Solomon's Grave

by Daniel G. Keohane

  God had a plan for him, and that plan involved coming home. He closed his eyes, feeling the tug of sleep returning, and wondered if Elizabeth O’Brien still lived in town. If she did, he doubted she’d speak to him, big time pastor or not.

  He did fall asleep, and did not dream. At least not that he could recall in the light of morning as the bus pulled into the Worcester depot.

  Chapter Two

  The Reformed Baptist church in Hillcrest was small, but its ranks still listed over one hundred and sixteen parishioners. Most lived locally or in one of the neighboring towns. The parish’s home was a two-story saltbox on Dreyfus Road, once home to the founder of the long-closed Dreyfus Shoe Company in Millbury, and his extended family. After the prestigious clan’s heyday in the late eighteen-hundreds and early into the following century, much of the sprawling estate had been bequeathed to the town. The large square home had stayed in the grasp of one family member or another through the mid-sixties until, falling too far into disrepair, it sat vacant for years. In the nineteen-seventies, Ralph Hayden and his wife Jean recognized that the population of their small parish in the city of Worcester had reached its limit. With the backing of fellow parishioners, the aging structure in Hillcrest was purchased from a grateful legal firm who had been acting as the Dreyfus Estate’s trust company.

  Two-thirds of the first and second floors were slowly refurbished into the main chapel, with the remaining area closed off and reserved as the new home of Reverend Hayden and his wife. The reconstruction had taken nearly a year and a half, a time of pot- luck suppers and other fund-raisers held by the Worcester congregation. The money was raised, the mortgage approved, and the long, careful renovations begun. Hayden, ordained ten years before but never having a parish to call his own, at last was able to retire from his twenty-two year manufacturing job at Norton Company and, in his late fifties, fulfill a dream.

  Nathan had been only three when the maiden service was held. Since then, it was the only church he’d ever known until leaving for college. Its humbleness was an anchor to the town each time he returned, second only to his parents’ house.

  The cab pulled onto Dreyfus Road and parked at the curb. Nathan climbed out and stretched, wishing he’d slept more. He lifted his two suitcases from the trunk before closing it, paid the fare. An old Chevrolet four-door, slightly rusted, sat in the lone parking space out front, marked with a small sign reading “Reverend Hayden.” As for the man whose name still marked both the parking sign and the top of the weekly masthead, he stood slightly bent in the doorway, watching. Nathan waved.

  The man had always looked old, gaunt with thin, white hair. Nathan tried to look casual as he walked to the door. He took Reverend Hayden’s hand gingerly in greeting. The pastor may have appeared fragile, but his gaze was eternally young. Deep blue, Hayden’s eyes scanned Nathan top to bottom as he feebly returned the shake. Looking for flaws, Nathan thought, a little self-consciously.

  Gesturing to the Chevy when he had his hand back, Nathan said, “I see you’re still driving that old gas-guzzler.”

  Hayden waved the comment away. “Not exactly.” He moved aside to let him enter with his suitcases. “I haven’t driven in four years now, Nate, when they made me give up my license. Too afraid I might run over a flock of schoolchildren or something. I don’t know. Marcus O’Connor takes it for a short drive once a week to make sure it’s still working, God bless him. The parking spot—and the gas guzzler—are yours now.” He said this with a sly grin as he closed the door. Nathan smiled back. The pastor enjoyed instilling terror in the hearts of the children with his gruff, mess-with-me-and-you-mess-with-God personality. Being his apparent successor (there was no “April Fools” sign on the door, Nathan was relieved to notice), he now found this attitude amusing.

  “What are you smiling at, Dinneck?”

  Nathan’s smirk disappeared. He stammered, “Nothing. Nothing, sir. Sorry. It’s just good to be—”

  But Hayden cut him off with another gesture of his thin hand, this time accompanied by a wide, slightly yellowed grin. The expression was warm.

