“If there’s nothing else, Reverend, I’d like to—”
Nathan shouted, “You will stay on this phone and tell me what is going on! I’ve had enough of mysteries to last me the rest of my life. Ever since I’ve come here, it’s been one strange thing after another, and now I can’t help thinking you might know more than you’re letting on. Where is Reverend Hayden?”
“Strange things like what?” Tarretti asked. Nathan felt his irritation growing with every nonsensical turn of the conversation. This man was ignoring everything he said. He took a breath, decided to ignore the caretaker’s questions just as the man was doing to him. “Where is Pastor Hayden?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you sound surprised that he went missing?”
“I was surprised. Sorry for not acting the way you expect me to. I’ve a lot on my mind.”
“Like what?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m afraid it is my business. Ever since we first met, I sensed something strange about how you’ve acted toward me. Why is that?”
“Maybe you’re paranoid.”
Nathan took a breath, realizing he was starting to sound that way. Lord give me strength. I feel I’m near something, but what is it? Why am I carrying on like this?
“Reverend?”
“I apologize for snapping. Between getting ready to take over the church, concerns for my father, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m afraid with this new situation I might simply be taking out my frustration on you.” He didn’t mean these words, wanted to scream into the mouthpiece, but he forced himself down a notch.
“Apology accepted. Sorry you’re not sleeping well. Bad dreams?”
Nathan took in a reflexive breath. The question had been asked innocently enough, but in his current state of hyper-alertness, it struck him like a rock. Don’t wig out now. He was only trying to make nice.
“Reverend?”
“Nothing to worry about. If I was having nightmares they’ve stopped. Anyhow, can you think of any place Pastor Hayden might have gone?”
An extended silence again, but Tarretti’s voice returned sooner than the last time. “I really don’t know. I wish I did. What were your nightmares about, when you had them?”
“Why do you keep turning the conversation around?” He didn’t understand why, but Nathan suddenly wanted to confide in this man, tell him everything. It made no sense. Nathan was calling about Hayden’s disappearance, not for a therapy session. “Never mind about my dreams. If you hear of anything, or think of something, please let me know.”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
“Please call me if you hear anything.”
Nathan said he would and hung up. He sat back in the desk chair and covered his face with his hands. The conversation had gotten away from him. Tarretti was only being polite, maybe trying to calm a panicked minister. Granted the man couldn’t maintain a single thread in a conversation, but Nathan reminded himself that it was late, and he’d probably woken him up. His heart beat quickly, as if he’d just sparred with the caretaker in a boxing ring.
He lowered his hands and took in another breath, felt himself calm, slowly. Confrontation was never an easy thing for him. What, exactly, this particular confrontation had been about, he didn’t know.
Not really.
His nerves, his nightmares, had nothing to do with the disappearance of Reverend Hayden. Somehow the discussion seemed to lead that way. Not for the first time, Nathan wondered if he was ready to head a church of his own.
He held off calling anyone else. The news had obviously disturbed him more than he’d realized. Hayden would be OK; likely wandered away in confusion inspired by his new surroundings. He’d turn up. He had to. Nathan would make as many calls as necessary in the morning, until he found out the truth.
He sat a while longer, letting his jangled nerves settle, then got up and turned off the light on the desk and the one in the kitchen before heading upstairs. He thought of Vince questioning his dreams. The day in the cemetery, wondering if any particular monument caught his eye. He knew more than he was saying. Nathan’s strange visions of the stone angels. Hayden’s disappearance.
There was no logical connection. These events were not related.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Vincent Tarretti remained seated at the kitchen table long after he and Dinneck ended their conversation. He was shaking. Something was happening. Whatever it might be, it was happening.
Hayden had disappeared.
