“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.
Manny looked down. One hand still held loosely to Tarretti’s shoulder even though the man’s body lay against the front of the podium.
Tarretti’s eyes were open in narrow slits. He was holding a pistol in his hands.
“God forgive me,” the dead man croaked. The muzzle of the gun flashed and Manny felt a hundred pounds of fist slam into his left hip. The church spun. He forgot where he was, what he’d been doing. He hit a low railing, turned and rolled over it, tried to get out of the way of the car that had hit him.
Heshotme, heshotme.
The room was a strobe of light. Quinn jumped to the floor, the flashlight making a narrow line on the carpet. Enough for Manny to see he’d landed away from the others, resting against the front of the first row of seats.
His hand had gone instinctively to where he’d been punched—shot, I’ve been shot. It came away covered in blood, quickly followed by a river of the stuff pouring from a hole burned into him, just above his thigh. He felt a bigger hole on the side of one buttock.
Back at the podium, Tarretti was not standing up and aiming the final death shot. Instead, the man’s eyes closed, slowly, and the gun fell from his limp hand.
“Help me, Peter,” Manny whispered. “Please.”
* * *
Vincent Tarretti felt the gun slip out of his fingers, then could feel nothing.
Lord Jesus, forgive me for my sins. I’ve tried to protect it. Please, let it have been enough. Forgive me for shooting that man. I didn’t know what else to do. Please take me now. I can’t go any further.
For a moment, the outlines of the others in the church came into full view, cast in the afterglow of the flashlight. He saw Nathan Dinneck, focused on him for an eternal moment, then his eyes closed. He did not face the darkness of earlier in the crypt, only light. The longer he stared, the brighter it shone. He watched with eyes no longer physical. No more pain. A cotton-blanket warmth enfolded him. There were others in the light. Three figures, coming toward him. He knew them. Knew them all. He wanted to shout with joy.
And in that moment, Vincent Tarretti’s mission came to an end.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
This isn’t happening. How could that man have lived?!?
Peter Quinn looked up from his prostrate position before the sanctuary. It was a gesture not of supplication but self-preservation. Tarretti had been packing a weapon! He cursed himself. The fact that the caretaker might have been armed was the reason he’d originally sent Everson into the crypt first, the reason he’d told the boy to shoot the man as soon as he identified him from Peter’s description. He’d been right to do so. The man had not only cheated death long enough to crawl to this place, but he still had his damned weapon.
Manny Paulson moaned against the pew, beside him. Peter ignored him. He’d served his purpose and was dead to him now. Tarretti had done him a favor, actually.
Nathan Dinneck and Elizabeth were crouched awkwardly on the floor, their bound hands keeping them off balance. Josh Everson stood beside them, oblivious to what had happened. Peter was grateful he’d thought to bring the boy this far. Aside from being the only one who could be tied to any murders, he would prove useful now that Paulson was down.
Any leeway he might have had, time-wise, was gone. There weren’t many neighbors close enough to hear the gunshot, but he couldn’t play the odds any longer. Not when his final act of devotion to Molech was so close.
Nathan Dinneck rose up suddenly and Peter had to make a decision. Tarretti dropping his gun could only mean he was finally dead. Had to mean that. And now young Dinneck was going to do something stupid.
Peter stood just as quickly and said, “Mister Everson still answers to me, Pastor. I can have him kill your girlfriend or your father with one command. Do not try anything that will test my patience.”
The minister said nothing. The girl still knelt beside him, unable or unwilling to lift herself up.
Peter shone the light over the caretaker’s body, then looked back at Josh Everson. The gun in the boy’s hand was the only thing keeping Dinneck at bay. He couldn’t risk leaving Tarretti’s weapon too close to his hands. Just in case.
Only one option, unless he wanted to do it himself. He stepped toward the woman and gently helped her up. Undisguised hate poured from her. As soon as she was standing she stepped away from him.
“Such a temper you have,” he said, focusing his voice toward her. Eyes widening, she muttered incoherent words through her gag. She was feeling his power already. The thought gave him the pride and impetus to continue. “I have a task for you, young lady. It will not take long, but you need to do it right away.”
“Elizabeth, don’t—” but Dinneck’s protests were cut short by Peter’s hand rising up quickly, stopping just short of slapping him across the face.
“Do I need to demonstrate how serious this moment is, Reverend?” Without turning from Nathan’s stare he said, “Mister Everson.” He needed to keep any panic or impatience from his voice. To keep control of these people, even for these few remaining minutes, required calm.
But he had to hurry.
