“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 something. 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.
Vincent stared at him, gauging any bluff in the threat. His gaze softened, and he gestured to the two chairs.
“Please sit,” he said, softer now. “And listen. I don’t think we have much time. I do not know why I feel this so strongly, but the Spirit is driving me to move, of that I’m certain. Please.” He pointed again to the chairs.
Nathan remained standing, as did Elizabeth. She held a stony look of determination, which Nathan hoped was an echo of his own.
Vincent shook his head at last and muttered, “Fine. Just stand there,” and walked across the small kitchen to lean on the counter. Nathan did a quick scan of the area, relieved not to see any knives handy. “But before I explain anything to you I need to ask you a question. And you need to answer me truthfully. If you don’t, then you can leave now. Call the cops if you like, but I have nothing to tell them.”
Nathan crossed his arms across his chest. “Ask.”
“You mentioned some dreams you’d been having since coming to town. What were they about?”
This question was the proverbial straw. Nathan dropped his arms and walked across the room, stopping only when his face was a hair from Tarretti’s. Johnson scrambled to move out from under the table but Elizabeth made a quick “Shut!” sound and raised her flattened palm toward the dog’s nose. Either from surprise or the uncompromising tone in her voice, Johnson sat back down. He looked up at her, then back at the two men.
Nathan said, quietly at first but building to a shout, “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but my dreams have nothing to do with Pastor Hayden!”
Tarretti did not flinch. “They have everything to do with him.”
“Why?”
“What were your dreams about?”
“Why?” This time Nathan grabbed Tarretti’s shirt. He didn’t know what else to do. He was angry, but as well the question terrified him. Not so much for the answer it begged, but for the fact that he was asking it at all.
“What was in your dream?” Tarretti’s voice rose to match Nathan’s. Both men looked ready for violence.
Nathan was frustrated, so much so he truly wanted to punch this man. He didn’t want to tell him anything, wanted to continue this posturing until Tarretti broke down and told him why he cared so much about his stupid dreams.
The temple, its appearance in the painting on the wall of the Hillcrest Men’s Club. The sick, terrible feeling he’d had walking into that place this morning. Solomon’s grave. The vision in the church basement still so clear in his memory like a photograph in the paper you don’t want to look at but do anyway. Unable to turn away.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, held it, then made a decision. He was a man of God, and as such should be the first to back down in a quarrel. Without letting go of the man’s shirt, but forcing himself to at least loosen his grip, he whispered, “It was nothing. A dream about some temple in the desert. And some angels.”