Solomon's Grave

thinking to convert all the texts, but time and routine kept him too busy. Maybe the next person, whomever God chose to replace Vincent some day, might give it a try.

One recurring theme, however, was that it would be best not to tempt fate. Doing so might question God Himself. Vincent was no priest. That left only a few in town who qualified. Father Carelli from Saint Malachy’s, Nathan Dinneck, and Ralph Hayden.

Now Hayden was gone. Vincent had an overwhelming urge to race across town to Greenwood Street, verify —again—that the grave had not been opened. If Hayden was chosen by the Lord to move the treasure, it wasn’t up to Vincent to stop him. He was so old, though, and the grave hadn’t been opened, at least not Monday morning. Vincent thought of Peter Quinn’s interest in the pastor’s departure. It was this interest that prompted Vincent to check on the grave in the first place.

Hayden is a red herring.

The thought felt so true that a renewed sense of urgency took hold. Vincent had spent so long marking every occurrence in town that struck him as out of place. Sometimes his notes covered nothing more bizarre than the Stop ‘N Shop repaving their parking lot. Not once could he remember anything out of the ordinary with Ralph Hayden’s behavior. The man never looked at the gravesite more than any other, never mentioned visions or nightmares.

He looked up suddenly, like someone hearing a sudden noise. But there was no noise save the constant chirrup of the crickets and peepers outside, and the distant roar of a jet on its way to or from Logan Airport.

Nathan Dinneck. Noticing the grave, his dreams—whatever they might be about. So many oddities about this new minister. But Dinneck was coming, not going. Maybe the time for change was not as close as Vincent feared. The looming sense of danger might only be a sign of the final stage. Maybe Dinneck would be the one, but not for another twenty years.

The new men’s club wanted to plant flowers. The white-haired accountant type, Quinn, asked after Hayden. The old man disappeared.

Vincent pounded a closed fist against the table, scattering the forgotten interment forms he’d produced from their folder when Dinneck called. He wished he could pry the nightmares out of that young preacher’s head and examine them. Faith was important, but after having spent so many years protecting what lay in the grave, any new step felt dangerous.

He got up and turned off the lights on his way back to bed. Johnson looked up from his rug and offered a concerned wag of his tail. Vincent would pray for the safety of Reverend Hayden, and wait. There was nothing else to do.

Chapter Thirty

Try as he might, Nathan could not sleep. He sat up on the edge of the bed, then slowly slid from this position onto the floor. He knelt, using the mattress as an ad-hoc prayer bench.

God, he thought, please help me. Am I going mad? This should be a time of great joy, a culmination of everything you’ve given me. He leaned further forward until his forehead pressed against the rumpled comforter. Nothing feels right; it’s become one of those bad dreams where everything goes wrong. Please.

He remained prostrate against the bed for a few minutes more. No rumble of thunder, no sudden inspiration in answer to his questions. He was tired, as tired as the day he’d collapsed in the church hall. Nathan pulled himself up and sat back down on the edge of the mattress. He reached to turn off the bedside lamp, then hesitated.

There were a few Bibles scattered throughout the house. He’d placed his New International Version on the bedside table last night—the first night he’d slept in this room. Nathan always liked having the book handy. Good reading to fall asleep to.

He didn’t know what to look for, what passage might help him see this insane situation in a new light. He pushed his pillow against the headboard and leaned back, staring unfocused and flipped the pages. The word “Solomon” caught his attention, then disappeared in the blur of passages. Nathan stuck his thumb inside, turned pages backward, then forward again, no urgency in his motion.

Solomon’s Wives the heading read.

Tomorrow, Nathan thought.

Read, whispered an almost instinctual voice in his heart. Just this chapter. Closure, then sleep.

Nathan took the suggestion and read the chapter. It was the story of Solomon’s fall from grace, when he chose to worship the false gods of the many wives he kept in foreign lands. In Jerusalem, he built a “high place for Chemosh the detestable god of Moab, and for Molech the detestable god of the Ammonites” and other demons which had their own, unflattering adjectives.

Solomon’s actions had been the final straw. This had become the king’s fall from grace, how he’d lost his throne to God’s wrath. Solomon had put other “gods”, the popular demons of that time, before Him. And paid the price.

Nathan looked up, thought of John Solomon’s grave. He thought of Tarretti again, of his father. Hayden. Too many threads blowing across his mind, not seeming to be related but somehow all feeling as if they should be.

Long past midnight, the questions still raced like gnats, landing just long enough to bite, then vanishing again. The lamp remained on as he slid into sleep, the book open on his lap.

He did not dream, save vague recollections of flashing images as his brain tried to sort things out while his body regenerated. When he opened his eyes, the sun was shining through the windows. He lay on top on the comforter, never having gotten under the sheets. What day was it? Wednesday. Perhaps he should stay here, not face the day. It seemed a good idea. He’d overslept anyway. The clock read nine thirty-four. He must have appointments for the day, but stay in bed, he told himself. Maybe it would all go away on its own.

A muffled shrill broke the reverie. The cell phone, still in his pants pocket. He considered ignoring it, but knew he could not. He was pastor now. He was responsible. The thought gave him enough motivation to reach down and fish the phone out before the caller disconnected.

“Hello,” he said, staring at the ceiling and realizing too late that he should have answered with “Pastor Dinneck.” The salutation hadn’t become routine enough yet.

“Well, good morning,” a familiar voice said. “Sounds like you just woke up.”

“Elizabeth.” Hearing her voice, saying her name, washed everything away, cleared his mind. It was a temporary reprieve, but he relished the feeling and sat up on the bed. “Sorry, yeah. I forgot to set the alarm. I was up late reading.”

A small laugh. “Must be a good book.”

Nathan smiled. “The best.”

“Oh, that one.” Her voice lost none of the mirth, however. “Well, I won’t keep you. You probably haven’t even brushed your teeth yet.”

“Nope.”

“I’d forgotten I was off yesterday, so I didn’t see you at the nursing home. We never made a date.”

Thank you, he thought, for Elizabeth at least. Whatever else is happening, she is my oasis.

“Right,” he said, and walked from the bedroom. “Hang on a second, I’ve got to go downstairs to check the calendar.” Down the steps like a child on Christmas morning, he turned into the den and opened his desk calendar. “OK, let’s see. Tonight’s no good, as we’ve got Bible study. Care to join us?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so,” he said. “I’d say maybe after that, but I have a feeling I’ll be a bit pooped. Should get to bed early to make up for last night.”

“Everything OK?”

“Actually, no.” He told her about Hayden.

“That’s pretty bizarre.”

“You’re not kidding. Let’s pick a night, and I might even tell you some more bizarre things.”

“Deal,” she said. “Tomorrow night, then? I’m off Friday, so I wouldn’t have to turn in too early.”