Keohane, G. - Solomon's Grave

“Turn off the light a moment,” Quinn whispered.

“What?”

A little louder, “Turn it off.”

With a click, they were cast in darkness, save for the glow of one streetlight shining through the stained glass windows. A glow, faint, like a child’s glow-stick the day after trick-or-treat, emanated from beneath Vincent Tarretti. Nathan blinked. He struggled to find a thought that fit what he was seeing. The light wasn’t really there. That made no sense.

He cleared his throat, needing to break the silence. He knew, with no more doubt, that Vincent had been telling the truth. Perhaps not the entire truth, as evidenced by the false Ark, but he knew what lay beneath the man’s body. It was what these people had been after. At least part of it.

God, what do I do ?

The flashlight lit the scene again, this time in the grip of Quinn himself. His voice was breathy, as if in the throes of passion. “Move the body, now. Carefully! Do not touch the package beneath him.”

Manny Paulson looked incredulous. “You’re not serious. You think I didn’t see that? I can hear something, too. Something’s not right here.”

“Do it, or I’ll have Mister Everson shoot you in the heart. Let’s see if you last as long as Tarretti did.”

Paulson looked over at the other three. He seemed about to say something else, perhaps suggest one of them do the job, but apparently decided against it. With Quinn keeping the light shining toward the podium, Paulson stepped forward.

Nathan looked away a moment, and almost jumped in surprise. Sitting in the fourth pew, a serene expression on his face, sat Art Dinneck.

Nathan whispered, “Dad?”

“Not another word, Dinneck,” said Quinn, his voice losing some of its earlier awe. He kept his eyes riveted on his assistant. Paulson reached down and gripped Vincent’s bloody shoulder as Quinn added, “Not another sound.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

The Red Sox were down by three runs in the second inning. It was still early. The crowd eagerly cheered for the new batter. Beside Art, Paulson took a bite of his hot dog and said nothing. In the man’s silence, Art felt obliged also not to speak. Manny had said something to that effect, some word or suggestion when they found their seats that told Art it was time to watch the game and keep silent.

The rookie, Baker, was up. The count was two balls, one strike. Lead runner moving from first, a bit too far. He’d better be careful. A homerun right now would bring them to within one. Art closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sun warm his face.

Dad ?

Nathan loved coming to the games. Now that he was in town, he should call him. Make some amends for all the trouble lately.

He opened his eyes. Paulson took another bite of his hot dog, staring intently at the game. He’d already taken quite a few bites, but there was still a lot left to it. Maybe he’d bought two. Art looked at the cardboard tray on his friend’s lap. Nope, nothing else.

That was weird.

For a moment, Fenway Park was lost in a haze. Art rubbed his eyes. Nathan was standing a few aisles down, looking back at him. This wasn’t the ballpark. He was in church. Everything was dark. For some reason, he wasn’t startled at finding himself first in Boston then Hillcrest. A slow understanding unraveled inside him.

“Nate?” He tried to smile and lift his hand to wave, hoping he could explain what was going on. Fenway Park returned for a moment, then the church. The only constant was Nate standing in front of him.

“Nathan is not here. Be quiet now; the batter’s about to get a double. Just watch the game.” Nathan blinked from existence. The park was back in its full green splendor. Art felt the excitement of the moment filling him. Wild foul ball by Baker. He was staying with it. Something stilled nagged at him, though. Had he just seen Nate? No, of course not. He needed to get some more sleep, daydreaming like this. He was in Fenway Park. His son was in Florida. Working with a parish there—

Nate had come home.

Just his imagination. Baker swung at a low, inside pitch (at least, Art thought that was what was pitched, it was hard to tell from these far-angle bleacher seats). Crack ! A line drive up the middle between second and third base. Everyone screamed. The Orioles’ shortstop dove, missed. The crowd went crazy. Art just smiled.

Hadn’t they been playing the Yankees?

Why couldn’t he just enjoy the game? Beside him, Paulson took another bite of his never-ending hot dog.

The Yankees must have been a different game. Beverly was right. They needed a vacation. He looked down at his seat. Instead of the small plastic chairs, it was wood, like a pew. No, no, these were Fenway seats.

Beverly . He did tell her about the game, didn’t he?

Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong....

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Manny Paulson would gladly have run naked down Main Street rather than grab this dead man’s shoulder. Tarretti’s windbreaker was wet in places, stiff in others with blood in various stages of drying. He used both hands to turn the man over.

“Nate?”

The voice startled him and he turned back toward the pews to see who’d spoken. Apparently everyone else had been surprised by Art Dinneck’s voice, because they were also looking back. Manny felt Tarretti’s body slump away from his grip. Quinn was aiming the flashlight at Dinneck. The man was leaning forward in his seat, eyes still glazed, but he’d spoken his son’s name.

“Mister Dinneck,” came that creepy voice Quinn used too often for Manny’s comfort, “Nathan is not here. Be quiet now; the batter’s going to get a double. Just watch the game.”

Art sat back against the seat, his suddenly troubled expression softening into its earlier, moronic complacency. Manny wondered, not for the first time, how often Quinn pulled that trick on Manny, himself. He assumed he’d remember it, but seeing how Art and the others had been so well-controlled all these months, maybe he wouldn’t.

Quinn shined the light back toward the podium and said, “Let’s hurry this—” and said nothing else.

Manny looked down. One hand still held loosely to Tarretti’s shoulder even though the man’s body lay against the front of the podium.

Tarretti’s eyes were open in narrow slits. He was holding a pistol in his hands.

“God forgive me,” the dead man croaked. The muzzle of the gun flashed and Manny felt a hundred pounds of fist slam into his left hip. The church spun. He forgot where he was, what he’d been doing. He hit a low railing, turned and rolled over it, tried to get out of the way of the car that had hit him.

Heshotme, heshotme .

The room was a strobe of light. Quinn jumped to the floor, the flashlight making a narrow line on the carpet. Enough for Manny to see he’d landed away from the others, resting against the front of the first row of seats.

His hand had gone instinctively to where he’d been punched— shot, I’ve been shot . It came away covered in blood, quickly followed by a river of the stuff pouring from a hole burned into him, just above his thigh. He felt a bigger hole on the side of one buttock.

Back at the podium, Tarretti was not standing up and aiming the final death shot. Instead, the man’s eyes closed, slowly, and the gun fell from his limp hand.

“Help me, Peter,” Manny whispered. “Please.”

* * *

Vincent Tarretti felt the gun slip out of his fingers, then could feel nothing.

Lord Jesus, forgive me for my sins. I’ve tried to protect it. Please, let it have been enough. Forgive me for shooting that man. I didn’t know what else to do. Please take me now. I can’t go any further.