The white-haired man took a step in their direction. “Mister Dinneck, the two of you stand on a very narrow ledge. I need your services, your brawn if you will, but the woman is valuable to me only as much as I can use her to control you. If you wish to test me on this, I will have our mutual friend send her to your God right now.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Quinn’s words hit Nathan more powerfully than any blow: the risk of Elizabeth being killed now, in a time of her life where she had denied God completely, let alone forsaken whatever superficial Christian beliefs she might have had. To die without God in one’s heart was to die for eternity. It wasn’t a lesson he often liked to preach. The threat of damnation was both a glue holding many to their faith and a deterrent to so many others. In this moment, he realized that her life, both in this world and beyond, was in his hands. It had always been, and until now, he’d failed miserably.
He let go of Elizabeth. Quinn smiled, the smug expression of a victor. “Thank you, Reverend.” He moved a couple of steps closer. “Miss... Elizabeth was it? Please come over here to stand beside this handsome man.”
She looked at Nathan for a moment, with no sign of worry or fear. During the confrontation at the men’s club, he’d felt the power of this man’s voice. He’d been able to resist it, barely and perhaps only through God’s own power in his life.
But Josh and Elizabeth hadn’t had the same shield. This... man... had been able to make Josh kill someone in cold blood. This thought, the despair it offered, was an ache in his chest. He needed to regain some control in the conversation, buy himself some time. He said to Quinn, “You killed Reverend Hayden, didn’t you?”
“So, there is something going on in your head aside from abject terror!” Quinn’s joy at winning was becoming barely contained hysteria. A school boy discovering everything he ever wanted under the Christmas tree.
No one spoke. Manny Paulson had ascended the ladder again, probably acting as lookout. Elizabeth and Josh stood quietly, barely moving. Peter Quinn had one hand to his chin, deep in thought while he looked at the Ark from various angles. At one point, he had stepped over Vincent’s body, giving it no more attention than a piece of trash. He stared, brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, then smoothing out. Satisfied with what he saw, Nathan supposed.
In the glare of the lantern, the Ark looked different. Nathan couldn’t place what it was at first; then, as if a magician’s veil was lifted away, he saw. He looked down, not wanting to let surprise show on his face. He looked back, just in case. He hadn’t imagined it. What had Tarretti said just before he’d been killed? He couldn’t remember. Those last moments were a blur.
At last Quinn looked up, down at the caretaker’s unmoving body, then over to Nathan.
“All right. Here’s what we’ll do, my young Padawan. I am certain that I, being a priest in my own right, could carry this out of here myself. It’s much smaller than I’d expected, but I can feel its power. Do you feel it, too, Reverend?”
Nathan did not answer. He did feel it, but now that whatever power of illusion this thing had held over him was no longer at work, he realized that the energy seemed not to come from in front of him... but rather from behind.
Quinn was nonplussed at the silence. He continued, “However, just to be safe, and to keep my hands free to kill your girlfriend if you try anything stupid, I’ll let you do the honors.”
He bowed dramatically, waving one arm toward the relic. To Josh he added, “Mister Everson, Miss Elizabeth, I would like you two to climb the ladder and stand by Mister Paulson. He is waiting for you.
“And, Mister Dinneck, please come over here and lift my little treasure chest, hmm? Best we gauge how heavy this thing is.” He smiled wider. “Not to mention how dangerous.”
Nathan reminded himself that there was still hope. Bad things had happened, were happening, but there were other layers here that he was now beginning to sense. Quinn was seeing, atop the concrete altar, what they’d all seen. If that was the case, there might be a chance. Not at the moment, but soon. Maybe. All he could think to do was play this psychopath’s game until an opportunity presented itself.
And if he died, well, it would be God’s will. Everything else had been that way up to this point. Though this current wrinkle might not have been in the playbook.
