He lowered his hands and took in another breath, felt himself calm, slowly. Confrontation was never an easy thing for him. What, exactly, this particular confrontation had been about, he didn’t know.
Not really.
His nerves, his nightmares, had nothing to do with the disappearance of Reverend Hayden. Somehow the discussion seemed to lead that way. Not for the first time, Nathan wondered if he was ready to head a church of his own.
He held off calling anyone else. The news had obviously disturbed him more than he’d realized. Hayden would be OK; likely wandered away in confusion inspired by his new surroundings. He’d turn up. He had to. Nathan would make as many calls as necessary in the morning, until he found out the truth.
He sat a while longer, letting his jangled nerves settle, then got up and turned off the light on the desk and the one in the kitchen before heading upstairs. He thought of Vince questioning his dreams. The day in the cemetery, wondering if any particular monument caught his eye. He knew more than he was saying. Nathan’s strange visions of the stone angels. Hayden’s disappearance.
There was no logical connection. These events were not related.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Vincent Tarretti remained seated at the kitchen table long after he and Dinneck ended their conversation. He was shaking. Something was happening. Whatever it might be, it was happening.
Hayden had disappeared.
Ruth Lieberman conveyed many scattered facts to him decades ago, before her death to cancer eight weeks after Vincent’s arrival in town. There were certain rules God had ordained for the handling and transportation of the Ark; rules that even today must not be broken. One in particular was that it could not be moved by anyone except priests, those ordained by God. There were examples in the Bible of men who ignored this. They died instantly. Vincent didn’t know if, in this modern age, any of these rules had changed. Not according to the sometimes-ancient writings kept in the box under the floorboards. Many, especially the older ones, were not written in English. They were scribbled notes in French, Russian (at least it looked like Russian, he couldn’t be sure), Hebrew and Latin. Once in a while, Vincent would buy a translation dictionary, convert random sentences to something he could understand. Most were day-to-day notations, like his own. Others chronicled, as best he could tell with his rough interpretation, the sudden uprooting of the Ark’s long-secluded resting place. He kept his translations in the books, 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.