Solomon's Grave (34 page)

“You’ll never guess, Reverend, where we’re going.” He nodded to Everson. “Bring him back to the car, please.” With that, he walked across the grounds toward the parking lot.

Not this time
.

Chapter Sixty-Four

One more time. I know it hurts, but one... more... time!
Elizabeth kicked with both feet against the trunk. There wasn’t enough room in the cramped confines to give herself any leverage. Like the four previous attempts, her sneakers hit the inside of the trunk lid with an ineffectual thud. She paused, listening for any footsteps, for the man Paulson to open the hatch and shoot her.

Nothing. She wasn’t certain if the guy even
had
a gun. Still, with her hands tied behind her, he could do her plenty of damage.

Another sob worked itself up. She swallowed it back down. The psycho had tied a dirty rag around her mouth before throwing her in here, and the constant nausea she felt from its stench made her worry that crying would be the straw that sent her vomiting into the gag. God knew what would happen then.

Was she at the church? Quinn said to bring her here, but had then whispered something else she couldn’t hear. For all she knew, they were clear on the other side of town. The turns felt right, though.

Not that it mattered. Quinn was seriously nuts. More than Tarretti or even Nate. And what was with Nate’s dad? Hopping into the car and chatting with Paulson about a Red Sox game they were going to. Did he really think they were heading to Fenway Park at midnight? Another loony in a town
full
of loonies.

She remembered, reluctantly, that fuzzy period after Tarretti had been shot, when she drove with Paulson to the alley to meet the others. She’d
wanted
to go with him, nothing more than an evening drive with an old friend. The world had been a hazy whiteness, like she was sleepwalking, or half awake under the sheets. Memory of that time seemed clearer now than when it actually happened.

Is that what was going on with Mister Dinneck? Did he even know where he was?

No, no, no
! She kicked the truck again in her frustration. This was insane. Mad Karnak the Hypnotic Genius was
not
controlling everyone’s minds. Josh was
not
a murderer. Nathan was
not
chosen by his God to—

“NNN!” she shouted through the gag and kicked the trunk again, and again, and again.

The trunk popped open.

For a full minute, she lay there, sucking the cool, beautiful air into her nostrils as it flooded into the trunk. She stared at the billion stars in the sky.

Well
, she thought with a sudden calm,
this is a good sign
.

Even as she squirmed to get into a position to raise herself up, Elizabeth heard the sound of an approaching car.
Thank God. Yes, hurry
. There was no time to be dainty. She rolled out of the trunk, slammed onto the pavement and broke the fall with a sloppy half-roll. As she did, she noticed two things at once. She was, indeed, in the parking lot behind Nathan’s church. And, the car she heard was pulling around the building and coming her way. Speeding up, actually.

She moaned through the gag.
Please, no
.

The car stopped a yard from her, engine running, headlights blinding her to everything but the vague shape of the driver’s door opening. Someone stepped out. For the slightest of moments she thought—or hoped—the voice she heard would belong to some concerned parishioner stopping by to check on his young pastor. But, of course, it belonged to Quinn The Magnificent. She sighed into her gag.

“Well, well, the damsel in distress tires of waiting for her—”

Elizabeth stumbled to her feet and ran toward the church. Realizing the error in this, she cut sideways and made for the woods. Quinn appeared in front of her, arms open.

“Not so fast, young lady.”

“MMM NNN SS ELZZZHHH!” she screamed and sent her knee up between his legs. He closed them in time to trap her leg, then twisted his body sideways. She fell off balance onto the ground. He grabbed her bound arms and pulled her up. She squirmed, but his hands were all over her, strong, confident, assuring she could not escape. He was stronger than he looked.

“Enough,” he said. “Calm down
now
or you go back into the trunk and you will never leave it again.” He kept his voice low but the honesty in the threat was clear. She stopped struggling, telling herself the battle wasn’t over. She wouldn’t give up.

She sifted sideways, enough to get his overly curious hands to shift, then said, “WZZ NNT?”

He began to lead her toward the church door. He waved a hand toward the car and the passenger door opened. Josh got out, opened the back door and gestured to Nathan with the gun.