Ruth Lieberman conveyed many scattered facts to him decades ago, before her death to cancer eight weeks after Vincent’s arrival in town. There were certain rules God had ordained for the handling and transportation of the Ark; rules that even today must not be broken. One in particular was that it could not be moved by anyone except priests, those ordained by God. There were examples in the Bible of men who ignored this. They died instantly. Vincent didn’t know if, in this modern age, any of these rules had changed. Not according to the sometimes-ancient writings kept in the box under the floorboards. Many, especially the older ones, were not written in English. They were scribbled notes in French, Russian (at least it looked like Russian, he couldn’t be sure), Hebrew and Latin. Once in a while, Vincent would buy a translation dictionary, convert random sentences to something he could understand. Most were day-to-day notations, like his own. Others chronicled, as best he could tell with his rough interpretation, the sudden uprooting of the Ark’s long-secluded resting place. He kept his translations in the books, thinking to convert all the texts, but time and routine kept him too busy. Maybe the next person, whomever God chose to replace Vincent some day, might give it a try.
One recurring theme, however, was that it would be best not to tempt fate. Doing so might question God Himself. Vincent was no priest. That left only a few in town who qualified. Father Carelli from Saint Malachy’s, Nathan Dinneck, and Ralph Hayden.
Now Hayden was gone. Vincent had an overwhelming urge to race across town to Greenwood Street, verify—again—that the grave had not been opened. If Hayden was chosen by the Lord to move the treasure, it wasn’t up to Vincent to stop him. He was so old, though, and the grave hadn’t been opened, at least not Monday morning. Vincent thought of Peter Quinn’s interest in the pastor’s departure. It was this interest that prompted Vincent to check on the grave in the first place.
Hayden is a red herring.
The thought felt so true that a renewed sense of urgency took hold. Vincent had spent so long marking every occurrence in town that struck him as out of place. Sometimes his notes covered nothing more bizarre than the Stop ‘N Shop repaving their parking lot. Not once could he remember anything out of the ordinary with Ralph Hayden’s behavior. The man never looked at the gravesite more than any other, never mentioned visions or nightmares.
He looked up suddenly, like someone hearing a sudden noise. But there was no noise save the constant chirrup of the crickets and peepers outside, and the distant roar of a jet on its way to or from Logan Airport.
Nathan Dinneck. Noticing the grave, his dreams—whatever they might be about. So many oddities about this new minister. But Dinneck was coming, not going. Maybe the time for change was not as close as Vincent feared. The looming sense of danger might only be a sign of the final stage. Maybe Dinneck would be the one, but not for another twenty years.
The new men’s club wanted to plant flowers. The white-haired accountant type, Quinn, asked after Hayden. The old man disappeared.
Vincent pounded a closed fist against the table, scattering the forgotten interment forms he’d produced from their folder when Dinneck called. He wished he could pry the nightmares out of that young preacher’s head and examine them. Faith was important, but after having spent so many years protecting what lay in the grave, any new step felt dangerous.
He got up and turned off the lights on his way back to bed. Johnson looked up from his rug and offered a conc
erned wag of his tail. Vincent would pray for the safety of Reverend Hayden, and wait. There was nothing else to do.
Chapter Thirty
Try as he might, Nathan could not sleep. He sat up on the edge of the bed, then slowly slid from this position onto the floor. He knelt, using the mattress as an ad-hoc prayer bench.
God, he thought, please help me. Am I going mad? This should be a time of great joy, a culmination of everything you’ve given me. He leaned further forward until his forehead pressed against the rumpled comforter. Nothing feels right; it’s become one of those bad dreams where everything goes wrong. Please.
He remained prostrate against the bed for a few minutes more. No rumble of thunder, no sudden inspiration in answer to his questions. He was tired, as tired as the day he’d collapsed in the church hall. Nathan pulled himself up and sat back down on the edge of the mattress. He reached to turn off the bedside lamp, then hesitated.
There were a few Bibles scattered throughout the house. He’d placed his New International Version on the bedside table last night—the first night he’d slept in this room. Nathan always liked having the book handy. Good reading to fall asleep to.
