Solomon's Grave (33 page)

Not knowing what else to say, Paulson muttered, “It’s empty, and... it looks different.”

Quinn screamed, “It’s not REAL, you idiot!”

Nathan tried, with everything he had, to contain the hysteria suddenly filling him. Everything since coming to town was too far removed from normal. The nightmares, Hayden’s disappearance and murder, a crypt with the Ark of the Covenant that was nothing but wood and paint, his father. All of it, insane. Nonsense.

Too much. It was all too much to expect one man to contain.

Nathan began to laugh.

A giggle at first, which he was able to stifle, but another came roaring out of him. He felt himself sliding into some uncontrolled idiocy, but he couldn’t curb it. Elizabeth had done the right thing, shrinking into the background while Quinn expended his anger on the wooden chest, but he could not stop himself. With one final guffaw and eyes tearing, Nathan knew it was useless to fight this sudden burst of emotion. He simply didn’t care any more.

“Nathan,” Elizabeth whispered, breaking her imposed silence, “be quiet.”

Peter Quinn straightened and turned. He moved slowly but consistently to close the gap between Nathan and himself. His movements were those of a jungle animal toward its prey. Nathan knew he was about to die, but he was exhausted, pushed beyond his limits. He didn’t care any more. He was tired of letting this lost, insane man terrorize him. He stopped laughing and straightened.

What would come, would come, whether he laughed at this man or did nothing at all.

“Something funny, you Jesus-loving freak?”

Nathan took a deep breath and forced himself to smile, though it was a weak gesture. “You,” he said.

The first punch slammed into his left cheek and sent him to the floor. Since he was still bound, Nathan fell to his side and something popped in his right shoulder. In a haze, he was lifted up, punched again in the same place. He did not fall this time, tried to open his eyes to see from where the next blow would come. Before he could clear his vision, something hit him on the other side of his face. He went down again. A hard kick centered in the stomach. Air raced from his lungs. He curled his legs for protection, too intent on finding a way to take a breath to feel more pain. Something moved over him, then the pain came, sharply tearing up his back. He’d either been kicked again or shot. He screamed and spat blood from his mouth. He’d bitten down onto his tongue.

He had to move, get to his feet. He could hear Elizabeth screaming for Quinn to stop. He forced his eyes open and in his limited vision saw Paulson holding her back. Josh still held the gun toward her head, arm wavering uncertainly.

He also saw Quinn returning from his altar with a jagged piece of wood.

“Are you done laughing yet?” The man’s eyes were wide with hysteria. Nathan tried to stand, to defend himself, but his muscles were too constricted. His shoulder throbbed dully where it had popped from its socket. He was helpless to stop anything that would come next.

Quinn raised the improvised wooden stake above him.

Forgive me for failing you, Lord. Accept me into Your arms, protect my friends and family
.

“Peter, wait.” Paulson’s voice, a thin warbling in Nathan’s ears. “We still need him. What if the real one’s back at the cemetery?”

Nathan kept his eyes riveted to the wooden point dropping down to his chest. It stopped just shy of penetrating his skin, poking hard between his open jacket, pressing into his shirt. It was taking so long to get through. Quinn was growling and his hands shook. A line of spit dropped from the corner of his mouth onto Nathan’s cheek. He pressed the point harder against his chest, but not hard enough to kill. It was painfully obvious that he wanted to, but his maddened expression was changing. His eyes turned back toward the altar. Paulson’s suggestion had taken root, fighting with the blood lust.

Paulson continued, “Just long enough to go back there and see for ourselves. Just long enough for that. If there’s not something else in the grave, we kill them all and leave them underground with their dead buddy. No mess, no evidence. But... not... here!”

Quinn’s eyes were darting back and forth. Considering. He leaned forward until his forehead touched Nathan’s, the stake pressing so hard into his chest that Nathan moaned in pain. “OK.” He sighed. His breath smelled like mint gum and onions. “OK. One more trip, Dinneck, back to the graveyard. I guarantee you that you will suffer greatly before you die. But it’ll happen somewhere more fitting. And you’ll be the last to go, so you can watch your girlfriend die.”

