Solomon's Grave

by Daniel G. Keohane

  The sirens were joined by others. Different cadences, different vehicles. Police? An accident, maybe.

  Her stomach tightened. Simple worry, that was all. She stayed by the window, ignoring the cold air biting at her arm, and listened, and waited.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  “Very well, Louis. Get out of that town as quickly as possible. Be casual about it, but get out. Don’t call me again until you’re safely back in Maine. Yes, all the way back.”

  After disconnecting the line, Roger Quinn laid the cell phone on the empty seat beside him. His large, thick fingers remained closed around it. He felt an urge to squeeze harder, crush the phone from existence like he would his pathetic nephew when he got hold of him.

  The agent from Maine had done most of the talking. It was Roger’s self-imposed rule not to say too much in public conversations, even if the people around him were more concerned with staring sleepily out the red eye’s windows as it descended, or rummaging in their pockets for gum.

  Two others traveled with him, in different rows. He ignored them, and they did likewise. Not for any covert reasons. Roger simply hated casual conversations, with anyone. Better things to do with his life than talk about the weather.

  Louis Hautala’s story was confusing at best. When he mentioned the hordes of police and fire apparatus at the town’s small Baptist church, Roger was certain of one thing: Peter had been there. It was Chicago all over again. He hoped Lou didn’t get arrested. There was too much red tape involved in assassinating someone in police custody. He would have enough to handle, dealing with whatever chaos Peter had stirred up.

  Hautala had called from the cemetery. Solomon’s grave had been left opened. The news gave him shivers of apprehension. Nothing left inside, but more than enough signs of violence, including “a boat-load of blood,” as Hautala put it. At least he had the sense to don gloves and close the crypt before leaving. That was when he saw the flames through the trees.

  No matter what his nephew might have uncovered tonight, he had made too much noise to risk leaving alive any longer.

  Roger’s ears popped as the flight continued its descent into Logan. Already he could make out details in the patchwork of lights below him. They sailed over the suburbs, then Greater Boston itself. He zipped closed his overnight bag after putting the phone away. Fortunately, the attendant hadn’t noticed him breaking their rule of no calls during descent. He stared ahead, seeing nothing, only thinking. Worrying. He was certain, more an instinctive feeling than anything yet backed up by evidence, that the fool had gone ahead without waiting.

  Something had obviously gone wrong. Peter never failed to answer his phone, especially when he knew it was his dear Uncle Roger calling. Twice now, Roger’s calls were cut over to voice mail.

  “Come on,” he whispered to the plane. The remaining five minutes before touching down would be very long. The drive to Hillcrest, even longer. Maybe he would wait until morning. Keep a distance until things cooled down a bit.

  He slammed the plastic window shade closed a bit too hard. Nothing out there interested him.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  There were very few cars driving along Interstate 395 so late on a Thursday night. Actually, it had become Friday morning a few minutes ago. Most people were in bed, resting up for work the next day.

  Nathan drove, not daring to speak or to break the tense veil of silence filling the car. The only sound for much of the past forty miles was the occasional hah-hah-hah of the dog’s panting from the back seat. Johnson had been surprisingly acquiescent when Nathan pulled into Tarretti’s driveway. Even as he walked into the house, crossing directly to Tarretti’s bedroom, the large black Labrador simply sat, silent, on the living room rug and watched with unnerving detachment. He wondered if dogs had some special insight, as he’d lifted the floorboards and removed the strongbox. Some self-preservation mechanism, knowing when Master was gone and it was time to find a new human to care for him. When Nathan emerged from the bedroom with the box and went to the door, he’d paused and looked back at Johnson. The dog looked back with quiet expectation.

  “Stay,” he’d said, and went out to the car, putting the box into the trunk. He lifted the tablets from the back seat. The power was there again, filling him, vibrating. It took an effort to lay them back down into the trunk beside Tarretti’s box. He ran back into the house, doing a quick search for dog food. After dropping the dog food beside the other items in the trunk, he returned to the house for the dog.

  He was never much of an animal person, but he knew he could not leave Johnson here alone. Even now, driving along the dark highway, Nathan didn’t know how they’d be able to care for the thing, give it any kind of home.

  The next thought sent his stomach tightening in shame, no less than it would over the years and decades to come. You can’t leave the dog, but you could throw your best friend to the wolves so you could escape. He had to remind himself that it had been Josh’s choice to stay behind—an admirable, selfless act, even with only a couple of seconds to decide. If Elizabeth was meant to be here with him now, was Josh meant to play the role of tethered goat, left as the sacrifice in their place? Some day, Nathan might learn what cross they were leaving behind for him to bear.

  The lane markers swished under them in unrelenting flashes of white. Nathan was not tired. Not yet. Normally when things got too quiet, it would be Elizabeth who spoke. She always took the initiative. Not tonight.

  They passed an exit, the one they’d taken a lifetime ago to find the old woman’s quilt museum. The small sign Elizabeth noticed back then was gone. He thought to mention this, but decided against it. He looked over at her. She stared out the window, the tears long dried. As they passed under the occasional highway lamps, the dirt and ash smeared on her face came into sharp relief. He wondered how bad he looked himself, with the bruises stiffening on his cheeks.

  He kept his window open a crack, trying to bring in some fresh air, clean out the stale burnt odor emanating from their bodies and clothes. It helped a little. Johnson’s nose worked its way from the back seat, sniffing at things only he could smell. Nathan hit the switch for the back window, and the nose moved away to easier smelling grounds.

