Solomon's Grave

by Daniel G. Keohane

Nathan waved away her concern with his free hand. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice only a whisper. But he wasn’t fine. He was exhausted. Perhaps he had just been in the cemetery, looking at the angels, then run back into line. No, that made no sense. It had been raining. He looked out the window, which was now very far above him. The world outside was clear and sunny.

  Someone yelled. He was on the floor, the children hiding further behind their mother’s skirt. “I’m OK, really,” he murmured, before the world went dark.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nothing about the man standing on his porch—neither his neat appearance nor his quiet, affable manner—was threatening. Yet as Vincent shook his hand, the disquiet plaguing him these past few weeks re-ignited. Bad Guy, the feeling said. Perhaps it was the man’s eyes. Blue and clear, but with a dark, mocking gleam in them. A knowing, half-smile on his lips. Vincent shook the feeling off and silently cursed his paranoia. No wonder people thought he was nuts.

  Johnson continued barking his displeasure at the trespasser through the door as Vincent muttered, “Mr. Quinn. Can I help you with something?”

  Quinn nodded toward the front door. “Maybe we could discuss this inside?”

  Vincent gestured to a pair of wicker chairs crowded onto the small porch. There was a reason Vincent insisted on meetings with clergy and the town’s funeral director on the cemetery grounds. Allowing anyone inside the house, stepping into his refuge so close to the secret box with its records and history, felt too much like opening himself up for scrutiny. He did not like scrutiny. The man before him had nothing but good intentions, he was sure, but that didn’t change matters. Vincent was too old to change much of anything of his life.

  “Obviously, my dog seems a bit uptight at the moment. Best we talk out here.”

  Quinn nodded and without objection sat in one chair. Vincent pulled the other a slight distance away, sat and waited.

  “As you may or may not know, I am Grand See—a rather silly title I suppose, when it comes down to it—of a relatively new organization in town called the Hillcrest Men’s Club.”

  “I’ve heard of them.” Entry 798, he thought absently. Already he was yearning to get free of this man, open his notebook and make entry 818: strange man from Hillcrest Men’s Club visits me.

  Quinn leaned forward, elbows on knees, and occasionally cast an annoyed glance at the door, behind which Johnson was busy trying to dig a hole through the wood. “Yes, well, we feel it’s time, having been officially in Hillcrest for half a year, to give a little something back to the community. We thought perhaps to place flower arrangements on the graves of local veterans.” He opened his hands, palms up. “It’s the least we could do.”

  If he noticed Vincent’s startled look, he did not show it. He merely sat back, eyebrows raised, and waited for an answer.

  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.”

  Nathan grimaced in embarrassment and tried to hide it behind another spoonful. He’d awoken, vaguely, soon after blacking out. Those moments—were they hours or minutes? he wondered now—were a mix of images and unreality. As if waking from a dream but not quite coming all the way to the surface. By the time the EMT began packing up his bag, Nathan had begun to feel better, but allowed his mother to lead him to the bed Hayden had pulled out from the upstairs couch. He’d slept the rest of the afternoon away. Nathan visibly cringed every time he wondered what the rest of the reception was like.

  “Do I really need to go in for tests? I’m feeling a lot better, physically at least. I just needed to rest.”

  The older man shrugged. “Your call. They wanted you to get tested for epilepsy, tumors...” He waved his hand across the table as a way of finishing the sentence.

  Beverly gasped. Nathan winced at the pain of her grip on his arm. Hayden smiled. “I have a very strong feeling it is none of those. As it is, I agree with Nate. I assume you slaved all night on that sermon, Reverend? It was a good one, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” He appreciated the change in subject. After another spoonful of soup—some chicken noodle left over from the botched fellowship dinner—he added, “Yeah, I was up pretty late.”

  “That’s what I thought. I hate the dentist. Get all nerved up before going in. He makes me sit there for five minutes before I get out of the chair. Says patients like me get so worked up that when the appointment is finally over, they collapse in relieved exhaustion when they try to stand.” He looked at Nathan’s mother and pointed at his yellowed teeth. “Have I mentioned, Bev, that these are all the originals?”

  Beverly allowed herself a relieved smile.

  Nathan put the spoon down with a clink. He looked up pleadingly. “Even so, I’m afraid I made a pretty poor impression. New pastor collapses after his first service.”

  Hayden nodded. “I won’t lie and say that’s not true. At least you have something to start next week’s sermon with.”

  Nathan nodded. The man was never one to sugar-coat things. He remembered something that had bothered him since Hayden suggested he lead this morning’s service. “I assumed you would want to be lead minister next week, Pastor, seeing as it’s your last.”

