tablet, you couldn't summon the demon?”

“I suppose. That's why they would fashion an image of it. Try to communicate, bring it close, even if they couldn't raise it. Reportedly, Asmodeus is extremely vain and demands proof of your worship for him in the form of a sacrifice and a graven image of itself. Look, this is more like a rumor. I only heard this story recently. From a museum visitor, no less.”

It took a second for the words to reach the right spot of his brain. “Visitor? Who? Was it a woman, by any chance?”

“No. A young man. He was quite interested in these objects. Very knowledgeable.”

“Short guy? Hair teased up like some salon model?”

“Not too short, no. Almost as tall as you. I didn't notice anything about his hair. Why are you asking about him? Do you think it's someone you know?”

Hatcher dipped his head ambiguously and waved the question off. He took a closer look at the drawing. Atop the head a torch burned between its two horns. One arm was pointed up, the other down. Each forearm had writing on it.

“What are these words?”

“
Solve
and
Coagula
.”

“Is that Latin?”

She nodded. “
Solve
means to dissolve.
Coagula
means to congeal. It's from an expression used by alchemists, referring to the idea of breaking something down into its base elements, then reconstituting it in a purer form. Here it probably refers to purification through knowledge.”

“Knowledge of what?”

The woman shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Something she had mentioned earlier was scratching at his brain.
Sophia.
His eyes abruptly fixed on the thing's bare torso. He leaned in closer. “Are those . . . breasts?”

“Yes.”

“This Baphomet is a woman?”

“Not exactly. More like an androgynous entity. A hermaphrodite. Really, it has no sex, no gender. It's not human.”

Hatcher's eyes took in every detail of the sketch, moving from top to bottom and back up. “How would someone go about stopping it?”

“Excuse me?”

“This Baphomet. How would you kill it?”

“Mr. Hatcher, this is a just a drawing. There is no such creature. It was only intended as a symbol.”