  “I’m sorry, Reverend Dinneck,” he said, moving in front of him with a pat to his arm. “Old habits die hard, and,” he coughed a little in what Nathan thought might have been a laugh, “you should have seen the look on your face.” He laughed more clearly this time, and Nathan joined him, though slightly more guarded. Old habits, he thought.

  Chapter Three

  Vincent Tarretti leaned back in his worn recliner. He’d become a creature of habit over the years, falling into a set routine each night before bed. The chair was comfortable despite the occasional rips in the vinyl, having long adapted itself to his form. Johnson lay sprawled on the small rug in front of him, the large black Labrador content with his master’s nightly patterns. Vincent ran his stockinged feet gently across the dog’s back. Johnson wagged his tail in appreciation and stretched further out along the rug, eyes closed, already asleep.

  Smells of grass from this morning’s mowing drifted through the screen on the night’s breeze and reminded him, as it always did, of the childhood he’d left behind twenty-six years ago to start his life with Melissa. Even that world had been taken from him before it had barely time to begin. For the last two and a half decades, Vincent Tarretti’s life was this silent, simple substitute. Cutting the cemetery lawns in warm months, shoveling snow from the walkways or thawing rectangular patches of ground to bury the dead in the winter. His home now consisted of Hillcrest Memorial and Greenwood Street cemeteries, plus the two smaller, much older graveyards scattered across town.

  Vincent looked at the Bible in his lap and wondered at the passage. He enjoyed randomly opening the book and reading whatever words he came upon. Tonight it was open to the middle of the New Testament. The apostle Stephen’s fateful speech to the council, discussing the tabernacle—the Ark which housed the law of Moses and the tablets containing the Ten Commandments. It resided in the temple designed by David, but built by his son, Solomon. The same Solomon, Stephen explained in the passage, who eventually forsook the one true God in his later years to worship the local demons of the time, the deceivers.

  This was the second time today that Vincent wondered if God’s plan for him was beginning to change course. The first was during the call from Ralph Hayden, letting him know he’d be stopping by tomorrow afternoon with his successor. Nathan Dinneck.

  Vincent did not know if Dinneck’s arrival was related to his recent plague of dark dreams, details of which dissipated like the mist that hung among his cemeteries in the early morning. The only memory he could salvage on waking and carry with him during the day was a lingering, aching sense of misgiving. He used to dream a lot, when he was younger. Not long after he’d moved to this small suburb, Vincent had stopped dreaming altogether. At least he assumed he had. Maybe he’d simply stopped remembering them. Their sudden resurgence worried him. He hadn’t remained here, unfettered by anyone for so long, by ignoring his instincts. He took little credence in coincidence. That was a word used by those too stubborn to see the hand of God at work in their lives.

  A sudden gust of wind slammed against the house. Summer was winding down, but not without protest. He slowly rose from his chair and opened the front door. The sky was clear, a million stars above him. Wisps of clouds occasionally passed by, moving quickly as if driven by the wind; ghosts in search of rest they would never find. He watched their passage with growing apprehension, half-expecting the wisps of vapor to turn toward him, to form a claw reaching down.... He went back inside and closed the door, lest his fear be detected by whatever or whoever else might be out there, wandering around the cemetery, looking for him. Looking for what he had sworn his soul to protect.

  Besides, it was bedtime. Any change in routine might attract the attention of those who might someday find this place, if not in his lifetime, then the next caretaker’s. For Vincent, those people existed only in warnings from his predecessor and in the writings of those who came befo
re. Faceless and nameless adversaries over the centuries, always searching. Never stopping.

  Too much at stake not to stick to a schedule, never stray. Never stray.