  Hayden looked down for a moment, then said, “Yes, well, I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?” He slapped his legs and slowly rose from the table. “I’d better start working on the sermon soon, then, so I’m not wearing myself out with worry the night before.” He looked sideways at Nathan, a half smile implying the comment was only half in jest. “But you will handle the announcements at the start of the service, and can say what you wish about the events of this morning.”

  “I’d like that; thanks.” He didn’t like it, would rather visit Hayden’s dentist than face anyone after today.

  His mother insisted he go back to bed. It was dark outside. He tried to calculate exactly how long he had actually slept since being brought upstairs. It was almost eight o’clock now and the sun was down. Hayden would be going to bed soon. Part of Nathan wanted to stay up, drive to the cemetery as he’d planned, but his body refused to cooperate. His mother busied herself downstairs straightening the kitchen and washing the few dishes while he changed, then came upstairs to make sure he was actually going to bed.

  “Mom,” he said, already feeling sleep overtake him.

  She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around. “Yes?”

  “How’s Dad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is he home?”

  She looked away, down the hall, as if searching for his father. “No, probably not. But today’s Sunday and he still has work tomorrow. He won’t be out too late. You get some sleep, and don’t worry about him.”

  She looked back, and saw that her son was already asleep. She turned off the light.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The rain began near midnight. It slashed against the narrow, painted-over windows of the storefront’s back room. Peter Quinn knelt before the altar—an area on the floor designated by flickering black and red candles. In the center stood a cross-legged statue of a man with the head of a bull. Its bronze skin shone in the firelight. A steady stream of aromatic smoke issued from its open mouth and through small holes at the end of long tapered horns. Human-shaped hands reached palm-up, as if waiting for an offering.

  Long ago, the statue would have risen twenty feet into the air, the hands large enough to hold its squirming, sometimes screaming, sacrifice. Like this small representation before him, the idol’s body would be hollow and the furnace within would illuminate the open mouth like the entrance to hell itself. When the offering was placed in its palms, the arms would rise on gears and pulleys, dropping the child into its mouth to feed the dark god’s hunger.

  Quinn’s resources, and his required discretion, prevented him from establishing a true temple for Molech, but soon he would have enough power to build a massive sacrificial statue wherever he desired.

  Then the true sacrifices to his dark god would resume. Sacrifices to his master, the most powerful of demons, had always been—always would be—the first born of a chosen follower. Quinn thought of the report given to him by Paulson this afternoon, the incident with Dinneck’s son, the weak minister. His first day of official service, he had fainted like a schoolgirl.

  He smiled. The good are weak, he thought. If a sacrifice would soon be needed, he wondered if he could make Art give up his first born. A Baptist minister as an offering. That sounded delightful. Its body bathed in candlelight, the small statue seemed to smile back in agreement.

  All in all, it had been a productive day. Until this morning, Quinn had some doubts as to Vincent Tarr
etti’s role in this grand game of hide-and-seek. The caretaker played his cards very close to his chest. No amount of research into his life turned up much more than the obvious fact that Tarretti was an eternally dull man. But Quinn saw the fear in his eyes when he suggested his group lay those flowers down. Any lingering doubt that he was involved in some way, dissipated during the conversation.

  Still, Peter had to remain cautious. The Elders would be reading his weekly reports with a deserved grain of salt. They would not stand for another Chicago incident. He would not survive another blunder. His uncle would make certain of that.

  Peter had stopped at Greenwood Street Cemetery before visiting Tarretti. He’d wandered among the grave markers, moving circuitously deeper and deeper into the far section of the old graveyard. It was his third visit. He stared for a long time at the angels standing guard over the grave’s placard. The name Solomon so clearly engraved. As before, the elation had filled him, nearly causing Quinn to fall to the ground and dig with his bare hands.

  He did not. If he was as close to the prize as he suspected, he needed to be careful. Instead, he walked around, moving leaves and dirt with the toe of his shoe, always kicking them randomly back into place so as not to reveal someone had been there. It was a crypt, no question. Crypts were used to store things, though usually just bodies. Peter was certain no human lay inside. It had been so long, for him and those who came before. Including his own uncle.

  They were not destined, it seemed, for the great discovery. Only him.

  Long ago, a young Peter Quinn had been slowly, methodically, taught the ways of the sect by his dear Uncle Roger, beginning as early as the boy’s tenth birthday. Peter’s internship into this holiest of priesthoods began with casual questions, odd remarks made at family gatherings at the Quinns’ home in Indiana. Comments designed to pique the boy’s interest in the unknown, in the darker side of the world outside Muncie. Uncle Roger was a large man, tall and nearly as wide. When he spoke, his voice came from somewhere deep in his belly.