When the man suddenly packed up the studio apartment he maintained two blocks from his brother’s family, and prepared to move to Chicago, he invited his twelve-year-old nephew to join him. Peter’s parents refused, wanting him in school and not trusting Roger to be strict enough with the boy. Max Quinn was a distracted man, working long hours in the tool shop and bringing home too few dollars to show for it. He made no bones about the odds of his son ever being able to go to college. But a high school diploma was one thing he could offer him, something he himself never earned. The night Uncle Roger left Muncie Indiana forever, he came to the house and had a quiet whispering conversation with his brother and sister-in-law. Peter waited anxiously in his room, already packed.
Max and Abby Quinn were sitting on the couch watching television when Roger called Peter’s name and said it was time to leave. His parents looked up sleepily when Roger waved his nephew toward the door. “No need to say goodbye, Peter. Your mother and father are too immersed in their show. They have, however, agreed to let you come with me.” The last he saw of his parents was the slow turning of heads, in perfect unison, back toward the television set. It was then that Peter Quinn had the first true glance at his uncle’s power. Over the next ten years, the man phoned Peter’s parents often, lying about a school his nephew never attended, each time lowering his voice to a whisper before hanging up.
Peter Quinn learned everything about his uncle’s true mission in life. His, and others’. Dozens, perhaps hundreds—their numbers known only to a few—of disciples like himself scattered across the globe, servants of Molech. They were modern Ammonites, an association reflected only in the dark god they served rather than any lifestyle. They were bloodhounds. Sniffing, searching. Always cautious. Funding their covert activities through other, more conventional means, including an extensive drug cartel and occasional prostitution ring. The Quinns’ specific line of business was mostly a respectable one, loan collections and money laundering. Any occasional drug-running was done only as a cooperative effort with the many pre-established channels in the city.
Uncle Roger and his people preferred to keep low profiles. Waiting for the day that their adversaries, who hoarded the prize like frightened children, made a mistake.
The general consensus among the worldwide Ammonite movement was that these zealots were well-organized, both Christians and Jews, able to communicate quickly and discreetly among themselves. Peter Quinn’s people were patient. The prize was rightfully theirs. To appease his many wives, old King Solomon himself pledged servitude to their gods, to the point of building temples to them. Most of these other gods were weak, at times nothing more than cheap clay monuments. But Molech—when one declares devotion to the master, he does so forever. As such, the king had given up any rights to property. All was to be offered to the master. Among all the treasures of that ancient age, there was one they desired most. The Ark of the Covenant. Its mere presence offered the power to destroy any enemy. There were other reasons, as well, why the relic was so precious, reasons which Peter didn’t think warranted too much consideration. Echoes of a superstitious time, best put behind them if they were to focus on the present. Talk of it being an actual gateway into Heaven, a door through which the very God of the Israelites would move when he deemed to do so. And like any door, it could swing both ways. Ludicrous, in Peter’s opinion, but a concept that served to drive his predecessors with more force than the obvious wealth such a possession would promise.
But until this age, it was not to be. If rumors and legends were to be believed, a handful of priests in Solomon’s court discreetly smuggled it west into the land of Ethiopia. They never returned. Other theories pointed to Josiah, one of the last kings of Judah. Knowing the end was coming when his obsessive destruction of the altars to Molech and Baal—including the priests who served at them—did not appease his God, he chose to have the Ark stolen away to safety before his death. Regardless, when the Babylonian army at last swarmed into Jerusalem, the relic was gone.
Quinn’s predecessors came close in their search many times, felt the power at their fingertips. The experience of such proximity was chronicled in official documents preserved for centuries—even, in a few cases, for millennia.
