Solomon's Grave (3 page)

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.

Chapter Five

The coffee was instant. Hayden apologized for the inconvenience, as he was a tea drinker and never had the need for a coffee maker in the rectory. “And no matter who you are, don’t think I’ll drag up one of those missile silos they use downstairs after services just for one cup.”

They sat in the pastor’s small but comfortable living room, adorned with photos of Ralph and Jean Hayden, highlights of the couple’s life together. The Haydens had no children. Nathan never knew if this was by choice. Seeing the many tributes to his wife around the room, Nathan felt a pang of sorrow that the man had no other family now except for the people of the church. It appeared to be more than enough for him.

Over the course of the day they’d briefly gone through the books in the office, his new pastoral schedule and a quick background on current patients who needed visitations at hospitals and nursing homes. Hayden wanted as much minutiae covered before news of Nathan’s arrival spread. They’d have less private time after today.

After a supper of meatloaf, broccoli, and potatoes heated in the microwave—precooked meals were supplied each week by two elderly parishioners—they’d settled upstairs. Hayden’s eyes drooped. It was nearing nine-thirty. He was obviously an early sleeper. He sipped his tea and said, “I’ve been blessed these years to have such a caring congregation, especially since Jean passed on. Having a new pastor after so long with the same shepherd isn’t an easy thing for people to adjust to. Shakes up the parish. Seeing as how you’re someone a lot of people know, the transition might be a little easier. Just try to forget that some in your flock have seen you wearing diapers.”

Nathan smiled and sipped his coffee, hoping no one pictured him that way when he gave his sermon.

“I have to say,” Hayden continued, “I was always proud of your decision. Today’s kids get so caught up in the world, even when their faith is strong. Choosing to serve God as you have seems rare.”

Nathan agreed. All his life, his own calling had never been questioned, neither by his parents nor himself. He’d always felt a burning to give his life to the church. Maybe he hadn’t always known in what capacity that would come—who
did,
when they were young? By high school, he knew his direction. His classmates made college plans, having only vague images of what they’d do with their lives. Whenever Nathan was asked what he planned after graduation, his reply never changed.
I’m going to earn a Masters of Divinity and become ordained,
run my own church someday, somewhere
.

Most would laugh and say,
No, seriously
. Except for his best friend Josh Everson who would nod, expecting no other answer. Even Elizabeth, aside from an occasional but loving jab, never tried to convince him otherwise. In those years she had enough influence in his world that questioning his decision could have changed his path forever. The fact that, in the end, he took this path without her, was a hurt only slightly lessened over the past few years.

The old man was staring with his usual intensity. Nathan raised his eyebrows inquisitively as he sipped the last of his coffee.

Hayden’s gaze softened. “It’s good to see you again, Nate. It’s a rare thing to have a pastor emerge from one’s own parish. I couldn’t have asked for a better way to retire from God’s service.” He looked down then, not saying what Nathan assumed he was thinking. Retiring with the woman he’d loved beside him would have been one alternative. For the first time, Nathan saw vulnerability on the old man’s face.

He cleared his throat and whispered, “Do we ever truly retire from His service, Reverend?”

Hayden chuckled. “No. No, I suppose not. Even so, over the next couple of weeks, I trust you’ll pay attention.” Back to business, his voice stronger. “I’ve reserved a cell in the Christ The King monastery a few towns away, in Leicester, a sort of devotional vacation for lack of a better term.” He smirked. “Basically getting myself out of your hair for a while to let you get established. I think after whatever introduction I can offer you or the parish these next two weeks, I’ll just be in the way.”

“You won’t be in the way,” Nathan said. “Please, stay as long—”

Again the hand cut off his words. “I already have. Time for me to step aside before I start drooling all over the pulpit. You’ll have enough to keep you busy without worrying about me every day. Besides, this old place isn’t big enough for both of us. When we go over the books in more detail, I’ll show you the separate account the elders set up for me. It covers rent of a room on Grazen Street for when I get back from the monastery, plus a stipend for food, et cetera. And the fine ladies who fed you tonight have already insisted on continuing to cook their wonderful meals for me.”

Nathan laughed at the man’s smug grin. “So,” he said, “you’re taking the cooking staff with you.”

Another dismissive wave of his hand, and Hayden used the ensuing lapse in conversation to excuse himself to bed. He directed Nathan to the couch in the living room where a pull-out bed was hidden beneath the cushions. It would be his bedroom for the next two weeks.

Nathan returned downstairs alone. He quietly wandered among the rooms, eventually finding himself at the entrance to the church-proper. This section of the house—taking up two-thirds of the overall building—was the reason for Hayden’s abbreviated living quarters. Here, the church hall rose the full two stories, looking too big to fit into the house when viewed from outside, an illusion caused by the tall stained glass windows in the front and outside walls. A spacious, calm setting. Standing with the hallway leading into the kitchen behind him, Nathan reached out and touched the edge of the sanctuary railing on his right, but did not step all the way into the church. Everything smelled and looked as he remembered from his childhood. The small altar resting against the back wall, the similarly understated podium nearer the pews. With only the light from the hall behind him, he could not make out any details of the stained glass. Come morning, the room would glow with an inspiring brilliance.