“Thank you,” Nate whispered into the phone. “I’ll come over tonight. I’m sorry, what? OK, then. I—” He paused, closed his eyes tightly, sending more tears down his face. “I’m sorry. That’s fine. I’ll come by first thing in the morning.”
With a shaking hand he thumbed the cell phone off. Teardrops fell onto the number pad before he closed the cover. He let go of her hand and fumbled to return the phone back to his coat, apparently thought better of it and flipped it open again.
“Nate, what happened? What’s going on?”
“I have to call someone. I’m not sure. I mean, oh God....” He turned until both elbows were on the table then put down the phone and covered his face. His shoulders shook as he cried. He made no sound. Elizabeth shifted her chair sideways and put an arm awkwardly around his shoulder. She wanted to shake him, ask what had happened, but didn’t. He’d tell her. He’d certainly tell her before making any other calls. She lifted the discarded phone from the table and moved it out of his reach.
He was a minister now, the man in charge. He needed to get his emotions out with her first until his head was clear.
She thought all this reflexively, realizing with only a touch of irony that she was already falling into the role of Pastor’s Wife.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Nathan felt empty. When he thought he might be able to pull his hands from his face and talk rationally to Elizabeth, he pictured Reverend Hayden’s face. The quiet, almost sorrowful look when the minister had gotten into the car and been driven off three days ago. Then the wave of sorrow was too strong, too painful. He cried again. He never was one to do this loudly, even as a child. He simply shook behind his hands. The dampness of his tears fell down his face and dripped into his open collar.
He lowered his hands and sighed, long and heavy. Elizabeth’s arm, draped across his back, was more comforting in this moment than he could ever explain to her. He didn’t have to, since she squeezed him harder.
Reverend Hayden was dead.
How could such a horrible thing happen? Why did it happen?
“Nate?”
He wiped his face with a handkerchief from his coat pocket. He kept one handy, used for various despondent parishioners with whom he might speak. He took another deep breath, then said, “Reverend Hayden was found this evening. He’d dead.”
“What? Nate, what...” She didn’t finish, only stared wide-eyed, waiting for further explanation.
And the explanation was simply too terrible to accept.
“The police are saying, um, well, that he was murdered. Someone shot him and left him at the edge of the property.” Saying these words caused his body to seize up, assaulted by a renewed attack of shock.
The silence stretched between them. Once he’d spoken the words out loud, they didn’t seem real. Ralph Hayden couldn’t have been murdered. He was in a monastery, for heaven’s sake. Nathan looked at the table top, feeling Elizabeth’s arm on him, and tried to understand. His legs began to bounce up and down as if by their own accord. He had to do something.
“I need to call someone,” he said finally.
“Who?”
He looked around the restaurant, hoping to see just the right person. At the table nearest him a family ate their meal in frenzied enjoyment, except for a little girl with a pair of braids who’d noticed his tears and stared with curious detachment.
The Hillcrest police had already been notified, according to Brother Armand. He would have to call everyone on the Board, the elders, Mrs. Lewis or Mrs. Zawalich. They would be devastated. God, he thought, this will be too much for them.
He sniffed, sat up straighter, stared at the table. There would be funeral arrangements, he knew. Vincent Tarretti. He could call the caretaker first. From their last conversation, Nathan knew Tarretti did not know many parishioners. He could speak with him, though, tell him the news so that if, in the telling, Nathan became lost again in emotion, those kind old women wouldn’t be burdened with it.
And it was something to do. It was action.
Of course, that was what he’d thought last time. Why did he always think of Tarretti? He’d have to call him at some point, anyway. This fact only brought more grief.
He reached across the table but couldn’t get to the phone. Elizabeth slid it closer to him. He flipped it open and looked up the number in its electronic phone list.
“Who’re you calling?”
“Tarretti, the groundskeeper. He organizes, well....” He didn’t finish the sentence, and didn’t think he needed to. As he scrolled to the number, he gave her a quick summary of his reasons anyway. He spoke half-heartedly, wondering how much of his mumbling she’d understood.
When Vincent answered on the second ring, Nathan told him the news. He was surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.
Tarretti was silent for a few seconds. Nathan heard him take in a long breath; then, as he had done during their prior conversation, the man whispered a curse as he let it out. Tarretti added, almost to himself, “God, what is going on? Please tell me.”
“I don’t understand,” Nathan said, more to remind him that he was still there. The man’s words struck a chord with him. He’d prayed the same prayer recently himself. Some unseen connection came to light, one which seemed inexplicably to stretch between him and Tarretti. Until this moment, the other oddities of his return to town had been temporarily forgotten. Now they came flooding back, try as he might to push them away. There was no connection. How could he be dwelling again on his own problems?
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” Tarretti said. “Obviously we’ll need to talk about this right away. I—” He hesitated. “I’m not good with phones, not sure if you could tell that from our last conversation. Could you come by my home right away? Do you know where it is?”
Nathan said he did, and looked at Elizabeth. He had so many things to do, so many people to contact, he should not even consider accepting the invitation. But the sensation of a connection, of puzzle pieces falling together—this new terrible one included—was overpowering. He heard himself say, “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” before he could decide on any other reply.