Peter spent his early days with Uncle Roger studying these accounts, watching as the man traced theoretical travel routes over the centuries on a well-worn wall map. From the African continent, to the Mediterranean and an extended stay in Greece during the Middle Ages, the wastelands of Russia, back to a small village in what was currently called Uruguay. Eventually to the self-proclaimed Free World. The last time a confirmed sighting occurred was a year before the turn of the twentieth century, in Arizona. The desert landscape was a mirror image of its original homeland. But the Ark was gone when his predecessors found their way into the recently-abandoned cave once belonging to a relocated Yavapai Indian tribe. Twin wooden carvings of angels stood sentry, their crude renderings of wings crossing each other over the cave’s narrow entrance.
Then nothing. Year after year after year.
Until now.
When Peter arrived in Worcester, Massachusetts he began a slow, methodical search of the city and its surrounding towns. He often wondered if he would end up like so many others who came before him, his life spent in fruitless search, never feeling the prize brushing so close to his fingertips as it had been these past few months. When he discovered the existence of Solomon’s grave, he felt a rush of certainty that his mission was going to be different—glorious perhaps. The misunderstanding in Chicago was not a blunder, but a necessary step taken by his master to send his Chosen One here, to the very doorstep of heaven’s power. It was a drug a thousand times more potent than any he’d taken in his youth.
Still, training taught caution. This town was a reflection of a much different world than where the relic had ever before resided. He must move slowly, establish a small cadre of followers, aides for when the prize was uncovered. Those whose minds and souls could be controlled. Except for Manny Paulson who, by his nature, was evil enough that he could be controlled simply with the promise of power. He and the others could be eliminated or left to themselves if the location proved a ruse, a red herring planted like so many others in the past.
The angels and the name of the gravestone, after all, were too convenient.
Still, the grave had sat here almost a hundred years without being discovered. The United States was a big country, this town an insignificant speck. So easy for it to remain unnoticed.
His next steps were clear—stir the pot as he’d done today with Tarretti, and wait for someone to make a move, reveal whether John Solomon’s grave was his target. In the past, false locations were more than simple diversions. They were death traps, man-sized Roach Motels luring the unwary inside and devouring them. Best to keep an eye on the prize, but with an open mind and cautious step. Paulson was keeping the caretaker under casual observation. If Tarretti made a move, Peter would hear about it.
What of Hayden? Rules set down centuries ago would be no different today. Their God was like that, big on tradition. Too many corpses lined the streets of the past, men and women foolish enough to test it.
But wasn’t Peter, himself, a priest serving a much mightier deity than their silent God? When the time came, he was certain he could carry it to the feet of Molech, to the new temple which his people would finally build.
The fabled yet very real Ark of the Covenant, the ornate chest housing the stone tablets on which Yahweh Himself scrawled his Commandments to the Israelites—and at one time containing the budding staff of a man named Aaron, the Book of the Law and even some manna which had supposedly fallen from Heaven—would finally be delivered to its true owner. And, if those crackpots of yesteryear were to be believed, the very portal into Heaven would be opened. A doorway through which Peter Quinn’s dark master and his legions of damned would pass and wreak long-awaited vengeance on those who cast him out. There were some in their group who believed this latter part very much. Thes
e were the true elders of the Ammonite organization, reclusive people whom Peter hoped never to meet. Unlike his Uncle Roger. The only time the man had shown the smallest sign of humility, or fear, in front of his nephew was the one time Peter asked about these people. Of course Roger told him nothing. Why waste his breath on his own nephew?
Peter Quinn took a cleansing breath and leaned back onto his heels. There were final preparations needing attention, including some flowers to personally deliver in a week. Not to the cemetery. The flowers would be for Hayden, to greet him on his arrival at the monastery. An excuse for Peter to learn where in the complex the man was staying. After that, he and Pastor Hayden had much to talk about.
Chapter Fifteen
Nathan met and spoke to a dozen-plus parishioners Monday morning. They had stopped by the church to see how he was feeling, or used some other pretense. Always the same questions, but asked with genuine concern—at least outwardly. He’d gotten his explanation for yesterday’s collapse down to a reasonable, but condensed, rhetoric. He spoke with an easy, unconcerned smile, but inside he squirmed with embarrassment. The dread he’d felt about facing the group at Wednesday night’s Bible study and next weekend’s service slowly dissipated. Everyone seemed to understand, more so perhaps because he was already one of them, someone familiar, given a little more slack than an untested newcomer.