He took a breath, let it out slowly. Quinn watched him with obvious impatience. Nathan took two steps forward and raised his hands to either side of the Ark. This close, he saw its true nature. This was not the Ark of the Covenant, couldn’t be. It wasn’t even a good replica. What had been gold a moment ago was long-faded paint. But he needed to play along. He put his hands against the wooden box’s cool and dusty sides, and lifted.
“Don’t forget to use the knees, young man.” Quinn spoke without humor, too intently waiting for something terrible to happen.
If Quinn saw a gold-laden chest, Nathan needed to struggle. In fact, though the box was a bit heavy, it didn’t weigh nearly as much as it should.
It must be heavy, he told himself. Slowly, bending his knees, though he was certain he could carry this thing with one arm if it wasn’t so bulky, he laid it back down, giving it a slight push onto the concrete to mimic a sense of weight.
“It’s heavy,” he said, trying to sound out of breath.
Quinn smiled gleefully. “As well it should be. I apologize for not giving you enough notice, time to join a gym or something, but time is of the essence.” He nodded to Vincent’s body. “Wouldn’t do for us to be found in here with a dead man. Time to go topside and give Mister Tarretti that decent burial I promised.”
He walked around the room, always facing Nathan, and stopped at the ladder. “After you, Pastor. I’d offer to help, but I’d prefer you carry it until it can be properly consecrated on my own altar.”
In his relief, Nathan thought of a few retorts, but he held his tongue. He couldn’t show too much confidence. Quinn was smart enough to see through most deceptions. The question was, how long before he saw through this one?
He turned back to the box, took a deep breath, and prayed to God that he wouldn’t overact. He lifted it, turned, and took half-steps toward the ladder. As he did, a rope uncurled itself from outside. It was long enough for Nathan to tie securely to his burden and, he assumed, pull it to the surface himself.
“You didn’t think I’d make you carry it up the ladder? You may be young and strapping, but that might be asking a bit much. Lay it down here and tie it off.”
Quinn backed up until he was standing with his back to the wall, allowing Nathan room to put down the box and begin tying the rope in loops around it. Dust drifted up from the floor and the box’s lid as he worked. He had to stop more than once to cough. A taste like old, forgotten books lingered in his mouth. He worked the knots, silently thankful for his four years as a Cub Scout. When he was done, he stood and wiped dust onto his pants.
Quinn waved him up the ladder. “Up you go, please. And, Reverend? Don’t drop it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Nathan said, unable to resist.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Again, Peter Quinn chided himself for being too celebratory, too soon.
But he had it!
Sand, gripped too tightly in one’s hand, spilled. Caution, slow and steady progress was his only option. He checked that Paulson was waiting at the lip of the opening as the minister ascended the ladder. Dinneck kept one hand on the rope as if never quite wanting to leave the treasure completely alone. Something the two of them had in common. There was more than enough rope, and he assumed Paulson had already secured the other end up top, maybe to the statue of the pathetic angels. He would see if the preacher could lift the vessel on his own. If not, he’d have Josh Everson help him. Though he might still serve a purpose—there was already blood on his hands as it was, and with the same gun used on the old minister—he was also the most expendable. Peter assumed the woman would serve as the best inspiration for Dinneck to play along.
Looking again at the glorious Ark before him, he was certain the preacher could lift it out, though not without some effort. Again, its size bothered him, and the lack of cherubim atop the mercy seat. Perhaps they’d been broken off, stolen ages ago during its many travels. He looked closer, trying to see if there were any other questionable features. The gold was radiant; certainly it was real. If that were so, however, how could Dinneck lift it? His smile faded a notch. Then he felt the power of the thing, like a wave washing across the room.
His smile returned. It was his. His!
No, he corrected himself. Not mine. It belonged to the great god Molech. Peter was only a servant. He forced the smile down, not wanting to sound too smug when he told Uncle Roger the news.
Let the man think he still had the upper hand. When their god chose leaders for his new temple on earth, Peter would have his day. He reached into his pocket and produced the cell phone. The signal was strong, even down here. Yet another positive turn of events. He pressed the speed-dial labeled RQ.
