Solomon's Grave

by Daniel G. Keohane

  “You have to go now. Go to the men’s club, and when you get there you will want to be there. Mingle. You have something very important to talk about with Peter Quinn. Wait there until he arrives. You will believe you are going to work until you are about to reach the highway. Is that understood?”

  The man’s voice sounded strained. Art decided he must be a new hire. Hopefully the visit wouldn’t take too long. “Fine. See you in a little bit.” He hung up. “You heard?” he asked Beverly.

  She was wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I heard. Will it take long?”

  Art grabbed his sneakers beside the back door and sat in a kitchen chair to put them on. “Not at all. The guy’s just new, doesn’t know what he’s doing, or which jobs have what priority, I guess. I should be back in less than an hour.”

  “Promise you’ll come right home?”

  He pictured the HMC storefront. He needed to tell Quinn something. But at the moment he couldn’t remember what it was. It could wait until tomorrow, worst case. He got up and grabbed a jacket from the closet.

  “Promise.”

  Before he could leave, Beverly was beside him and touching his arm. He turned around and found himself in her strong embrace. He returned it, wishing for a moment that he’d told the guy to ignore the problem and wait until morning.

  He could still do that.

  No. This was important. He’d be back soon. He gave his wife another prolonged squeeze, then kissed her slowly on the lips. “I’ll be right back.” He patted his coat pocket, felt a bulge. “I’ve got my cell if you need to reach me.”

  Beverly looked like she was going to cry. He thought he understood. He’d been spending so much time at the men’s club, and for what? The rift between them was only getting larger. That would change. He walked outside and got into his car. Backing from the driveway, he wondered why he was spending so much time there. A bunch of guys, some no older than Nate, playing cards and drinking. What was the point?

  He drove street to street, heading for Interstate 190. As he neared the on-ramp he flipped on the directional. What was he doing? He wasn’t going to work, not at this hour. He drove past the ramp and continued across town. He needed to get to the club. It would be the last time, though, for a long time. Maybe ever. Beverly needed him home. He would swing by and talk to Quinn. This was important, and had to be discussed tonight. Then he’d come home and stay home. Maybe this weekend he’d go with her to church, watch Nate.

  The thought filled him with immeasurable pride.

  The strip mall loomed ahead. The lights of the convenience store shone two doors down from the ethereal glow of the HMC’s whitewashed windows. The rest of the storefronts were dark. He tried to remember what it was he wanted to tell Quinn. No matter. It was important and it’d come back to him, in time.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Nathan kept his face calm, but inside he was screaming. His mind reeled with so many facts, Tarretti’s fantastic story among them. It fit too neatly. He’d prayed for God to show him what the dreams meant, what was happening with his father. The visit to the HMC this morning revealed a shocking association between them.

  Now, Vincent’s intense interest in his father and the cult was like a physical blow. Tarretti and his predecessors, if his story was to be believed, had been hiding the Ark of the Covenant from a group of Old Testament Ammonites—a name which Peter Quinn made a point of dropping in their earlier conversation.

  To the apparent disgust of Elizabeth, he told the caretaker about his visit with Quinn. When he was done, Tarretti was pale. The man stood so abruptly, Nathan leaned reflexively back in his chair. Johnson rose and moved to his master’s side, assuming something was about to happen.

  “The flowers in the graveyard,” Vincent said, turning in a half circle toward the front room then, as if remembering something, turning back. He picked out the topmost notebook from the stack in the box. “Entry 818,” he mumbled. “Here, see?” He held it out. Nathan caught a quick glimpse of messy hand-scratch in blue pen before Vincent pulled it away to look at it himself again, running his fingers along the edge of the page. “They know. They know where it is. Reverend Hayden. Oh God, I’d suspected it myself but I checked...” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sounding and looking as if his tether had finally come loose.

  Nathan got up from his chair, slowly, and stood beside Elizabeth. She gave him a look that said, See? What’d I tell you?

  “Quinn,” Vincent continued. “He or someone working with him. They killed Pastor Hayden.”