When the boy looked his way, Peter repeated, “Mister Everson, please count to six, then shoot yourself in the head.”
Nathan had expected Quinn to tell him to shoot him, or Elizabeth. He shouldn’t be letting him hold their lives for ransom anymore. But Josh had killed a man tonight, if Vincent’s unmoving
form meant that he’d finally passed away. Intentional or not, could he take that chance? His friend was unprepared for death. The same was true for Elizabeth. Could he let any of them die out of Grace if he could prevent it?
Josh raised the gun to his own temple.
No, he couldn’t. If there was any chance, even three more seconds of a chance... “OK,” Nathan said. “But stop now or forget everything.” Something dark stirred within him, a horrible realization too heavy to dwell on. Not yet.
“Mister Everson,” Quinn said quickly, “stop what you are doing and lower the gun. But keep it trained on the lovely Elizabeth.”
Nathan felt Elizabeth move against him again as she began to come out of her funk. Her return to normalcy was short lived.
“Not to worry, young lady. After our enjoyable talk outside, I’ve decided to spare you, for a while. I think we can have great fun together. In the meantime, you will please go to the podium and put Mister Tarretti’s gun atop the back altar so it is no longer within his reach.” Elizabeth did not respond, but quietly took a step toward the sanctuary. “One moment,” Quinn said, his voice losing some of the calm of earlier. Elizabeth hesitated. Quinn cursed quietly and fumbled with the knots binding her wrists.
Seeing this man touch her, even if only untying her, filled Nathan with a rage he could barely contain. He looked sideways to Josh, saw the pistol still aimed at her.
Even if only for a few seconds... he reminded himself. He did not know how much longer he could hold back. His hands were tied, but if he surged forward, perhaps knocked Quinn’s head against the floor...,
God, give me patience. So many lives are at stake. Help me to know what to do.
The short prayer calmed him, if only enough to stay his ground. The darkness returned to his heart. In those brief seconds when Josh had raised the gun to his own temple, Nathan understood how much he had failed these people. All his life, the only thing he wanted for himself was ordination, a chance to share the Gospel with as many people as possible. People except, apparently, those closest to him. Nathan went out into the world, but left Elizabeth and Josh to find their own way to salvation. She never wanted to hear it, true, but Josh... for all Nathan knew, his best friend yearned to be part of Hillcrest Baptist, to follow the path Nathan walked. But in all the years they’d been friends he’d never asked, save for casual invitations. Afraid it might come between them. Now, it was too late.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Quinn managed the knots at last and flung them away. The rope landed across Manny Paulson’s shoulder. Paulson had managed to move against the pew, obviously trying to reach the side exit, but his strength seemed to be ebbing as fast as the blood from his hip.
“Peter,” he gasped from his dark corner. “Peter, call an ambulance. Please help me. I can’t move my leg.”
Peter ignored the plea. It felt as if he’d lost an hour just untying the stupid woman. Now that she was free, he needed to maintain a steady voice. He expected to hear police sirens approaching in the distance at any minute.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered into her ear. “You may now approach the man on the altar and take his weapon.”
She did so, with hesitant but obedient movements. When she had the gun in her hand and Tarretti made no sign of resisting, Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. One less obstacle, at least. “Please lay it atop the altar and return here.”
As she did, Peter stared down at the dirty sack beside the dead man. It was surprisingly free of any bloodstains. Tarretti’s body had been mostly moved aside by Paulson. The long-sought-after tablets, carved by the finger of the Israelites’ God, lay inside. As if this thought was the catalyst, the sounds they’d all heard earlier returned. A single note from a distant organ, voices that were nothing but wind, voices singing, chanting.
Stop it! Focus.
Elizabeth slowly returned from the back of the sanctuary and stood between Everson and the preacher. The gun lay on the altar, too far for Tarretti to reach without giving away any pretense he might be playing at. Peter moved the flashlight beam away from the prize and saw again the faint glow; felt it, electric, a tingling across his face.
“I—” Peter began, but the overwhelming significance of what he was about to say caught in his throat. So long searching. So long, and now he would be the one to bring it to fruition. Not his uncle, not some faceless follower a hundred years from now. He would finish it.
Tears welled in his eyes. He used the hand holding the flashlight to wipe at his face. Before he dared touch the Covenant, he needed to confirm its true ownership. It must change “hands” officially.