He’d slept soundly all last night and did not dream. Nathan felt better, but the nagging continued in the back of his mind. If he didn’t face it soon, the same thing might happen all over again.
The agenda for Monday afternoon, planned out by Hayden, was lighter than usual. He’d apparently decided to play it safe and give Nathan extra down time.
Upon returning from the Spring River nursing home in West Boylston, a warm-up of sorts for his visit to Elizabeth’s place tomorrow, Nathan had a wide break in his schedule between one and three o’clock. Hayden gave the pretense of needing to pack more items and suggested Nathan take a nap.
It had begun to rain, but this didn’t keep Nathan from taking a walk. The weather kept most people indoors, and no car passed him along Greenwood Street. He could just as easily have walked through the short patch of woodland separating the church from the cemetery, but after yesterday’s incident he didn’t want to be caught wandering in the woods alone. It wouldn’t help his already shaky image.
No sign of Tarretti’s Blazer. That was good. The fewer questions from him or anyone else, the better. The large umbrella Nathan had found in the back closet, smelling slightly of mold, and the long black slicker his parents had sent him two years ago when he was in Florida were good protection from the rain. He would likely wear the coat more often now that he was in a climate better suited to its purpose. He walked into the heart of the cemetery, along the same route they’d followed last week.
He did not stop when he saw the twin angels.
Just get this over with and move on, he told himself. The ground was soft, the damp air crisp with the smells of early leaves beginning to turn. Cold water leaked into his shoes when he stepped in a puddle. His gaze was riveted on the statues’ faces, as much as theirs seemed to be on each other. At last he stopped, looking up at their gray, lifeless expressions.
Rain dripped off stone noses and chins. Small details had worn thin by weather and time. Their wings stretched up from their backs and touched at the tips, blending into each other to become one solid piece. Nathan supposed this was deliberate, in order that one or the other did not tip too much to the side.
This was what he’d seen yesterday, and also in the dream his first night here. Was it a premonition, or could his imagination be strong enough to associate weather predictions with his plans to come here today?
As much as he tried to rationalize, no reason felt like truth. He was meant to come here, was sent here. It was the only rationale that worked. But sent by whom? God? He reflexively shook his head and examined the gravesite.
The headstone was a wide, square base supporting the stonework. Like the faces above it, the inscription was worn by seasons.
John Solomon, it read. 1852 – 1909.
Reading the name sent an electric buzz through his body. That feeling of something missing, of a detail lodged in his brain slowly coming loose.
Solomon. The name was biblical, of course. Nathan tried to recall any Jewish families in town by that name. Of course, this was a very old grave. He looked at the angels. The association between their posture and the name on the inscription was obvious. Solomon’s temple, housing the Ark of the Covenant. Two golden cherubs standing guard atop the mercy seat, or lid, protecting the tablets of the ten commandments. The association felt more than an artistic interpretation of the deceased’s name. The missing detail, perhaps, but its significance eluded him.
Nathan wondered, not for the last time, if he was simply going mad.
He walked around the base looking for additional writing, some sort of epitaph other than a name and dates. Nothing. Concrete scraped under his shoe, partly buried beneath years of dirt and leaves. The base was massive, more so toward the front.
Not just a simple grave, then, but a crypt?
He walked around the statue one more time, rain dripping from the umbrella down his back. No sign of an entrance. Judging from the dates, if one existed, it was buried under a century of sediment.
Like Peter Quinn the previous day, he had an urge to fall to his knees and dig, uncover the entrance, expose the truth.
If he did that, he surely was insane.
He stood a moment longer, staring down, listening passively to the rain above him, then turned and walked quickly away. The water-soaked ground was soft under his feet. He had faced his dreams, but felt no closer to a resolution. Maybe he should see a doctor. He emerged onto Greenwood Street and looked around. No one coming either way. That was good.