  Johnson lifted his head and offered a questioning wag of his tail. Vincent scratched him between his ears before sitting down at the kitchen table. The dented strongbox—circa World War II, if he wasn’t mistaken—was open. He did not take out the four thick volumes, many older than the box itself. Rather, he turned to the spiral notebook on the table and re-read the small newspaper article clipped from the Worcester Telegram earlier this year. A small advertisement, one that Vincent would normally have glossed over if not for its local connection. He paid close attention to anything new to town—a store, a new family. Usually he gave more consideration when only one person was involved, or a pair of men or women moving in. Anything that indicated a change from the norm. The new organization, known simply as the Hillcrest Men’s Club—HMC, for short—had been having an open house in a recently-purchased storefront in the town’s lone strip mall. At the time, he’d examined the letters in the group’s name for any indication of his enemy, an anagram or some such nonsense. If whoever these people might be ever came to town, they wouldn’t raise flags to their existence. Still, Vincent had made a note of it at the time, just in case. The number “798” was written in blue pen in the corner of the newspaper clipping, in his own hand. The same number had also been written on the notebook’s page, along with his scattered observations or concerns, always ending with the same notation he had written for his prior seven hundred and ninety-seven entries and the few that followed. The mantra, “Wait and see.”

  He flipped forward until he found a fresh page, on which he wrote the number “815” followed by, “New pastor in town. Nathan Dinneck—odd to choose someone so young and from town. Hayden retiring. Timing of this with onset of sudden foreboding— see entry 811—comes into question.” He paused, then added, “Wait and see.” He closed the notebook after tucking the newspaper clipping announcing Dinneck’s new appointment inside, and laid it atop the older journals in the strongbox. He locked it with a small key attached to his everyday key chain, and crossed the room.

  “Come on, Johnson,” Vincent said. “Bedtime. Big day tomorrow.”

  Johnson got to his feet and followed him into the darkened bedroom. Before heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth, Vincent lifted a loose board under the edge of the bed and laid the strongbox into the floor. He replaced the board and dragged a small rug, coated in dog fur, across it. Johnson waited until his master went into the bathroom, then circled twice before settling down for the night on the rug.

  Chapter Four

  Peter Quinn was not a tall man, standing just over five and a half feet. Beneath his loose fitting black shirt, however, his chest and arms were disciplined ribbons of muscle. This attribute was only noticeable when he was alone, naked before his private altar in the supply room at the back of the retrofitted storefront on Main Street. His public physique was masked by loose clothes and a humble, almost stooping posture. His face, groomed to look more like an accountant’s than an athlete’s, served as additional camouflage. His stark white hair was short and slightly curled and matched the finely clipped moustache.

  The contrast of his hair against the black shirt—all of Peter Quinn’s shirts were black, worn with well-fitting pleated Chinos of varying blues or browns—gave him the look of a preacher. Such was how he often thought of himself, the pastor of the hidden church he’d established in this little town. Of course, most of his congregation were unaware of the true nature of their quaint new club.

  Discretion was important with his profession—his calling. Prior to opening the Hillcrest Men’s Club this spring, he had moved among the streets and towns of central Massachusetts, an anonymous face among the populace, never drawing attention to himself. All of that changed one fateful day as he wandered among the tombstones and monuments of Greenwood Street Cemetery. He expected to find nothing more interesting there than anywhere else since he’d been relocated—banished would be a better choice of words—from Chicago.

  The trouble in Chicago had been a miscalculation on his part, but the memory of it never failed to send a thrilling jolt through him. The absolute terror on that pathetic man’s face as he knelt, bound, in the center of his burning home, facing Peter, who leaned against the frame of the back door. The fool could have saved himself if he’d simply told him where the prize was. The man died pleading his innocence. Granted, in the end, Peter had to admit he’d been telling the truth. Again, a slight miscalculation, a misinterpretation of comments made in the gym one morning as Peter reluctantly spotted for him on the bench press, but one which required the Elders to send him off to this uneventful little corner of the country. They did this with a fair share of warnings and chastisements. They accused him of being a firebug, of being too obsessive. Obsessive? Devoted would be a better word. Over time, most of their ranks had forgotten their true purpose, focusing on business, on whatever gains the material world had to offer. To them, the Mission was nothing more than background noise. To Peter Quinn, it was his life.

  In the end, his absolute devotion to the master proved fruitful. An assignment born of shame, now showed itself as Providence. He’d discovered John Solomon’s grave.

  Destiny.