He didn’t know what to look for, what passage might help him see this insane situation in a new light. He pushed his pillow against the headboard and leaned back, staring unfocused and flipped the pages. The word “Solomon” caught his attention, then disappeared in the blur of passages. Nathan stuck his thumb inside, turned pages backward, then forward again, no urgency in his motion.
Solomon’s Wives the heading read.
Tomorrow, Nathan thought.
Read, whispered an almost instinctual voice in his heart. Just this chapter. Closure, then sleep.
Nathan took the suggestion and read the chapter. It was the story of Solomon’s fall from grace, when he chose to worship the false gods of the many wives he kept in foreign lands. In Jerusalem, he built a “high place for Chemosh the detestable god of Moab, and for Molech the detestable god of the Ammonites” and other demons which had their own, unflattering adjectives.
Solomon’s actions had been the final straw. This had become the king’s fall from grace, how he’d lost his throne to God’s wrath. Solomon had put other “gods”, the popular demons of that time, before Him. And paid the price.
Nathan looked up, thought of John Solomon’s grave. He thought of Tarretti again, of his father. Hayden. Too many threads blowing across his mind, not seeming to be related but somehow all feeling as if they should be.
Long past midnight, the questions still raced like gnats, landing just long enough to bite, then vanishing again. The lamp remained on as he slid into sleep, the book open on his lap.
He did not dream, save vague recollections of flashing images as his brain tried to sort things out while his body regenerated. When he opened his eyes, the sun was shining through the windows. He lay on top on the comforter, never having gotten under the sheets. What day was it? Wednesday. Perhaps he should stay here, not face the day. It seemed a good idea. He’d overslept anyway. The clock read nine thirty-four. He must have appointments for the day, but stay in bed, he told himself. Maybe it would all go away on its own.
A muffled shrill broke the reverie. The cell phone, still in his pants pocket. He considered ignoring it, but knew he could not. He was pastor now. He was responsible. The thought gave him enough motivation to reach down and fish the phone out before the caller disconnected.
“Hello,” he said, staring at the ceiling and realizing too late that he should have answered with “Pastor Dinneck.” The salutation hadn’t become routine enough yet.
“Well, good morning,” a familiar voice said. “Sounds like you just woke up.”
“Elizabeth.” Hearing her voice, saying her name, washed everything away, cleared his mind. It was a temporary reprieve, but he relished the feeling and sat up on the bed. “Sorry, yeah. I forgot to set the alarm. I was up late reading.”
A small laugh. “Must be a good book.”
Nathan smiled. “The best.”
“Oh, that one.” Her voice lost none of the mirth, however. “Well, I won’t keep you. You probably haven’t even brushed your teeth yet.”
“Nope.”
“I’d forgotten I was off yesterday, so I didn’t see you at the nursing home. We never made a date.”
Thank you, he thought, for Elizabeth at least. Whatever else is happening, she is my oasis.
“Right,” he said, and walked from the bedroom. “Hang on a second, I’ve got to go downstairs to check the calendar.” Down the steps like a child on Christmas morning, he turned into the den and opened his desk calendar. “OK, let’s see. Tonight’s no good, as we’ve got Bible study. Care to join us?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so,” he said. “I’d say maybe after that, but I have a feeling I’ll be a bit pooped. Should get to bed early to make up for last night.”
“Everything OK?”
“Actually, no.” He told her about Hayden.
“That’s pretty bizarre.”
“You’re not kidding. Let’s pick a night, and I might even tell you some more bizarre things.”
“Deal,” she said. “Tomorrow night, then? I’m off Friday, so I wouldn’t have to turn in too early.”
“Thursday sounds good.”
“Great. I’ve got to go; break’s over.”
“Say hi to Mrs. Conan for me. Listen, could you, you know, discreetly ask around today, see if anyone’s heard from Reverend Hayden?”
She said she would. They picked a time to meet and Nathan disconnected. Her call was a Godsend, perhaps literally. He checked his calendar for today. He had less than forty-five minutes before he had to drive to the city and make his rounds at the University of Massachusetts Medical Center, then downtown to Saint Vincent’s. He’d make a few calls about Hayden first, then rush through a shower. It would be a full day. There didn’t look to be a break to make it back to Hillcrest until the late afternoon.