On the walk back to the church, Nathan again tried to find an association between the elaborate headstone and everything that had happened. He’d dreamt of a temple. It wasn’t anything like Solomon’s as far as he could tell.
He sighed. It would come to him eventually.
He hoped.
Chapter Sixteen
“Systems, Art Dinneck.”
“Hi, Dad. How’s work going?”
“Nate? How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, Dad, honest.” He reiterated what the EMTs had told him, keeping to the basics. His mother had likely covered the details with his father the night before. He’d been back from his walk only a few minutes but couldn’t relax. It seemed like as good a time as any to check in with his father, try to learn a little more about what was going on. “I’m just getting to a few bits of paperwork Pastor Hayden left for me. He says anything to do with red tape has officially been passed on to me.”
“Very generous.” From his voice, he knew his father was smiling.
Nathan asked, “What have they got you doing these days?” He wanted to jump in to the topic of the men’s club, but instincts told him to move slowly, keep his father from getting defensive.
“Oh, same old, same old. I’ll be a mainframe dinosaur until I retire. I’m too old to learn any of the GUI, object-oriented stuff the kids work on today. Besides, someone’s got to keep the lights on in this place.”
Nathan only understood half of what his father just said, but he didn’t care. The working world wasn’t something he’d ever have to worry about understanding, save for its effect on his parishioners.
“The pastor’s last service is next weekend; then I officially take over.”
“That’s good.” Then, as if Art couldn’t think of anything else to say he repeated, “That’s good, Nate.” No I’m proud of you, his trademark line. It seemed the right time to broach the reason he’d called.
“Listen, Dad. I know I’ve been away a lot with school, then my stint in Florida. Been kind of out of touch lately.”
“Naw,” Art said. “You called more than most children probably ever would in their l
ifetime. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, OK.” Nathan fiddled with a blue and white Bic pen he’d lifted off the desk. “Still, you’ve joined this new group in town and I don’t know anything about it. I have to admit it’s got me a little curious.”
The pause which followed made Nathan wonder if he’d already gone too far. His suspicions were confirmed when Art finally said, “Your mother put you up to this?”
“No, not at all. She doesn’t even know I’m calling. I’m just curious. You’re an adult; you can do whatever you want. I’m just wondering, like I said. I—”
“It’s just a bunch of us guys from town getting together, shooting the breeze. Nothing to get uptight about.” His voice was terse, without the comfortable warmth of a minute ago. Nathan knew he should just let it drop, but something pushed him on. Whatever his father was involved in suddenly felt bigger. Nathan wondered again if this change in behavior had less to do with the men’s club, than with something in the man himself. Drinking? God forbid, another woman? The latter seemed too out of place. Too much to swallow.
“Well,” Nathan said, hardening himself for a possible argument. “Let’s just say I like to know what my new congregation is up to.”
“I’m not part of your congregation, Reverend. I’m your father. Don’t forget that.”
The statement, and its cold, unfamiliar tone hit Nathan as if his father had physically punched him. He found himself without anything to say.
Art continued, “Listen, I have to get back to work. If there’s nothing else?”
Nathan moved his lips, feeling the emotion, the rejection creep along his skin and settle in his chest. He finally managed to say, “No, I guess not.”
“Thanks for calling. I’ll talk to you later.”
The line disconnected. Nathan continued to hold the phone, even when its warning klaxon bleated in his ear.
On the other end of the severed connection, Art Dinneck buried his face in his hands and leaned on the cubicle’s desktop. He took a deep breath through closed fingers, willed himself not to start sobbing. Why had he spoken like that, to Nate of all people? Why did he do the same thing to Beverly every time she asked the same question? It was as if some switch in his head turned on whenever someone pushed him for answers. They’re intruding, a buried voice said, How dare they ask you about us? You’re a grown man—you can make your own decisions. At times it sounded like an actual voice, but when he tried to place it, the sensation passed.
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