Keohane, G. - Solomon's Grave

Long ago, a young Peter Quinn had been slowly, methodically, taught the ways of the sect by his dear Uncle Roger, beginning as early as the boy’s tenth birthday. Peter’s internship into this holiest of priesthoods began with casual questions, odd remarks made at family gatherings at the Quinns’ home in Indiana. Comments designed to pique the boy’s interest in the unknown, in the darker side of the world outside Muncie. Uncle Roger was a large man, tall and nearly as wide. When he spoke, his voice came from somewhere deep in his belly.

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.