Keohane, G. - Solomon's Grave

“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.”

“So we’re going to sneak out now, are we?” Elizabeth took Nathan’s hand with the one she’d been using to scratch the dog.

“No, Ma’am. Just me.”

She rolled her eyes, but before she could say anything in reply, Vincent raised his hand. “I don’t want to hear any more arguments. Have your boyfriend drop you off at home if you have a problem with this. I can’t be seen leaving here with you, or they’ll know something’s up. They already killed Pastor Hayden. If they realize Nathan is the one they’re after, then he’s in terrible danger.”

For the moment that stopped her, but her stare became even icier than before. He had hoped that the two of them leaving without him would be enough to appease her. Give her a chance to convince Dinneck to change his mind. It didn’t matter. Nathan had been chosen by God and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it. He would be there, if for no other reason than to finally have answers.