Vincent looked at the Bible in his lap and wondered at the passage. He enjoyed randomly opening the book and reading whatever words he came upon. Tonight it was open to the middle of the New Testament. The apostle Stephen’s fateful speech to the council, discussing the tabernacle—the Ark which housed the law of Moses and the tablets containing the Ten Commandments. It resided in the temple designed by David, but built by his son, Solomon. The same Solomon, Stephen explained in the passage, who eventually forsook the one true God in his later years to worship the local demons of the time, the deceivers.
This was the second time today that Vincent wondered if God’s plan for him was beginning to change course. The first was during the call from Ralph Hayden, letting him know he’d be stopping by tomorrow afternoon with his successor. Nathan Dinneck.
Vincent did not know if Dinneck’s arrival was related to his recent plague of dark dreams, details of which dissipated like the mist that hung among his cemeteries in the early morning. The only memory he could salvage on waking and carry with him during the day was a lingering, aching sense of misgiving. He used to dream a lot, when he was younger. Not long after he’d moved to this small suburb, Vincent had stopped dreaming altogether. At least he assumed he had. Maybe he’d simply stopped remembering them. Their sudden resurgence worried him. He hadn’t remained here, unfettered by anyone for so long, by ignoring his instincts. He took little credence in coincidence. That was a word used by those too stubborn to see the hand of God at work in their lives.
A sudden gust of wind slammed against the house. Summer was winding down, but not without protest. He slowly rose from his chair and opened the front door. The sky was clear, a million stars above him. Wisps of clouds occasionally passed by, moving quickly as if driven by the wind; ghosts in search of rest they would never find. He watched their passage with growing apprehension, half-expecting the wisps of vapor to turn toward him, to form a claw reaching down.... He went back inside and closed the door, lest his fear be detected by whatever or whoever else might be out there, wandering around the cemetery, looking for him. Looking for what he had sworn his soul to protect.
Besides, it was bedtime. Any change in routine might attract the attention of those who might someday find this place, if not in his lifetime, then the next caretaker’s. For Vincent, those people existed only in warnings from his predecessor and in the writings of those who came before. Faceless and nameless adversaries over the centuries, always searching. Never stopping.
Too much at stake not to stick to a schedule, never stray. Never stray.
Johnson lifted his head and offered a questioning wag of his tail. Vincent scratched him between his ears before sitting down at the kitchen table. The dented strongbox—circa World War II, if he wasn’t mistaken—was open. He did not take out the four thick volumes, many older than the box itself. Rather, he turned to the spiral notebook on the table and re-read the small newspaper article clipped from the Worcester Telegram earlier this year. A small advertisement, one that Vincent would normally have glossed over if not for its local connection. He paid close attention to anything new to town—a store, a new family. Usually he gave more consideration when only one person was involved, or a pair of men or women moving in. Anything that indicated a change from the norm. The new organization, known simply as the Hillcrest Men’s Club—HMC, for short—had been having an open house in a recently-purchased storefront in the town’s lone strip mall. At the time, he’d examined the letters in the group’s name for any indication of his enemy, an anagram or some such nonsense. If whoever these people might be ever came to town, they wouldn’t raise flags to their existence. Still, Vincent had made a note of it at the time, just in case. The number “798” was written in blue pen in the corner of the newspaper clipping, in his own hand. The same number had also been written on the notebook’s page, along with his scattered observations or concerns, always ending with the same notation he had written for his prior seven hundred and ninety-seven entries and the few that followed. The mantra, “Wait and see.”
He flipped forward until he found a fresh page, on which he wrote the number “815” followed by, “New pastor in town. Nathan Dinneck—odd to choose someone so young and from town. Hayden retiring. Timing of this with onset of sudden foreboding— see entry 811—comes into question.” He paused, then added, “Wait and see.” He closed the notebook after tucking the newspaper clipping announcing Dinneck’s new appointment inside, and laid it atop the older journals in the strongbox. He locked it with a small key attached to his everyday key chain, and crossed the room.
“Come on, Johnson,” Vincent said. “Bedtime. Big day tomorrow.”
Johnson got to his feet and followed him into the darkened bedroom. Before heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth, Vincent lifted a loose board under the edge of the bed and laid the strongbox into the floor. He replaced the board and dragged a small rug, coated in dog fur, across it. Johnson waited until his master went into the bathroom, then circled twice before settling down for the night on the rug.
Chapter Four
Peter Quinn was not a tall man, standing just over five and a half feet. Beneath his loose fitting black shirt, however, his chest and arms were disciplined ribbons of muscle. This attribute was only noticeable when he was alone, naked before his private altar in the supply room at the back of the retrofitted storefront on Main Street. His public physique was masked by loose clothes and a humble, almost stooping posture. His face, groomed to look more like an accountant’s than an athlete’s, served as additional camouflage. His stark white hair was short and slightly curled and matched the finely clipped moustache.
The contrast of his hair against the black shirt—all of Peter Quinn’s shirts were black, worn with well-fitting pleated Chinos of varying blues or browns—gave him the look of a preacher. Such was how he often thought of himself, the pastor of the hidden church he’d established in this little town. Of course, most of his congregation were unaware of the true nature of their quaint new club.
Discretion was important with his profession—his calling. Prior to opening the Hillcrest Men’s Club this spring, he had moved among the streets and towns of central Massachusetts, an anonymous face among the populace, never drawing attention to himself. All of that changed one fateful day as he wandered among the tombstones and monuments of Greenwood Street Cemetery. He expected to find nothing more interesting there than anywhere else since he’d been relocated—banished would be a better choice of words—from Chicago.
The trouble in Chicago had been a miscalculation on his part, but the memory of it never failed to send a thrilling jolt through him. The absolute terror on that pathetic man’s face as he knelt, bound, in the center of his burning home, facing Peter, who leaned against the frame of the back door. The fool could have saved himself if he’d simply told him where the prize was. The man died pleading his innocence. Granted, in the end, Peter had to admit he’d been telling the truth. Again, a slight miscalculation, a misinterpretation of comments made in the gym one morning as Peter reluctantly spotted for him on the bench press, but one which required the Elders to send him off to this uneventful little corner of the country. They did this with a fair share of warnings and chastisements. They accused him of being a firebug, of being too obsessive. Obsessive? Devoted would be a better word. Over time, most of their ranks had forgotten their true purpose, focusing on business, on whatever gains the material world had to offer. To them, the Mission was nothing more than background noise. To Peter Quinn, it was his life.