Keohane, G. - Solomon's Grave

“Tarretti has visitors. Guess who?”

“No.”

“OK, OK. The new preacher-man. Dinneck. Art’s boy. And he brought his girlfriend.”

Peter checked his watch. A bit late for a visit. He decided not to ask about the “girlfriend.”

“Details please.”

Paulson’s car was parked in the access road running alongside the main cemetery, out of sight from the street. The road was used for driving in the town’s backhoe when digging new graves. He told Peter about the arrival of Nathan and Elizabeth, and how they were quickly ushered in to Tarretti’s dark house. The fact that the house remained mostly dark rang a warning bell in Peter’s head. Secrecy , it said. Clandestine meeting .

Perhaps the authorities had finally found Hayden’s corpse. Peter had left the old man’s body where it had fallen, far into the woods at the edge of the monastery’s property. He did not want to carry it in his trunk, too much risk of leaving DNA traces. When the preacher was found, Peter hoped it would send a signal to Tarretti, perhaps make him move.

Apparently it had.

The time was close.

Or , he thought, the time is now.

“Manny, stay there. If they leave, call me. No matter what, stay on Tarretti. Don’t move unless he moves. Got it?”

“You’re the boss.”

“Yes, Mister Paulson, I am. I’m going to head over to Greenwood Street Cemetery. If they make a move tonight, it’ll be to go there.”

“You ever going to tell me why that grave is so interesting?”

No , Peter thought. Or maybe I will, before I put a bullet into your head for your disrespect . “If I’m not mistaken, you’ll find out soon enough. Stay put and watch the house.”

He disconnected. An idea occurred to him. He hit the speed dial for the Dinneck house. As the phone rang, he looked down at Josh Everson. He thought. Everything’s coming together . Everson might prove more useful than he had already.

“Hello?” Beverly Dinneck’s voice. Peter silently cursed.

“Mrs. Dinneck,” he said. “I apologize for calling so late. This is Raymond George from operations. Art’s program has a problem and I need to speak with him. It is a very important program; otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered you.” He was uncertain if he’d used the correct jargon, but this woman likely wouldn’t understand it any more than he. He had to get her husband on the phone.

“One second,” she said. “Art...?” The phone was placed onto a table, the sound clunking in Peter’s ear.

“Disconnect your computer,” he said to Josh while he waited, hearing the couple’s conversation in the distance over the phone line. “We’re going out.”

Josh clicked his browser closed as Art Dinneck’s tired voice came onto the phone. “Art Dinneck.”

Peter moved into the apartment’s living room as he spoke, so the boy beside him wouldn’t overhear and think the words were directed at him. Using the Voice over the phone took a somewhat more focused control. Over the years, it had become second nature when talking in person. Now, even with the clear reception afforded by his digital phone service, it took more concentration and control.

“Art Dinneck, listen carefully. The person you are speaking to is Raymond George, who works with you.”

Chapter Forty-Three

As Tarretti told Nathan and Elizabeth his tale, adding as much detail as possible, save a few important facts that needed to wait a while longer, the couple moved back across the kitchen and sat in the two chairs. Johnson returned to his perch under the table and worked his long legs between their feet. When Vincent realized his constant pacing was a distraction, he paused in his story long enough to pull a metal folding chair from the closet at the front of the house. He sat near Nathan, chair turned backwards so he could lean forward.

The woman’s presence still bothered him—he’d gone over this conversation in his head hundreds of times but imagined it being with only one person. The recipient of the tale was always a faceless being in his mind, his eventual successor. But she seemed genuinely close to Dinneck. In any event, she was involved now, and he would have to trust her. He would have to trust God. Especially now, when time no longer seemed on their side.

He told them of his past, abbreviating only those facts not applicable to the moment or still too painful to discuss. He felt naked before these two. Was he failing in his mission by sharing this? Was he saying the right words? What if he couldn’t convince them?

When this doubt crept in, he remembered his own attitude decades before, and Ruth Lieberman’s frailty. He remembered how in the end the Lord stepped in to make her words too strong to refute. The vision in the bar.

And now, Reverend Dinneck’s dreams.

There couldn’t be any doubt. The fact that Dinneck was also a minister emphasized the urgency of their situation. Vincent was healthy, at least he thought so, and there would be no use in choosing a minister-successor unless the prize needed to be moved to a new location.

He told them about his flight back to Massachusetts with the old woman, settling in, and answering the ad that had been placed for the new caretaker. Ruth had explained her health issues with the town selectmen before leaving for California, and asked them to place the ad as soon as possible. His timing was good, and came with a reference directly from her. She claimed Vincent as a distant, and reliable, cousin. The selectmen had been willing to put the issue to bed quickly, and there had been no one in the wings waiting for the position. They appointed him with no objections offered at the next selectmen’s meeting.

In the following weeks, the two shared this house. Vincent took possession of the couch much like Nathan had done in the church. Ruth handed over the strongbox and its contents. Three days before her declining health forced her into the hospital, she brought him into Greenwood Street Cemetery. It had been after midnight when they opened the crypt and she revealed what lay inside.

Nathan Dinneck seemed affected by this part of the story especially, though the caretaker could not help noticing the mocking smile his girlfriend had been trying to keep from her face.

Vincent stood up and stretched. “I need to show you—both of you, I guess—something important. I’ll be right back.” He walked from the room, around the corner and into his bedroom. He left the light off, becoming more certain as the night progressed that someone was watching the house. The feeling had begun around the time Hayden had left town. At first he’d written it off—and written it down in his ledger, entry 819 —as paranoia. The night Dinneck called to say Hayden had disappeared, he no longer thought it was just his imagination.

He knelt beside the bed after moving Johnson’s rug aside and worked a finger into the slight indentation in the boards where once there had been a knot. He hesitated. Next to the treasure in John Solomon’s grave, the strongbox had been his most secret possession. Bringing it out, letting eyes other than his own see its contents, seemed such a final act of transition.

He removed the board, but folded his hands against his chest.

God, please guide my hands and my mind. Everything is happening, everything seems right. After so many, many years, how can I be certain? What if I go back there and they’re gone? What if they’re the enemy ?

No answer. Of course not. He’d made his conclusions already and there could be no mistake. Maybe he was dragging his feet because he didn’t know his own role in the coming events—if he had one. If he could convince these people of the truth, they might take the treasure and leave. Vincent could move on. Maybe go back to school after all these years, earn a degree, become ordained and serve in some new capacity which did not require so much seclusion.