  Both of them tried to ignore the palpable presence lying in the trunk, so close behind them; the fourth passenger.

  The gas gauge was slightly past the halfway mark. They were approaching an exit for the town of Putnam, Connecticut and Route 44. They had to stay off the main highways. If anyone had seen their plate as they drove from the fire, there would be an APB out to every state and local police department. Did it matter, then, which road they took?

  Whom would the police be looking for? Quinn? What about Josh? Again, and again, Nathan’s thoughts returned to the friend he’d left behind. His mind had raced and over-analyzed everything else, as long as it kept him from the true source of horror gnawing at his stomach. Thoughts of Josh, who would likely be arrested for at least one murder.

  Thoughts of his father. And his mother, who likely still didn’t know that her family was gone forever.

  “What,” he began, then had to swallow. His mouth was dry. They should stop at a McDonald’s somewhere, get a drink. He tried again, “What do you think Josh told them?”

  Elizabeth turned her head, slowly, and Nathan braced himself for the verbal assault she’d been building up.

  “I don’t know,” she said, softly. Looking back out the window, she continued, “Where are we going, Nate?”

  He offered her a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t know.” The relief of her calmness made him giddy. He tried to control it, keep from laughing hysterically at their humorless predicament. The last time he’d done that, he’d been beaten almost to death. Where were they going? Good question.

  Elizabeth turned to him again, this time twisting and bringing one knee onto the seat. “Nate, what was that, at the front of the church? What was it?”

  “You mean the fire?”

  She r
aised her voice. “The...thing... in the fire, Nate! Didn’t you see it?”

  He shook his head, slowly, not in denial but confusion. “I’m not sure; there was too much going on. You mean the Covenant? What thing?”

  She looked at him a long time, not in anger but something else, something he had not seen in her face even when her mother had been sick, not to this degree. She looked... horror-struck. Her lips were tightly closed. He wanted to urge her on, feeling a twist in his gut from the possibility that tonight had more dimensions than even he had seen.

  “What is it? Elizabeth, what did you see?”

  She shook her head, quickly, a child’s emphatic no!, then turned in her seat until she was staring out her side window.

  “Nothing,” she said at last. “Nothing.”

  Johnson had forsaken his window during the conversation, his large head moving in the rear view mirror, back and forth between them. Sensing nothing more of interest, he turned his wet nose back to the two inches of fresh air coming in from outside.

  They drove on, staying on the interstate. Nathan still felt exposed on this open road, uncertain of where to go next. He needed to listen to his instincts from now on. Go where the Spirit might direct them.

  When it returned fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth’s voice was weak, tired.

  “Nate?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think God’s going to mind me tagging along like this?”

  He smiled, sensing the Old Elizabeth returning. Even her jabs at his faith were a welcome relief. “I thought you didn’t believe in God,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, regardless, do you think he’ll mind? I mean, bringing the dog wasn’t one of your brightest ideas, but me... what about me?”

  The question carried such a weight of importance, in its implication and the almost desperate way in which it was asked, Nathan took his time in answering.

  “No, E,” he finally said. “I don’t think He’ll mind. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m beginning to think you were supposed to come with me.”

  He’d gone too far. His fear doubled when Elizabeth suddenly broke out in renewed sobs, at times banging her head lightly against the passenger window. He doubted she even knew she was doing it.

  He wanted to take back what he’d said, then remembered something his pastor in Florida once told him. If a parishioner is crying, they do not want to hear anyone’s voice. They only need to know you’re there with them.

  He reached out and gently touched her arm. Her sobs, after a while, lightened. She turned back to him, holding his arm with both of her hands, and leaned her head on it like a pillow.

  After a while, he assumed she’d fallen asleep. Instead, she whispered, “We’re going to have to eat, I suppose, and find some new clothes, a pair of shoes for me, if that’s OK. Get rid of this car.” She sighed. “I can’t believe you brought the dog with us.”

  “I’m not sure how much money I’ve got, and I don’t dare use my ATM card. Not that I have a whole lot in the bank anyway.” He tapped the steering wheel with two fingers. “Not sure how we’re going to trade in this car, either. I mean, technically, it’s stolen.”

  “Well,” she said, her voice fading, falling into sleep, “we could always sneak onto a train car, or something. I’ve got forty bucks in my pocket. Not much, but I guess if we’re supposed to be where we are, like you said, something will come along.”

  Nathan agreed, but since he could feel Elizabeth’s weight fall heavily on his arm, he didn’t say so. Her breathing fell into an even rhythm of sleep.

  She was right. They had no money to speak of, a car stolen from a dead psychopath, a ninety-pound orphaned dog, and objects of unlimited power and historical consequence—which could easily change the world simply by the knowledge of their existence— wrapped in a potato sack in the trunk. Something had to come along. They would drive until they could drive no more, and have faith that in the end, something would present itself.

  They drove in silence down the empty highway, headlights revealing only the next few yards ahead. Soon the car was only a red point of light fading into the distance. Then it, and its occupants, were gone.

  About the author:

  Daniel G. Keohane’s short fiction has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies over the years, including Cemetery Dance, Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest, Shroud Magazine, Extremes 4, The Pedestal Magazine, Gothic.Net, and many others. Solomon’s Grave is his debut novel, though it has been previously released in both Germany (as Das Grab des Salomon) and Italy (as il Segreto di Salamone). An active member of the HWA and SFWA, Dan lives with his family in Massachusetts, where he is always at work on the next novel.

  Table of Contents

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  Table of Contents

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