  Nathan’s heart skipped a beat. All he could think to say in reply was, “What?”

  Again, Vincent turned the notebook toward him. “See? Here. I wrote that Quinn made a point to mention Hayden was leaving. That’s how I knew to stop by the church that morning. I wondered how the guy knew... he knew because he thought Ralph was leaving with the Ark. Only a priest can move it. Don’t you see?”

  Elizabeth lashed out with her right arm and knocked the notebook away. Pages flapped as the book tumbled against the wall beside the back door. “That... is... enough!” Using the same hand, she backslapped Vincent’s face. He stumbled back. Johnson, already cowed by Elizabeth’s earlier assertiveness, simply watched and whimpered.

  Tarretti put a hand to his face and glared. Nathan steeled himself, knowing he was going to have to fight to protect her, now.

  “I don’t expect you to believe what I’m saying, Miss. You were not the one to whom God has given the signs.”

  Elizabeth was breathing hard, trying not to cry—but in rage rather than sorrow. His last statement had unwittingly struck a nerve with her.

  Nathan stood between them. He had to balance what Elizabeth stood for—worldly rationale, logic—and what Tarretti was saying, which in anyone else’s mind, including Elizabeth’s, would sound like madness.

  It was time, right now, to take a stand one way or the other. He hoped Elizabeth would understand.

  He faced Tarretti. “Those people you told us about, the ones you say have been hunting this thing for thousands of years. You’re telling me they’re the Hillcrest Men’s Club? The group my dad belongs to?”

  Still holding his cheek, Tarretti nodded. “It’s the only answer. And no, they are not the whole organization. I can’t imagine they’re a very large group. Maybe a couple of hundred people around the world, all told. For the most part, they’re nothing more than common thugs. Well-connected, but petty criminals when it comes down to it. More organized crime than any sort of established religion. But that’s the crazy part.” When he said this, Elizabeth offered an exasperated laugh. “After all this time, neither side knows very much about the other. Knowing anything would mean getting too close. They may number a dozen, or a thousand. But for our side, as far as I know, there’s only been one at a time.”

  Looking for a moment at Nathan and Elizabeth, he added, “Three, now.”

  “Don’t you dare count me or Nate in your little delusion.”

  “My father is not a demon worshipper.”

  “Perhaps not.” Vincent lowered his hand to reveal a fading red blemish on his face. “He might only be part of the camouflage Quinn has laid around himself. It’s been done before.” He gestured to the box. “It’s all in there.”

  “Nate...”

  “Wait. Vincent, you want me to drop everything I’m doing, turn my back on my calling, my church, and... do what?”

  Vincent stepped forward. When Elizabeth moved to intercept, he stopped her with a look filled with such loathing she stopped. She was temperamental and protective, but Nathan knew she wasn’t stupid. Tarretti was not going to let her get in his way again.

  “Reverend Dinneck, I believe God wants you to take the Ark of the Covenant and its contents and leave this town. Forever. You must disappear, trust in the Spirit to guide you to a new location. Of the three of us, only you can even touch the relic. This has been the case throughout history. Many men have died testing it.”

  Nathan looked at
the strongbox. “You’re saying Quinn went after Pastor Hayden because he thought an eighty-year-old man was running away with a gold-laden chest the size of a hatchback car?”

  Vincent began to speak, caught himself, then only said, “It’s not that big.”

  The kitchen was quiet. All three of them stood facing each other. Johnson hunkered warily between them. Nathan took in a deep breath and said, “Take me to the gravesite and show me what’s inside. I’m not agreeing to do anything you say, but if what you’re saying is true, then this would be the next natural step.”

  “Agreed.” At that Tarretti became more animated, bending down to pick up his notebook from the floor. He straightened a bend in the cover then placed it reverently into the box.

  If what Tarretti said was true, Nathan would never see Elizabeth again.

  No. She could always go with you.

  He shook his head reflexively. What was he thinking? Elizabeth was probably right. The man was crazy and Nathan’s own problems were clouding his judgment.

