Solomon's Grave

They know, Vincent thought. Who knows? A bunch of drunks? It’s a nice gesture. He doesn’t seem like a bad guy, honestly.

God, give me clarity of thought again.

He composed himself, forced his breathing to a measured rhythm, then mirrored Quinn’s act of leaning back in his chair. Whether or not his paranoia was finally boiling over, Vincent couldn’t afford to let down his guard. Specifically, he had to act normal!

“That’s a kind gesture, to be sure,” he said, feeling his face flushing and hoping the man didn’t notice. “But, I mean, the Boy Scouts generally do that. It’s a merit badge requirement.”

Quinn looked thoughtful, nodded his head once. “Yes, I’d thought that might be the case. However, they usually do so on Veterans Day. That won’t be for another two months. By then, any tokens we might leave would need replacing anyway.” Another smile. There was something odd about the man’s voice. Vincent’s ears itched. He was just being stupid. Daft.

The man’s argument had merit, though. Saying “no” would make no sense under any other circumstance. Asking too many additional questions would risk too much, especially if his long-feared enemies were close. He doubted it. How could they know?

The grave is marked John Solomon, not Enrique Jorgenson, don’t forget. There are twin cherubim hovering over its crypt. Of course they could figure it out, if they happened to stumble upon it. He wondered, not for the first time, at the thinking, or lack of thought, behind such an obvious clue to leave in public.

Forgive me, Father. I do not want to question you.

The man before him was patient. He sat, hands on his lap and open like the sacrificial statue of Molech....

Stop it! Vincent scolded himself.

“819” coming right up.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said quickly. “Any chance we have to honor our veterans is welcome. Was there a particular day you were thinking of?” He wanted this man to leave, leave, leave and let him go inside.

Calm. You’re doing fine. I am always with you.

He couldn’t place the verse, if it was a verse, especially not the You’re doing fine part. Its effect was soothing nevertheless.

Quinn finally moved those placating hands off his lap and said, “Thank you. There is a bit of planning, ordering the flowers, et cetera. Why don’t we just leave the date open-ended? Sometime this month, make it a surprise.”

Was that a threat? No, everything is fine. I’m doing fine. Vincent offered another neutral nod and got to his feet.

“Fair enough. Thanks for coming by.”

“It was my pleasure.” Quinn stood and offered a perfunctory hand shake. After walking down the two steps of the porch, he turned around as if having remembered something.

“Oh,” he said, “I also understand the minister of the Baptist church is leaving town a week from tomorrow. Retiring, is he?”

Vincent furrowed his brows, feeling the weight of the statement, leaving town. Was Hayden leaving that soon? He nodded, but said nothing.

“A pity to lose such a holy man, as I understand from Mr. Dinneck. Art Dinneck, I mean. I understand Reverend Hayden will be spending time in a monastery.”

In fact, Vincent had no idea where Hayden was planning on going. He’d thought the man was moving into an apartment somewhere in town. “What Reverend Hayden does is really none of my business.”

Quinn nodded and looked down for a moment, muttering, “No, I suppose it’s none of my business, either. Still,” he added, looking back up with those clear blue eyes, “he deserves a rest after such a long time serving the town. I should offer my congratulations on his retirement but, well, I don’t really know the man.” He shrugged, smiled, and gave Vincent a perfunctory wave before walking to his car. He didn’t look back toward the house.

As the car drove down the road, Vincent felt exhausted, like he’d just caught the flu. At least his ears had stopped itching. Their short discussion about the flowers had shaken him, but this last part of the conversation— added more as an after-thought by the stranger—was confusing.

Hayden was leaving town. If there was a threat to what lay under Greenwood Street Cemetery, it would need to be moved. The words of the prior caretaker came back to him. Neither you nor I, Ruth had said, are allowed to move it. We are caretakers only. Even from the earliest days of Moses and Solomon, only the Lord’s priests may touch it, move it to a new location.

He had stood within that musty, claustrophobic crypt only once, but he had felt, almost tasted, the power emanating all around him. His skin had crawled with goose bumps, the air vibrating into his bones. It was enough of a demonstration to prove that his charge was the genuine article. Not so much the vessel itself, but what it contained. Enough to keep him almost thirty years above ground protecting them from a millennia-old group of demon worshippers who still, on occasion, referred to themselves as Ammonites.

Only priests could move it to a new location. Men and women ordained by God. Baptist ministers, for example.

Peter Quinn had made a point to mention Reverend Hayden’s departure. The man’s tone implied that Vincent should have known the date. Again the words leaving town struck him as significant. Vincent had focused on Dinneck; his arrival coinciding so well with the sense of doom pervading every corner of his own life. The young man had a sudden and apparent interest in John Solomon’s grave, or at least the statues. His arrival in town may have, in fact, meant nothing. What was significant was the departure of Ralph Hayden.

It didn’t feel like the right explanation, but logic pointed there. Not that logic always played a part in the Lord’s plan. Only truth.

Regardless, the time may well be at hand. He would make his entries, right away, then pray on them. He needed to be sure, certain in every respect. When the time came, it would be made clear to him. Until then, there was not much he could do but wait.

Chapter Thirteen

The soup was hot, but its burn sharpened his senses. Nathan took three spoonfuls before looking up to face Pastor Hayden. The old man sat at the far end of the small kitchen table, leaning back in his chair. Beverly Dinneck sat in another, her hands trembling as if to catch Nathan’s spoon arm should it suddenly drop.

“Feeling a little better, Reverend?” Hayden asked. Nathan tried to find a hint of anger or frustration in his voice, but heard only concern.

He nodded, and took another spoonful of soup. He cleared his throat a moment later, when he realized the others were waiting for him to say something.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Beverly grabbed his arm. Small drops of soup spilled back into the bowl. “Don’t you dare apologize, Nathan. You were exhausted. Mrs. Stanton said so. That is, after she calmed her boys down.” She smiled, though it was a sad expression. “You gave them a scare.”

“Gave us all a scare,” Hayden said. “We thought we’d lost our new pastor after only one day.” He leaned forward in the chair. “Have you been sleeping well?”

Nathan shrugged. “I think so. I’d been having some vivid nightmares lately, but I wrote them off to nerves. In fact, I’ve had only one since arriving here. Except… well, nothing. Felt like I was dreaming at the reception before I... fainted.”

Hayden nodded and thought for a moment, the wrinkles in his face twisting. “Well, the EMTs said that you were fine. It looked like simple exhaustion, so there’s a good chance you were dreaming just then. Passed out on your feet.”