Then he was gone, standing up and straightening his clothes as much as possible. He tossed the stake to the floor. Nathan remained where he was, unable and unwilling to move.

“Take Dinneck’s father and the girl to this boy’s church. Any sign of people, just continue on and meet us at the cemetery. I’ll go out front and have a word with Arthur first, make sure he cooperates. While I’m doing that, put the girl in the trunk then swing around front and pick Dinneck up. Don’t linger there.” He then leaned forward and whispered more instructions into Paulson’s ear. Nathan vaguely wondered if he was using the Voice on him. He doubted it. Paulson didn’t need much prodding. Whatever Quinn was saying must have been good, because Paulson looked excited. He nodded enthusiastically. Quinn stepped back and said loudly, “But put it in the back seat. We don’t want the girl choking to death on fumes before all the fun starts.”

Paulson nodded. “Why can’t we just leave Art here? We’ve got enough to handle as it is, and—”

Quinn shoved him toward Elizabeth. “Just do what I say and stop questioning me. You were right about needing the preacher, for now,” he added with a contemptuous gaze at Nathan, “but whether or not we find what we’re looking for, there will be a sacrifice to Molech tonight. And for that, we need his father. Now move.”

He turned back to Nathan. His composure had returned, though he was moving with more urgency, checking his watch often. “Get up, Dinneck. After I chat with your daddy we’re going to pay one last visit to the cemetery. See what trick your little caretaker friend tried to put over on us, eh?”

Nathan looked across the room, to the wreckage of the Ark. Part of him wondered the very same thing.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Nathan wished he could have seen his father, though he was certain Art Dinneck was so much under Quinn’s influence that it probably would have made no difference. It was possible the reason Quinn didn’t simply put Elizabeth back under was that he could only control so many people at one time. Especially in his current, near-panic state of mind. Quinn’s confidence had been shattered in the back room. Even now, as he led him and Josh across the dark grass of Greenwood Street Cemetery, he walked quickly, impatiently.

Time was running out, for all of them. Quinn included.

Nathan heard a subdued
pop
; then the pain in his right arm faded. His shoulder had slipped back into its socket. The shoulder had been a constant source of hurt since he’d landed on the floor, though he hadn’t realized how much until it was gone. The left side of his face, however, felt like he’d been loaded up with Novocain at the dentist’s office. Swollen and misshapen. It probably looked as bad as it felt.

He limped behind Quinn, not from any injury to his legs but rather from the ache in his back where he’d been kicked. Whatever damage had been done to his kidneys wasn’t high on his list of worries, since most likely he’d be dead soon.

He didn’t want to go back into the crypt. Though it would be a relief to have the ropes binding his hands behind him loosened, Nathan was pretty sure that once inside, he would never come out.

But John Solomon’s grave was not as they had left it.

The concrete slab was moved aside. Enough for someone to crawl in. Even as Quinn lost whatever composure he’d mustered over the past ten minutes, the implication of the scene made Nathan’s mind reel.

There had been someone else. Someone waiting in the wings for Nathan and his fellow stooges to be taken away, or killed, before moving in to remove the true treasure.

Shouting curses, Quinn tossed the slab aside as easily as he’d smashed the Ark in the back of the store. He flipped the lantern’s switch, bathing the area around the grave in light.

Josh stared at the angelic statues, waiting for his next order. Nathan and Quinn noticed the grass at the same time. Something had been dragged across it, glistening dark and wet in a wide, staggered path
away
from the open grave.

“Shoot Dinneck if he says one word!” Quinn forgot about the ladder and jumped into the grave with the lantern. Nathan found himself in darkness again, staring at the brightly lighted square in front of him. Quinn’s shadow bounced wildly against the visible section of wall. Whoever had come in here had dragged something away, toward the woods. But what could have caused the wet....
Tarretti. Oh Dear God
, Nathan thought.
He’s still alive
.

He searched the trees beyond the bordering wall, trying to determine which way Vincent could have gone. How
could
it be? He’d been shot point blank in the chest. Lazarus rising from his tomb. Nathan shuddered, and felt the end of Josh’s pistol press into his ribs. He did not move, after that.