  This time he would not act rashly, would walk with careful, slow steps. By establishing his base of operations here, he hid himself behind the men who came each night to drink, play cards, waste their lives. Over time, carefully, he searched out the minds and hearts of each, looking for weaknesses to exploit. Everyone had them. It was a matter of looking long enough. With the exception of his unofficial protégé, Manny Paulson, most of them never knew they were anything but happy members of the HMC. In truth, that’s all most were. Until they were needed. Then, he would use only those necessary to move closer toward the prize—if any would be required at all.

  One such puppet stood before him now. Quinn spoke quietly, keeping the controlled cadence in his voice from reaching anyone else’s ears lest they sense something more than a quiet conversation between the two men.

  “Is there something wrong, Arthur?” Peter said, locking his gaze onto Art Dinneck’s face, not reading his thoughts but able to pick up on strong emotion as clearly as a blush. Empathic was the word his uncle often used during training. Still, the Voice, long trained and the most important tool of his ilk, was Peter’s true power. The Voice gave him a charismatic aura, an innate and strong ability which he’d always possessed but never truly understood before joining the Order.

  Art smiled weakly and shrugged his shoulders. “No, not really. In fact I have good news. My son has come back to town. To stay, it looks like.”

  Quinn nodded. “I’ve heard. He’s the new pastor of your old church, I believe.”

  Art nodded. Quinn sensed the man’s pride and did not like its implications. He’d worked hard to pull him far from his faith, a necessary requirement in order to control him. The arrival of his boy, a minister no less, could undo everything Quinn had orchestrated. People of strong faith were not easily controlled, too much holier-than-thou garbage filling their heads. A distraction, nothing more, but enough to occupy their minds and make them harder to manipulate.

  Harder, but never impossible.

  This recent urge to focus so much of his energy on Dinneck, rather than letting the prude drift from the club’s ranks out of guilt or sheer boredom, still puzzled him. The inspiration came from outside Quinn’s will, as if the master himself had chosen this man. Once Peter learned of Dinneck’s son taking over the Baptist church, he began to see that perhaps there might be good reason. Not that it would make his job any easier. More interesting, perhaps, but far from easier.

  A change in leadership in the church the same year as his own discovery was worrisome. He would need to keep the new pastor’s father on a short leash, learn what he could every day. Knowledge was power in this war.

  �
�I’m sure your Beverly must be proud.”

  “Oh, she is, she is.” Another wave of pride from the man. Quinn focused his will on what he would say next.

  “You will not resume attendance at that church, however.” Spoken as a statement, though Peter raised his eyebrows as if having done nothing but ask a casual question.

  Art looked confused a moment, and Peter felt his command sink slowly into the sand of the man’s brain. “No, no I’m not.” His brows furrowed, confused by his own admission. Something cleared in his face, and he added, “Sunday’s his debut service, though. Bev’s all but threatened me if I try to get out of going.” He smiled and shrugged.

  Quinn returned the smile. “Arthur, that’s wonderful,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Of course you have to attend. Besides, you don’t have to go to any others after that. That is not something you wish to do, ever again.” This last sentence was spoken without inflection, a narrow spear thrust forcefully into Dinneck’s mind.

  The clarity in Art’s face washed away. “No, that’s right. I don’t.”

  Peter again forced a casual tone, one with no trace of the Voice. He laid a hand on Art’s shoulder and gave it a pat.

  “Please pass along my best wishes to him. Nathan is his name?”

  Art nodded.

  “After all,” Peter continued, “he’s your first born. That makes him special.”

  A slight worried look, then Art shrugged and said, “I guess you’re right.”

  Quinn left his hand on Art’s shoulder a moment longer. “Go on back to the group and have a beer. Relax; have some fun.”

  The paleness which had been creeping into Art’s face during the conversation washed away, and he excused himself. Peter watched after him, knowing the man would only remember snippets of their conversation, and then only that which was spoken in a normal tone. Still, it had been close. A parent’s love was a dangerous bit of baggage. The homecoming of Art Dinneck’s son was significant. Best keep a close eye on this man’s family, and their little church.