  “Nate, you can’t go with him. Think about what you’re going to do. Go into a graveyard in the middle of the night with someone who thinks he’s Indiana Jones.” Her hands were on his shoulder. Tarretti stood in the kitchen doorway with the box in his hand, waiting. “Nate,” she continued, “listen to what I’m saying. A graveyard… in the middle of the night.” She lowered her voice even further. “He’s nuts. You have to know that. He killed Hayden and now he’s going to kill you.”

  “Maybe,” he whispered back. “But you have to remember you haven’t seen what I’ve seen. You didn’t have those dreams or experience what happened this morning.”

  She turned away and said, loudly, “Oh, just forget it. You two are going to run off and play Hardy Boys no matter what I say. And you!” She walked up to Tarretti and jabbed a finger into his chest. He did not flinch. “I’m coming, too, and if you try anything—anything!—I’m going to kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She jabbed him again. “I’m serious!”

  He reached up and bent her hand back so quickly the pain didn’t reach her brain until he said, “And if you jab that finger at my chest one more time, I’ll break your wrist. Do you understand me?”

  He didn’t wait for her reply. He released her and said to Nathan, “Sorry, Pastor. Please follow me so I can show you where I hide this. Just in case.”

  He turned and walked toward the bedroom. Nathan, despite the terror and confusion of the night, walked past Elizabeth and whispered, “You’re cute when you’re angry.”

  She swore in reply, but stayed in the kitchen absently scratching Johnson behind the ears.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Roger Quinn speaking. This had better be good.”

  “Uncle Roger, this is Peter. Did I wake you?”

  “Why are you calling me so late?”

  Over all these years, Peter could never remember his uncle answering a call with a simple hello. He always made it seem your call was the most inconvenient thing that ever happened to him. Peter switched the cell phone from his left to right ear, as if to block the conversation from Josh Everson. The boy was sitting in the passenger seat staring blankly out through the windshield. It was a relief speaking to his uncle without worrying about controlling his voice. Of course, he expected the conversation to be unpleasant. It always was.

  “Things are happening, Uncle. If I’m not mistaken, they’re going to happen quickly.”

  Roger Quinn sighed over the phone. “You’re often mistaken, Peter. What sort of things are we talking about now?”

  Peter felt the familiar twinge of fear and guilt in his stomach. He felt this way every time his uncle spoke to him – always in a disappointed, mean-spirited way. He’d been the man’s best disciple, learned quickly, eagerly, yet never had he received an actual compliment. Before the mess in Chicago, he hadn’t thought Uncle Roger’s derision toward him could be any worse. He’d been wrong.

  Whether this man liked it or not, things were going to change. At the moment, Peter was grateful he’d kept the murder of Hayden to himself. He’d been wrong about the old preacher, and his tenuous standing in the organization would have been utterly destroyed if they found out what happened.

  “The Ark, sir. I’m almost certain they’re going to try and move it tonight.”

  “You don’t even know it’s there.”

  “It is.” He used his shoulder to hold the phone against his ear as he took a sharp left onto Lexington Street. “And yes, I know that the gravesite might be a ruse. There might be nothing in there but a note laughing at our stupidity. But whether it’s there or not, the new minister and Tarretti are having a clandestine meeting at the caretaker’s house right now. I told you this afternoon how Dinneck reacted to the painting. Something’s up. I’m driving to the old cemetery to keep an eye on the grave.”

  “It’s the caretaker you should be watching.”

  “We are, Uncle. He won’t make a move without me knowing about it.”

  A long silence over the phone. Peter drove past Greenwood Cemetery and glanced into the dark parking lot. In the passing glow of his headlights, he saw no car. That was good. He slowed and looked for an inconspicuous place to park.

  “All right,” Roger said at last. Gone was the weary tone of a moment before. It would be the only sign of encouragement Peter would get. “We have a person in New Hampshire. I’ll give him a call, tell him to head down. You’ll put him up in your place for as long as you need him. I’m not doing anything else until you call me back with more. I’m not wasting more travel money until you’ve got something concrete to show me.”