Tarretti said that was good, and to hurry. “Call no one else, Reverend,” he added before disconnecting, “until we’ve spoken. Please. I’ll explain everything when you get here.”
Nathan pocketed the phone, numb. A brief idea stuck him, like a car racing by as he stood at the side of the road. He may have just accepted an invitation to visit Hayden’s murderer. But like a passing car, it made an impression only for a moment before he ignored it. The world around him had gone completely insane. If he did this, visited Tarretti right away, heard what he had to say then moved on to more urgent matters, maybe he could come through to the other side. The rational side. The way his life was before coming to town.
Or maybe he’d already cracked up but hadn’t yet realized it.
He grabbed his jacket and stood. Elizabeth fumbled in her pocketbook for money to leave on the table. Though they hadn’t gotten the bill yet, what she left seemed far beyond what it would have come to.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll drop you off—”
“I’m coming with you, wherever you’re going.” She got up and took his arm. He didn’t argue. At the moment he wanted no one else at his side but her.
Then he remembered that fleeting thought about Tarretti.
“Maybe you should stay at home. I don’t know if—”
“Don’t bother, Nate,” she said, and caught the waitress’s attention to explain the money was on the table. They walked outside together. Nathan’s tears had dried. He had too much to do. He’d mourn his old pastor another day. There would be the sorrow of others to deal with, now.
Chapter Forty
Josh Everson clicked the “back” button on his browser and chose the next link on the Internet search page. He’d gone through seven so far and was getting a little nervous. Of course, there were a couple of pages that were so obviousl
y the result of fractured minds that he didn’t take them seriously. In one, a person—man, woman or kid, he couldn’t tell—calling himself WFC-Guy (the WFC meaning Watchdog For Christ, the name of the website), claimed the existence of an international organization of neo-Ammonites who actively worship the demon Moloch. A slight variation on Nate’s spelling, but he had said to expect that. The site claimed such followers were, in truth, aliens from an as-yet undetected galaxy who were slowly replacing top figures in world governments with replicants. If that was true, he’d voted a space creature for U.S. President in the last election. This last bizarreness aside, it did have the connection he was looking for, so Josh bookmarked the page and moved on.
Another site explained in gruesome detail the various modes of sacrifices to the demon-god. Here, its name was spelled Molech. This particular page gave him the willies. Descriptions of young children placed atop the hands of a large iron idol, cast in the shape of a sitting man with the head of a bull. Through the use of pulleys and winches, the arms were raised up. The demon’s mouth was always open, “always hungry” as the description read, ready to receive the offering. In its belly raged a sacrificial fire. The flames grew so hot that the idol’s iron skin glowed red, giving the impression of demonic life within.
He bookmarked that one, too. Much of the other information he’d uncovered was similar, or mentioned Molech only in passing with scores of other demons not a whole lot nicer.
He sat back and took a sip of his warm Coke. He refined his search. Alongside “Molech,” “Ammonites” he added “United States” and “Massachusetts,”
From the living room came a hard knock against the apartment door. Josh reflexively checked the time—nine-sixteen—then clicked “Search” before getting up. He reminded himself to give Davy a call at the Grocer in a half hour. He’d convinced the kid to work a double shift tonight so he’d have time to get Nate his info. Davy had closed the place before, but he was a teenager and tended to forget little things like shutting off the outside light.
When he opened the door, Josh expected to see Nate’s eager face. Instead, a familiar white-haired man stood in the hall. For a moment, he thought the guy might be one of the many neighbors he hadn’t gotten around to introducing himself to over the past two years. Then he placed the face.
Looking much less menacing in the bright hallway lights than he had this morning, Whitey from the men’s club said, “Josh Everson?” He didn’t sound angry. That was good. Josh steeled himself for a barrage of insults for walking in on him and Nate. He recalled the details of Nate’s suspicions and what he’d just read online.
Oh, man, he thought. I’m toast.
“Hi,” he finally said, “that’s me. Can I help you with something?” He wanted to slam the door and call the cops, but what would he tell them? That a demon-worshipping alien from Galaxy X was standing at his door?
The man smiled. His white moustache hardly moved, so little did the smile affect his mouth. “Yes, you will help me.” His voice had a calmness and power that put Josh at ease. Why had he been so worried about the guy?
Quinn continued, “Let me in, Josh, and I will explain what I need.”
Josh nodded, never looking away from the other man’s eyes. Very clear. A smart man. He hoped he could help him, and backed up a step. Quinn entered the apartment and Josh followed his progress.
“Close the door.”
He closed the door.
“Come and sit,” the man looked around then pointed to the couch, “over there.”
Josh walked over to the couch. He looked away from Quinn’s face as he sat and suddenly wondered why he was being so agreeable with this loony.
“Look at me and listen carefully.”
Oh, that’s right, he remembered. I was going to help him with something.
Quinn sat beside him on the very edge of the cushion and said, slowly, “You talked to your friend Nathan Dinneck today, after the two of you left my store. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” That was a relief. If this was about Nate, he knew everything.