The phone rang on the other end of the line. As he waited, Peter felt something like a ball of clay grow in his stomach. What if his uncle didn’t believe him? He needed to be calm but confident. Play it cool, but assertive.
“Quinn speaking,” a gruff voice answered. Peter wanted to take a deep breath before speaking, but what sort of confidence would that imply?
“Uncle Roger, good evening. I have some news.”
Roger Quinn’s sigh crackled across the connection, which had a tinny quality to it this time. Maybe the energy emitted from the slowly rising Ark was causing interference. “Peter. I should have known. Is the chase off, as I expected? Another false alarm?”
Curse you, old man, he thought. I wish I could see your face in person when I say this. “Actually, Uncle, quite the opposite. I—we, I should say—are now in possession of that which we’ve sought for so long. The Ark of the Covenant is ours. It’s being lifted out of the crypt right now.”
Dinneck was making slow progress, pausing to catch his breath. Peter heard Paulson’s voice from above but ignored it. “One moment, Uncle. Be careful, Reverend,” he said louder. “Damaging it now will cost you and your girlfriend dearly.”
Roger still had not responded. Peter remained silent. He could wait. The Ark was nearing the concrete lip. Dinneck was saying something. Again, Paulson’s voice, clearly saying, “No way, Man. I ain’t touching that thing.”
“Just the rope for heaven’s sake. I need both hands.”
Uncle Roger’s voice finally returned. “How can you be sure it is real, Peter?” Not a mocking tone, but not entirely convinced.
“I can’t be, Uncle. Not yet. But the vessel is covered in quite ornate gold leaf. It would be an awfully expensive forgery to be sure. We’re moving with caution, though.” He wanted to mention the power he felt emanating from it, but could not decide how to describe it accurately without sounding foolish.
Paulson must have conceded to hold the rope, for Dinneck was now standing on the second-to-top rung of the ladder and trying to lift the chest above his head. Then it was up, and resting on the surface. Dinneck disappeared from view.
Peter felt a wash of relief. Closer now than ever before, he thought.
Roger was speaking again, and he tried to focus. “...man I sent down from Maine’s name is Lou Hautala. He should be there by midnight. Where will you be?”
Now, he noticed, Roger’s voice was tinged with excitement. Considering how excited he felt himself, how much more breathless must his aging and overweight uncle be?
“We’ll be at the storefront, in the back room. We’ll arrive in the alley and I’ll be sure to send any loiterers out front home before we examine the contents.”
“Send them all home, yes, but don’t do anything else until I arrive!” Roger’s voice was strained toward panic. “This may be nothing, but I’d be a fool to let you do anything further without our people there. If it is the true Ark... if it is...”
His voice trailed off. Peter imagined his uncle’s eyes darting across the room, lost in swirling thoughts. Even with the apparent insult just given, he was overjoyed at the reaction. But how long would it take for him to get all the way to Hillcrest?
“Uncle Roger,” he said, tentatively, “it’s quite a long trip from Chicago, and no telling when you’ll find a flight. I’d be happy to wait for your man from Maine, but I feel strongly we should at least do more to validate the find before you waste any money or time on such a trip.”
“I’m closer than you think, Peter. I should be over Providence by the time Hautala shows up at your doorstep. Expected arrival in Boston at one-fifteen. I have a car lined up when I get there.”
Peter rolled his eyes. Roger hadn’t been as skeptical as he’d sounded during their previous discussion. He‘d booked a red-eye into Logan.
“Well,” he said, trying to keep the growing disappointment from his voice, “that’s good news. It’s an hour drive from Boston to Hillcrest, so I should expect you by, what, two-thirty?”
“Secure the Ark, wait for Lou and do nothing else until we arrive.”
Roger disconnected.
We? How many were coming with him? Peter flipped the phone closed with a loud snap. The man was coming to take the glory. Peter may have redeemed himself but his uncle wouldn’t let him get any credit.
He swore under his breath, trying to regain the calm he’d need when he went up to join the others. At the foot of the ladder he looked up at the corner of the Ark visible from his vantage point. He was suddenly much more worried about how this evening would progress. What if it wasn’t real? What if this was a diversion, like so many others in the past?