  Ahead, there were three houses in a row, all with their lights off. Peter killed the headlights and coasted to a stop at the edge of the first house’s property, close enough to the driveway to give the appearance it belonged there.

  “Thank you, Uncle. With any luck, I’ll be calling you again tonight.”

  “I won’t hold my breath. And, Peter?”

  He turned off the engine, watching the curtains in the house’s windows for any sign he was being checked out. “Yes, Uncle?”

  “Don’t kill anyone this time, please.”

  Too late for that. “Of course not.” He disconnected and turned to Josh. “Mister Everson.”

  Josh looked at him sleepily. “Yes?”

  “We’re going to take a walk. Please follow me, and leave your door open when you get out.” He reached toward the dash and deactivated the dome light. From the glove compartment, he produced a black knit cap. A bit early in the season, but better than letting his white mane be a beacon. It should provide enough camouflage. He got out of the car, closed his door, then Josh’s as quietly as possible. He waited. Nothing changed with any of the darkened homes.

  “Follow me, quietly.” Together they walked back along Greenwood Street. Josh had to trot to keep up with Quinn’s hurried pace.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Vincent saw Nathan looking around the bedroom for a light switch and quickly said, “Keep the light off, please. There’s a chance the house is being watched.”

  Nathan dropped his arm but remained in the doorway. Vincent had obliged him by at least turning on the small hallway light on the way in. Light spilled into the bedroom, casting the minister’s shadow over the unmade twin-sized bed and dresser. There was enough light to reveal the opening in the floor. Vincent began to replace the box, then hesitated. Something else was in there, something he’d taken out only twice in thirty years. He reached down and lifted the item, wrapped in a light blue shammy cloth. When he laid it down on the floor beside the hole it made a metallic clunk.

  “I keep the box here,” he said, hoping to bring Dinneck’s attention away from the other package. “The board is loose. You have to take the box with you when you leave town.”

  Nathan whispered, “I never agreed to leave, Mister Tarretti. You know that.”

  Vincent nodded
in the darkness. “Yeah, I know, you said that. Still, don’t leave it behind.” He put the box into the hole. There was no basement in the house, only a foot-deep sub-flooring. Years earlier, either Ruth Lieberman, or someone living here before, had partitioned the sub floor, creating this makeshift “safe.” Three sections of hardwood flooring were sealed together to make the door. He replaced it now and slid the dog’s fur-covered bed over it.

  When he rose, he left the second package where it lay, partially covered by the dog bed. Elizabeth already thought him a mad man; it wouldn’t help him to let her know he was also armed with a nine-millimeter automatic. On the two occasions he’d removed it from the floor, he’d brought it to a pistol range in Worcester, making sure it still worked. Both times he cleaned it before returning it to its hiding place. Once a year he bought a fresh box of nine millimeter rounds and replaced the box in his bottom drawer. He’d prayed he would never have to use it, but he felt better knowing he’d have it tonight.

  He waved the minister into the hall. Nathan did not move. Instead he said, “Vincent, listen. Let’s say you’re right about all this. When you said only priests can move the Ark, I assume you don’t mean just Catholic priests.”

  The question was innocent enough, but Vincent was nonetheless surprised Dinneck was naïve enough to ask it. “Of course not, Reverend. In the days of Solomon, there was no such entity as the Catholic church, or Christians in any form. In this context, priest simply means one ordained by God. In the days of the king, these were usually Levites. Today, well, priests come in all forms. Come on now, we should be moving.”

  Before they left the hall, Vincent took his windbreaker from the closet. In the kitchen, Elizabeth hadn’t moved, except to continue giving Johnson scratches. The dog sat beside her, tongue hanging out joyfully. When he saw Vincent with his jacket he wagged his tail and ran to him.

  “No, Boy,” Vincent whispered. “We’re not going anywhere yet, and when we do, you have to stay put. Going to be hard enough sneaking out without you jumping all over the place.”