“Tell me everything you discussed, from the beginning.” He leaned forward. “Remember everything and tell me.”
Josh walked out from The Greedy Grocer and saw Nate’s car. He looked back through the store’s window. They must have missed each other. Nope, not in there. He wondered if Nate might have actually had the gumption to check out his dad’s new hangout for himself. He walked casually along the sidewalk, neither feeling the concrete under his feet nor thinking it odd that a moment ago he was sitting in his living room with the guy who ran this place.
As he told the story, his eyes remained unfocused. His visitor listened. When Josh finished, he simply stared across the room, like a robot who’d been switched off.
“Josh Everson?”
Josh’s eyes refocused on Quinn’s face.
“Hmmm?”
“Tell me everything you have learned on your computer.”
“I can show you,” he said, emotion now trickling into his voice.
“That would be wonderful.” He followed Josh into the spare bedroom where the illuminated computer screen waited.
Chapter Forty-One
Vincent Tarretti’s house was mostly dark when they pulled into the driveway. From the front window issued the understated glow of a light shining in a room at the back of the house. Nathan and Elizabeth got out of the car without speaking, and walked to the front door, her hand in his.
The cemetery was quiet and deserted. No sound but the calls of crickets and frogs in the woods beyond the gravestones. Even these sounds would be gone soon as cooler weather loomed. A mosquito buzzed in his ear. He swatted it away with his free hand. Their footsteps on the small porch echoed in the near silence, as did his knuckles rapping against the edge of the aluminum storm door. It was answered by the heavy timbre of a dog’s barking. Then a voice, hushed, telling “Johnson” to be quiet. The dog stopped, but Nathan could hear a low growl. Johnson apparently didn’t like night visitors.
Elizabeth released his hand when they heard Tarretti’s footsteps. Neither the porch light nor any lamp in the front room turned on. When the caretaker opened the door his face was masked by the interior gloom.
“Reverend Dinneck,” he said quietly, then hesitated when he saw Elizabeth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were coming alone.”
“Vincent Tarretti,” Nathan said, “this is Elizabeth O’Brien.” He nodded toward her with his head. Tarretti’s outline turned to her with a glancing motion, then focused back on Nathan.
“Can she—” he began, then stopped. He pushed open the storm door and waved them into the house. They walked into a small living room, illuminated by the light spilling from the kitchen at the back. Nathan noticed a couch and table, one chair. To his right was a short hall, which probably led to the bedrooms. The dog—a massive black Labrador with gray patches around its face—stood in the entrance to the kitchen, its tail wagging in short waves as if uncertain whether to be pleased with the visit.
“Come into the kitchen, please,” Tarretti said, “and don’t mind Johnson. He’s well trained.” A hint of threat lined the statement, though Nathan was unsure why. Nothing about how the man reacted to the news was making sense. Nathan had seen grief externalize in many ways and would not have been surprised if, when they stepped into the yellowed kitchen light, there were signs Tarretti had been crying. However, his face revealed only a stony expression of... what? Suspicion? The man continued to eye Elizabeth with cautious glances. Nathan felt a strange obligation to explain her presence.
“Elizabeth and I were at the Cabel when you called.”
She added, “I hope it’s all right that I came.” Only Nathan heard the tone in her voice which implied she really didn’t care if it was or not.
“So you two are, I mean, dating or something?” Tarretti stopped beside a small table. There were only two chairs. No one made a motion to claim them.
Elizabeth smiled. “Or somethin
g. Does it matter?”
Tarretti’s stare hardened, any pretence of hospitality gone. “It matters a great deal,” he said. He turned back to Nathan. “I need to know if she can be trusted. What I’m going to tell you—if I tell you, that is—cannot leave this room. I’ve spent too long....”
He stopped, and looked down with eyes darting back and forth, as if trying to remember something.
As during their phone conversation when Hayden first disappeared, Nathan felt a wave of irritation toward him. Tarretti was playing some kind of guessing game and Nathan no longer had the patience for it.
“Vincent, I strongly suggest you tell me what you know about Pastor Hayden. If you don’t, then we’ll go to the police right now and—”
“You have no idea what’s going on, Mister Dinneck!” He was shouting, and began his side-to-side glances again. “Don’t tell me what to do and what not do. I answer to God alone.” Johnson, who had lain under a table too small to hide his bulk, raised his head and growled.
This guy’s nuts, Nathan thought. It was a hard thought to shake once he grabbed on to it. The possibility that he was speaking with Hayden’s murderer took on a more ominous urgency. Nathan moved a half step closer to Elizabeth, as if preparing to launch himself in front of her should Tarretti move suddenly. Johnson followed him with his head, growling softly. The dog sounded more confused than angry.
“Mister Tarretti,” Nathan said, following the caretaker’s lead and turning formal in his speech. “Explain yourself right now or we’re going to the police. Even if I have to knock you down and drag you there myself.” As he spoke, he stepped forward. All the confusion and anger of the past few days began to boil over. He spoke in a measured tone, but he found himself hoping this man would defy him so he could do exactly what he’d promised. Johnson stopped growling. That probably wasn’t a good sign.
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