He lifted the lantern and stepped onto the ladder, feeling the old wood creak under his weight. He remembered Vincent Tarretti. He waved the lantern in the man’s direction, like a conductor hanging from the edge of a train’s caboose. In the shadows, the caretaker still had not moved. From the amount of blood on the wall and puddled about him, Tarretti was definitely a corpse. Another bullet in him would be good insurance. Still, they’d be lucky if no one heard them the first time. Best not risk it.
He clambered out of the hole, carefully avoiding the Ark, and moved to where the slab rested at a cockeyed angle on the far side.
“Move the Ark away from the opening.”
Dinneck hesitated a moment, then lifted the chest and laid it back down a few feet away with a dull thud. The man was young and strong, but he seemed to have worn himself out pulling the thing up. Peter gave a renewed command to Everson and the girl, then with Paulson’s help slid the slab back over the hole. They moved slowly, lest it drop through the hole and shatter, leaving the evidence inside open to the world. Most of the potential noise from moving the slab was muffled by moss and soil lining the edge. When it was back in place, he stepped on it to make sure it was secure, kicking dirt and leaves over the edges. He would send Paulson back here later to do a better camouflage job.
For now, they needed to leave. He checked his watch. Ten-thirty. Time was running out before the prize would be taken from him.
“Mister Paulson,” he said, straightening and wiping the dirt from his hands. “Take the girl with you in your car. The reverend will return with me and my able-bodied assistant.” Both Josh and Elizabeth made no reaction. He noticed the minister staring intently at the girl, as if his will alone—feeble as it was—could break the spell. “If we do not arrive at the back of the store within five minutes of your own arrival, bring the girl back here, shoot her, and drop her into the grave with Tarretti.”
Manny Paulson smiled gleefully. In that moment, Peter became certain that he was too much a sociopath to leave alive once this was over.
“It would be my pleasure. Do I have to shoot her right away, or...?” He nodded in her direction and let the implication linger.
“For now I’d suggest you curb that imagination of yours. Besides, Mister Dinneck will be the epitome of cooperation. Won’t you?”
Nathan glared at him and said, “Let’s just get this over with.”
Peter glared back at him and thought, Impudence will kill you all the more quickly. He said nothing. Let the boy think he’s strong, until he dies in the flames as the first sacrifice. He felt a luscious wave of arousal at the thought.
He told Elizabeth to go with Paulson, then waved the group on. Manny and the girl headed for the parking area. Nathan lifted the Ark, with Josh and the gun close behind. Peter Quinn followed his ad-hoc parade out of the cemetery, toward his car parked down the street.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Vincent Tarretti wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive. The voices in the room faded in and out of his consciousness. After he’d fallen to the floor, he remembered nothing at first, just a vast empty darkness. Then voices came to him, distantly as if he was sleeping in bed and they talked quietly in another room. He didn’t open his eyes, wasn’t sure if he could. He knew he wasn’t dead. Death was not that emptiness from which he’d just emerged.
He dared not move. His body hurt everywhere, especially his chest. A small fire burned inside him, flaring up and dying out with every shallow breath. He was no use to Dinneck and his girlfriend now. He remembered being shot, maybe even in the chest. Whether his survival was luck or the will of God, he would make no supposition. They thought him dead. Every part of him screamed to stay still, not to let them know they were unsuccessful. If they knew, the boy who shot him might finish the job. The longer the others lingered, the less focused his mind became. He felt blood spilling from his body, out his front, down his back. At one point, it felt as if he was drowning. Panic set in. He needed to sit up, let someone know he was alive or he’d choke on his own blood.
But there was the Covenant to think about. He never had a chance to finish his warning to Nathan Dinneck when the shooter dropped in. Dinneck did not know the truth. Maybe that was good, now that the adversaries were in control. He wondered if the power veiling the chest’s true nature would diminish the further it was moved away from its source.
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