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.
“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, perh
aps 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.
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