Quinn said, “NNT,” mocking her gagged speech, “is right here. Time to play nice with your friends now—Elizabeth, was it?—or someone is going to get hurt.”

Nate was tied in a similar manner as herself, though he was fortunate enough not to have a rag stuffed in his mouth. He looked at her, tried to smile but winced as his bruised cheek stretched painfully. He settled for a small nod, then focused on the sidewalk.

She glared at her captor. “WW DON OOH JZZS HHHMMMTZZ MM AGN?”

“Well,” Quinn said, ushering her into the back door, which was now open with an impatient Paulson waiting for them, “I could
hypnotize
you again quite easily, as you’re well aware. But then we’d have no need of the gag and I’d miss you talking in such an eloquent manner. I’m beginning to enjoy this little game of ‘What is ELZZZHHH saying?’”

“FF YEW, YEW...”

 “Elizabeth,” Nate’s voice, behind her. “Chill out. Our time’ll come, I promise.”

Quinn laughed. “That’s the first correct thing you’ve said all night, Pastor.”

Hearing Nate’s voice brought with it a surprising calm. She was with him again. That was
something
, at least. For better or worse. They entered the darkened kitchen, then into the church hall. Things were quickly moving toward the
for worse
part, when Paulson shined his flashlight into the sanctuary.

Behind the gag, Elizabeth screamed.

Chapter Sixty-Five

As a group, they walked slowly around the sanctuary, staring at the scene in the flickering light from Paulson’s unsteady hands. A man’s body lay prone in front of the podium. A thin trail of blood smeared along the floor, leading back the way they’d come. Nathan had noticed the trail dotting the sidewalk, but hadn’t time to consider it because of Elizabeth and Quinn’s argument.

Now he understood. Vincent Tarretti, if he hadn’t been dead before, had to be now. There was a gaping jagged hole in the back of his jacket. Small puddles of blood pooled around his body, less than Nathan would have expected if the man were still alive.

“It’s there,” Paulson said, moving the light so the bright center of the beam shone on something half-covered by Vincent’s body. “I don’t know if it was already here, or if he carried the thing all the way, but—” He stopped, his voice reaching a fevered pitch as he spoke. He must have realized how he sounded and simply stopped talking.

Quinn stepped past the short railing and knelt a small distance from the body. All was silent, and then Nathan heard the sound. He looked around, unable to place its source, deciding perhaps that it was only in his head. Singing, maybe? That made no sense. Voices, yes, but distant, changing in cadence and pitch. Chants, like monks, then only wind through the trees, applause, a child crying, water, thunder, more voices, an orchestra playing one incessant note....

Peter Quinn stumbled backward until he was outside the short railing. His movements were of a man suddenly terrified. In his face, however,—even in the half light of Paulson’s flashlight—was the unmistakable glow of rapturous joy. With his movement, the sound diminished, fading to nothing, coming back to linger in the back of Nathan’s head.

“Turn off the light a moment,” Quinn whispered.

“What?”

A little louder, “Turn it off.”

With a click, they were cast in darkness, save for the glow of one streetlight shining through the stained glass windows. A glow, faint, like a child’s glow-stick the day after trick-or-treat, emanated from beneath Vincent Tarretti. Nathan blinked. He struggled to find a thought that fit what he was seeing. The light wasn’t really there. That made no sense.

He cleared his throat, needing to break the silence. He knew, with no more doubt, that Vincent had been telling the truth. Perhaps not the
entire
truth, as evidenced by the false Ark, but he knew what lay beneath the man’s body. It was what these people had been after. At least part of it.

God, what do I do
?

The flashlight lit the scene again, this time in the grip of Quinn himself. His voice was breathy, as if in the throes of passion. “Move the body, now. Carefully! Do not touch the package beneath him.”

Manny Paulson looked incredulous. “You’re not serious. You think I didn’t see that? I can hear something, too. Something’s not right here.”

“Do it, or I’ll have Mister Everson shoot you in the heart. Let’s see if you last as long as Tarretti did.”

Paulson looked over at the other three. He seemed about to say something else, perhaps suggest one of
them
do the job, but apparently decided against it. With Quinn keeping the light shining toward the podium, Paulson stepped forward.