He walked into the sanctuary, ignoring the others, lowering his trembling hands. “I claim this prize,” he said, whispering at first, then cleared his throat and continued in a louder, assertive voice, “that which once belonged to Solomon, King of Israel, devoted servant of the dark god Molech. I claim the tablets of the Covenant in Molech’s name, to be taken under the care of the Ammonites, his eternally faithful servants, now...” he reached closer, “...and forever.” He closed his fingers around the sackcloth and the prize within, felt its power course through his hands, up his arms. For a fleeting moment, he thought he would burst into flames, melt away, like in that absurd Hollywood movie. He did not. The power passed through him. His body was a conduit. It did not kill. It empowered him. Now he understood how Tarretti had survived such a long and arduous journey with his injuries.
Peter stood, wanting to laugh with sheer joy. Nathan Dinneck beat him to it. The boy laughed, a weak, pathetic attempt at indifference. Peter could hear his terror. That, too, empowered him.
“Solomon was no servant of any demon. You’re fooling yourself—”
“He pledged his support to many dark gods later in his illustrious life, Reverend. You know that. Granted, it depended on which wife he was trying to coax into bed at the time.” Peter walked slowly, reverently, from the sanctuary, stood as he’d done before in front of the first pew. “When one pledges devotion to Molech, even if only to ingratiate himself with a woman, such devotion is forever. Does not your God say the same of his own people?”
He glanced into the front pew and another ripple of excitement ran through him. Paulson had brought the two-gallon gasoline jug as Peter had instructed him. He’d also opened the tall stained-glass windows along the front and side of the church. The upper portions were fixed, unable to be opened. But the lower half of each was hinged to open outward at the turn of the crank. Paulson had done well. Faithful to the end, he mused, and the joy overflowed now. Everything had come together.
Paulson reached forward and grabbed feebly at his pant leg. Peter kicked his arm away.
Dinneck continued with his frightened half-smile. “Perhaps you’ve been fooled again, Quinn. If those were the true Commandments you’d be dead now. You know as well as I do that only priests of God may handle them.”
How obscenely ignorant this holy man was. “If you held in your arms what I now hold, Reverend Dinneck, you would be silenced. I can feel their power, and it strengthens me. Didn’t you hear my claim, just now? The Covenant no longer belongs to your God. It belongs to my master. I am now his high priest.”
Dinneck shook his head. Peter suddenly realized he was stalling. Time had slowed for him, lost as he was in such rapture. But not for the rest of the world. If a neighbor had heard Tarretti’s shot, the police would come soon. Dinneck knew that. The boy was too smart for his own good.
They couldn’t wait any longer. It was going to be a pleasure to watch him die. Peter laid the red jug at the step leading into the sanctuary and said, “Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to pour this gasoline around and atop the podium, maybe a little on the altar as well? Be sure to cover Mister Tarretti’s body. Move quickly now, girl. We have one final task to accomplish.”
She did as asked, unscrewing the cap and pouring the gasoline haphazardly across the raised wooden area within the railing. Gas spilled across her slacks and shoes. She gave
no reaction except to cough twice through the gag.
“That’s enough, dear,” Peter said. “Come down now.”
She coughed again, then stumbled, reaching out to catch the railing. The fact that she did this without any instruction from him told Peter that she might already be slipping from his control. It would not matter, if he performed the sacrifice quickly.
He began his final and long-planned task. The sense of urgency became a whirlwind in his head. The church was filling with fumes too quickly. No turning back now.
“What is burning down my church going to accomplish!” Dinneck shouted. Good, Peter thought, be afraid. He reached into his pants pocket and produced a Zippo lighter. He had purchased this particular one a long time ago, using it only for lighting the candles in the small temple behind the storefront, or other altars at other locations. It would be used tonight for the last time. For the ultimate burning. He liked this lighter. It would be missed.
“Most powerful master,” he shouted, keeping his gaze steady on Nathan Dinneck, “I offer you your first sacrifice!” Stepping down the aisle past the first pew, he flicked the lighter. A small flame rose up. He was ready to toss it away if the flame grew any higher; if the gas fumes had indeed filled too far into the church. Nothing happened.
Not yet.
“It is time for the sacrifice. As is decreed by the most powerful lord, Molech the Demon of all Power and Majesty, who commands blood sacrifice of his followers, I commit you,” he looked toward the pews, “Arthur Dinneck, to come forth and offer your son to him now.”
Chapter Seventy
Nathan’s father stood from his quiet vigil on the bench. His brow was wrinkled, as if confused by Quinn’s words. Still, he stepped out of the pew and walked to stand beside him. Quinn looked at Nathan and smiled—the expression no longer calm, but one of madness. Perhaps panic, as well. He shifted the weight of the Covenant under his arms. In his other hand, the flame continued to issue forth from the Zippo.
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