Chapter Sixty-Three

This can’t be happening
. Peter Quinn cursed his earlier impatience. He should have put another bullet into the caretaker before leaving. But the man hadn’t breathed the entire time they’d been in this room.

Apparently, that wasn’t true. A long, smeared line of red traveled from the not-so-final resting place of Vincent Tarretti to a hole in the wall which had not been there earlier, then angled back to the ladder beside which Peter stood. The lamp shook in his hands.

He was alive, and had escaped with the real prize. He followed the blood trail to the opening in the wall and gave the cinder block a push. It was heavy. This was real blood around him. If Tarretti wasn’t dead, he was seriously hurt. How could he have moved something so big? Or the concrete slab above him?

There was no way. No way.

As had happened too often this night, Peter felt events slipping from his control. So long he’d waited, so joyously he’d congratulated himself at making his move at the right moment. Now everything was falling apart.

He reached into the hole at the base of the wall. It wasn’t big enough to hold the true Ark of the Covenant. That, he was certain now, would have been so much larger than the forgery he’d taken from here. How could he have thought that...
sham
... was the true Ark? It had been too small. It had looked so glorious when first seen, but so fake and wooden in the back room of the club. How? Was he susceptible to the same parlor tricks he played on others? No. His mind was too well-trained, and their God too passive to intervene so dramatically.

He sat back on his haunches, focusing on the moment. There
was
no Ark hidden here. Only the Covenant itself, laid within this wall so long ago. The tablets were obviously the true source of power. All was not lost, then. If a dead man had them, he couldn’t have gotten far. Not in only half an hour. Most of that time must have been burned by Tarretti simply getting out of this place. For all he knew, he was lying dead in the woods a few yards away or hiding behind another tombstone.

Even with these thoughts, Peter’s stomach burned with fear. It had been in his reach, or so he thought, and now it was gone. These disappearing acts had happened before; the caretakers never found.

Not this time
, he told himself.
Not this time
.

He stood at the base of the ladder, composing his own resolve before climbing. He’d already had to release his hold on the girl. Tonight’s events flustered him so badly he was surprised he still had control of Everson and Art Dinneck. He needed to focus, stay positive. All he had to do was follow the caretaker’s clear path and see where it led him.

He was spared this task when his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID:
M Paulson
. It had rung once before as he was parking in the cemetery’s small lot, with the ID “unknown caller.” His uncle’s man from Maine, no doubt, standing in front of the Hillcrest Men’s Club wondering where everyone had gone. Peter had allowed his voicemail to take that call. The phone was bound to ring again, and it would be Uncle Roger. When that happened, would he have the nerve to ignore it? Likely not. The man had as much hold on him as Peter had on these mindless locals.

He clicked the flash button. “Quinn speaking,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Paulson’s voice was shaking with either excitement or fear. “Um, Peter? Are you at the grave?”

Any other time, Peter would offer a short, threatening remark and hang up, but something in Paulson’s voice made him say, “Yes, and it’s empty. Tarretti’s gone, along with what I believe is the prize we’re after.”

A pause, then, “Well, I’m standing in the church right now, and you might want to come over here. Now. The caretaker’s here. I think he’s dead. He was carrying something in a bag. Pretty big, whatever it is. Can’t tell what; he’s lying on top—”

“Do nothing! Touch
nothing
until we get there.”

He wanted to be happy with this turn of events, but at the moment he couldn’t afford the luxury. Things had been within his reach before, only to slip away. He had to be careful. He had to be fast. Disconnecting and pocketing the phone, Peter climbed the ladder. The outside air was cooler than he remembered, such a contrast to the staleness of the crypt. An autumn breeze filled him with renewed hope.

Not this time
, he thought again.

Dinneck was standing where he’d left him, looking as helpless and pathetic as his father always had. His face was swollen, twin lines of blood drying along his jaw and neck. For a moment, Peter thought Everson might have shot him, but his own bruised knuckles reminded him that he himself had inflicted the damage.