Nathan looked away a moment, and almost jumped in surprise. Sitting in the fourth pew, a serene expression on his face, sat Art Dinneck.

Nathan whispered, “Dad?”

“Not another word, Dinneck,” said Quinn, his voice losing some of its earlier awe. He kept his eyes riveted on his assistant. Paulson reached down and gripped Vincent’s bloody shoulder as Quinn added, “Not another sound.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

The Red Sox were down by three runs in the second inning. It was still early. The crowd eagerly cheered for the new batter. Beside Art, Paulson took a bite of his hot dog and said nothing. In the man’s silence, Art felt obliged also not to speak. Manny had said something to that effect, some word or suggestion when they found their seats that told Art it was time to watch the game and keep silent.

The rookie, Baker, was up. The count was two balls, one strike. Lead runner moving from first, a bit too far. He’d better be careful. A homerun right now would bring them to within one. Art closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sun warm his face.

Dad
?

Nathan loved coming to the games. Now that he was in town, he should call him. Make some amends for all the trouble lately.

He opened his eyes. Paulson took another bite of his hot dog, staring intently at the game. He’d already taken quite a few bites, but there was still a lot left to it. Maybe he’d bought two. Art looked at the cardboard tray on his friend’s lap. Nope, nothing else.

That was weird.

For a moment, Fenway Park was lost in a haze. Art rubbed his eyes. Nathan was standing a few aisles down, looking back at him. This wasn’t the ballpark. He was in church. Everything was dark. For some reason, he wasn’t startled at finding himself first in Boston then Hillcrest. A slow understanding unraveled inside him.

“Nate?” He tried to smile and lift his hand to wave, hoping he could explain what was going on. Fenway Park returned for a moment, then the church. The only constant was Nate standing in front of him.

“Nathan is not here. Be quiet now; the batter’s about to get a double. Just watch the game.” Nathan blinked from existence. The park was back in its full green splendor. Art felt the excitement of the moment filling him. Wild foul ball by Baker. He was staying with it. Something stilled nagged at him, though. Had he just seen Nate? No, of course not. He needed to get some more sleep, daydreaming like this. He was in Fenway Park. His son was in Florida. Working with a parish there—

Nate had come home.

Just his imagination. Baker swung at a low, inside pitch (at least, Art thought that was what was pitched, it was hard to tell from these far-angle bleacher seats).
Crack
! A line drive up the middle between second and third base. Everyone screamed. The Orioles’ shortstop dove, missed. The crowd went crazy. Art just smiled.

Hadn’t they been playing the Yankees?

Why couldn’t he just enjoy the game? Beside him, Paulson took another bite of his never-ending hot dog.

The Yankees must have been a different game. Beverly was right. They needed a vacation. He looked down at his seat. Instead of the small plastic chairs, it was wood, like a pew. No, no, these were Fenway seats.

Beverly
. He did tell her about the game, didn’t he?

Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong....

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Manny Paulson would gladly have run naked down Main Street rather than grab this dead man’s shoulder. Tarretti’s windbreaker was wet in places, stiff in others with blood in various stages of drying. He used both hands to turn the man over.

“Nate?”

The voice startled him and he turned back toward the pews to see who’d spoken. Apparently everyone else had been surprised by Art Dinneck’s voice, because they were also looking back. Manny felt Tarretti’s body slump away from his grip. Quinn was aiming the flashlight at Dinneck. The man was leaning forward in his seat, eyes still glazed, but he’d spoken his son’s name.

“Mister Dinneck,” came that creepy voice Quinn used too often for Manny’s comfort, “Nathan is not here. Be quiet now; the batter’s going to get a double. Just watch the game.”

Art sat back against the seat, his suddenly troubled expression softening into its earlier, moronic complacency. Manny wondered, not for the first time, how often Quinn pulled that trick on Manny, himself. He assumed he’d remember it, but seeing how Art and the others had been so well-controlled all these months, maybe he wouldn’t.

Quinn shined the light back toward the podium and said, “Let’s hurry this—” and said nothing else.