In the end, his absolute devotion to the master proved fruitful. An assignment born of shame, now showed itself as Providence. He’d discovered John Solomon’s grave.
Destiny.
This time he would not act rashly, would walk with careful, slow steps. By establishing his base of operations here, he hid himself behind the men who came each night to drink, play cards, waste their lives. Over time, carefully, he searched out the minds and hearts of each, looking for weaknesses to exploit. Everyone had them. It was a matter of looking long enough. With the exception of his unofficial protégé, Manny Paulson, most of them never knew they were anything but happy members of the HMC. In truth, that’s all most were. Until they were needed. Then, he would use only those necessary to move closer toward the prize—if any would be required at all.
One such puppet stood before him now. Quinn spoke quietly, keeping the controlled cadence in his voice from reaching anyone else’s ears lest they sense something more than a quiet conversation between the two men.
“Is there something wrong, Arthur?” Peter said, locking his gaze onto Art Dinneck’s face, not reading his thoughts but able to pick up on strong emotion as clearly as a blush. Empathic was the word his uncle often used during training. Still, the Voice, long trained and the most important tool of his ilk, was Peter’s true power. The Voice gave him a charismatic aura, an innate and strong ability which he’d always possessed but never truly understood before joining the Order.
Art smiled weakly and shrugged his shoulders. “No, not really. In fact I have good news. My son has come back to town. To stay, it looks like.”
Quinn nodded. “I’ve heard. He’s the new pastor of your old church, I believe.”
Art nodded. Quinn sensed the man’s pride and did not like its implications. He’d worked hard to pull him far from his faith, a necessary requirement in order to control him. The arrival of his boy, a minister no less, could undo everything Quinn had orchestrated. People of strong faith were not easily controlled, too much holier-than-thou garbage filling their heads. A distraction, nothing more, but enough to occupy their minds and make them harder to manipulate.
Harder, but never impossible.
This recent urge to focus so much of his energy on Dinneck, rather than letting the prude drift from the club’s ranks out of guilt or sheer boredom, still puzzled him. The inspiration came from outside Quinn’s will, as if the master himself had chosen this man. Once Peter learned of Dinneck’s son taking over the Baptist church, he began to see that perhaps there might be good reason. Not that it would make his job any easier. More interesting, perhaps, but far from easier.
A change in leadership in the church the same year as his own discovery was worrisome. He would need to keep the new pastor’s father on a short leash, learn what he could every day. Knowledge was power in this war.
“I’m sure your Beverly must be proud.”
“Oh, she is, she is.” Another wave of pride from the man. Quinn focused his will on what he would say next.
“You will not resume attendance at that church, however.” Spoken as a statement, though Peter raised his eyebrows as if having done nothing but ask a casual question.
Art looked confused a moment, and Peter felt his command sink slowly into the sand of the man’s brain. “No, no I’m not.” His brows furrowed, confused by his own admission. Something cleared in his face, and he added, “Sunday’s his debut service, though. Bev’s all but threatened me if I try to get out of going.” He smiled and shrugged.
Quinn returned the smile. “Arthur, that’s wonderful,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Of course you have to attend. Besides, you don’t have to go to any others after that. That is not something you wish to do, ever again.” This last sentence was spoken without inflection, a narrow spear thrust forcefully into Dinneck’s mind.
The clarity in Art’s face washed away. “No, that’s right. I don’t.”
Peter again forced a casual tone, one with no trace of the Voice. He laid a hand on Art’s shoulder and gave it a pat.
“Please pass along my best wishes to him. Nathan is his name?”
Art nodded.
“After all,” Peter continued, “he’s your first born. That makes him special.”
A slight worried look, then Art shrugged and said, “I guess you’re right.”
Quinn left his hand on Art’s shoulder a moment longer. “Go on back to the group and have a beer. Relax; have some fun.”
The paleness which had been creeping into Art’s face during the conversation washed away, and he excused himself. Peter watched after him, knowing the man would only remember snippets of their conversation, and then only that which was spoken in a normal tone. Still, it had been close. A parent’s love was a dangerous bit of baggage. The homecoming of Art Dinneck’s son was significant. Best keep a close eye on this man’s family, and their little church.
Chapter Five
The coffee was instant. Hayden apologized for the inconvenience, as he was a tea drinker and never had the need for a coffee maker in the rectory. “And no matter who you are, don’t think I’ll drag up one of those missile silos they use downstairs after services just for one cup.”
They sat in the pastor’s small but comfortable living room, adorned with photos of Ralph and Jean Hayden, highlights of the couple’s life together. The Haydens had no children. Nathan never knew if this was by choice. Seeing the many tributes to his wife around the room, Nathan felt a pang of sorrow that the man had no other family now except for the people of the church. It appeared to be more than enough for him.
Over the course of the day they’d briefly gone through the books in the office, his new pastoral schedule and a quick background on current patients who needed visitations at hospitals and nursing homes. Hayden wanted as much minutiae covered before news of Nathan’s arrival spread. They’d have less private time after today.
After a supper of meatloaf, broccoli, and potatoes heated in the microwave—precooked meals were supplied each week by two elderly parishioners—they’d settled upstairs. Hayden’s eyes drooped. It was nearing nine-thirty. He was obviously an early sleeper. He sipped his tea and said, “I’ve been blessed these years to have such a caring congregation, especially since Jean passed on. Having a new pastor after so long with the same shepherd isn’t an easy thing for people to adjust to. Shakes up the parish. Seeing as how you’re someone a lot of people know, the transition might be a little easier. Just try to forget that some in your flock have seen you wearing diapers.”
Nathan smiled and sipped his coffee, hoping no one pictured him that way when he gave his sermon.
“I have to say,” Hayden continued, “I was always proud of your decision. Today’s kids get so caught up in the world, even when their faith is strong. Choosing to serve God as you have seems rare.”
Nathan agreed. All his life, his own calling had never been questioned, neither by his parents nor himself. He’d always felt a burning to give his life to the church. Maybe he hadn’t always known in what capacity that would come—who did, when they were young? By high school, he knew his direction. His classmates made college plans, having only vague images of what they’d do with their lives. Whenever Nathan was asked what he planned after graduation, his reply never changed. I’m going to earn a Masters of Divinity and become ordained, run my own church someday, somewhere.