Even with everything else going on, Elizabeth’s earlier idea of checking out the Hillcrest Men’s Club still felt like a good one.
Any answers he might garner from a visit would have to wait until tomorrow. He had inked in breakfast at his mother’s house for Thursday morning, hoping to make it a weekly routine. Maybe she could give him some ammunition before he drove across town to confront whatever waited for him behind the club’s front door.
Plans made, he opened the phone directory and looked up Mrs. Lewis’ number. He didn’t have the time to dwell on any more mysteries today. Tomorrow he could dredge it all up again.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Bible study Wednesday night was more crowded than had been usual under the tutelage of Reverend Hayden. Along with Nathan, fifty-six people sat in double circles of folding chairs in the middle of the room. Against one wall stood a long table covered in a white cloth and adorned with plates of cookies and a chocolate cake. Someone had brought two-liter bottles of Sprite and Diet Coke. Mrs. Zawalich had come in earlier to set up the church’s large coffee urn. It gurgled and belched as it slowly drained of steaming coffee. Decaf, however. It never failed to amaze Nathan how the majority of evening meetings provided no decaffeinated drinks. People likely spent hours lying awake in bed afterwards, waiting for the shock of caffeine to leave their systems.
Word had spread of the former pastor’s disappearance, thanks to the few calls made by Nathan that morning. He’d decided to make use of the parish’s prayer chain to spread word to everyone. It carried the news across town, bringing parishioners to the church’s basement. Some had come only to check on the status of the search, of which there had been no further word. Others came to pray for his safety and well-being. Nathan was grateful to see them all. It was important to maintain consistency by not canceling the study tonight. Not enough people looked to God’s word for guidance, relying too much instead on sermons. A preacher may be a good speaker, even dynamic and charismatic, but in the end, all
he or she did was to present the Word from one person’s perspective. It was all within these pages, as long you looked and listened to the messages they offered.
Like last night. Whether what he’d read about Solomon or his wives had anything to do with his private mystery in town, he did not know. He’d find out when he needed to.
This was the first study that Nathan would lead. He decided to do a little research. It didn’t feel quite like manipulating the study for personal reasons. Using the passage provided to him last night, he hoped for insight from the congregation. He chose the same passage from Kings, and talk moved invariably to those of faith who so often stray from their worship of God, to idols and other “gods” which most in the group agreed were demons of great seductive power.
After talk had progressed a few minutes, Nathan asked if anyone had heard of Chemosh or Molech. He wished the day hadn’t been so busy, for he would have liked to have done some detailed research ahead of time. A teenaged girl he recognized as one of the more active in the youth ministry, Jaylene he thought her name was, raised her hand.
“I did a report once on Old Testament deities—the darker ones, I mean. Chemosh doesn’t ring a bell, but that other guy does... guy, or thing, whatever,” she said, shrugging. “I’m pretty sure he’s the one the Ammonites sacrificed their first born children to.” A few murmurs of disgust, mostly from the younger members. She added, “He’s one of the oldest, too. Even got a mention in the Laws of Moses. Somewhere in Deuteronomy, or maybe Leviticus. I get those two mixed up a lot.”
Seeing the interest her answer received from the group, Jaylene continued. “They actually burned them. Tossed them inside the mouth of a statue that was on fire, or something like that. Pretty gross!”
More murmurs all around. Nathan forced his dry throat to swallow. During the discussion he had begun to suspect some association with what he’d seen and felt in his earlier nightmares, but hearing it spoken still sent a chill through him. Rather than help to clarify anything, her answer only served up more questions. He wanted to press, but others had begun a thread regarding human sacrifice within the Old Testament, citing the common story of Abraham bringing his son to the mountain for a sacrifice to God. A blind following of God’s will for no other reason than that He said to follow.
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