Keohane, G. - Solomon's Grave

Manny couldn’t remember holding down a job much longer than a year. Not that he wasn’t qualified, with an associate degree in business and a couple of older references that he still managed to squeeze onto one more application. But the time had come when his luck ran out, along with the country’s economy. He’d been living day to day as it was, but soon it felt more like dying day to day. The zombies at the unemployment office kept limiting his benefits because of sporadic work history. His options had been quickly drying up.

At least the letters demanding child support for his son and daughter, usually from someone claiming to be an attorney (though he was certain it was just some guy Melissa worked with pretending to be someone important), had trickled to an occasional note venting his ex-wife’s disgust for his lack of concern for “your children.” She was an accountant and made plenty of money. Manny once considered finding a lawyer himself and suing Melissa for alimony. But lawyers cost money, didn’t they? And money was tight.

As for his kids, fatherhood was never big on his list of goals. It was fun while it lasted, but now that he was free, Melissa could keep the headaches. Maybe if grandchildren came into the picture a decade or two from now, he might show his face again. He heard it was a lot less work with grandchildren.

Enter Peter Quinn, during one of Manny’s rare purchases of beer at The Greedy Grocer . He never had been much of a drinker, preferring to avoid any habit that might suck more coins from the bare cupboard his bank account had become. Still, now and then he’d splurge on a twelve pack of Bud and rent a couple of movies.

His first assumption when Quinn caught up with him outside the store was that the guy was homosexual and hitting on him. Manny had excused himself and headed for his car, but Quinn followed. He asked if Manny needed a job. Steady work, not very difficult, and the pay was good.

Sounded too good to be true. But Quinn hadn’t been lying. The work was easy, and the pay was twice anything he’d ever collected before. Everything was under the table, to boot. Nothing for Uncle Sam, or Melissa, to lay claim to. All Manny had to do was not smirk when Quinn started chanting to the devil or talking about some kind of valuable prizes buried in town. The guy was seriously nuts, no question about that. But he must be rich, connected with the mob or something, since the cash every week was real. The money had to come from somewhere. Quinn was always calling someone in Chicago. He was more likely connected with the mafia than a three thousand year old cult. Quinn and his goons were on some modern day treasure hunt, no more, no less.

Didn’t matter to him. As long as they kept paying and he didn’t wake up some day with a horse’s head in his bed, he was more than happy to sit in the woods and stare monotonously at some dark house all night. The vigil wouldn’t be half as hard, though, if he could read something. The boss had been very specific about no lights, and Quinn had an uncanny way of knowing when he was being lied to. So, Manny simply sat in his car, now and then pouring more coffee from his thermos when he felt his eyes closing for too long. Like they were beginning to do now.

His phone vibrated against his hip. Thank God , he thought. A distraction .

He pulled the cell from its holster. “Manny Paulson.”

Quinn’s voice was barely audible, so quietly was he whispering. “Where are you, Paulson?”

“The usual spot. Nothing to report.”

A pause, then, “Obviously. However, Tarretti, Reverend Dinneck and his girlfriend are here at the cemetery on Greenwood Street, you blind, useless....” He stopped, let his breath out slowly before continuing. “Get over here, now, but be quiet about it. Do you remember where the grave is?”

“Pretty sure, yeah. And listen, I swear I didn’t see—”

But the call had already been disconnected. Manny cursed and started the car.

* * *

Peter pocketed the phone, then lifted the gun in the handkerchief. It was a clip-fed nine millimeter, the same type carried by Vincent Tarretti, though Peter didn’t know this fact. The rounds were small but effective.

“Mister Everson.”

Josh looked at him. “Yes?”

Making sure the safety was thumbed to the “on” position, at least until he could see how the kid handled it, he handed him the weapon. He would be sure the safety was off before he sent the boy into the grave. “Take this and follow me. I have something I need you to do. Very important, and you will want to do this very much.” He rose; the young man did likewise. Peter picked up the battery-powered lantern they had brought with them from the car, but left it dark.

He led Everson out of the woods, making sure to keep him slightly to the side as they walked toward the gravesite, in case he tripped. Safety or not, he didn’t want to risk being shot in the back. As they came closer, the voices, which had faded away once the trio had dropped from sight, came back to him, along with an occasional blink of the flashlight. Peter removed the black cap and tucked it into his back pocket, then worked his fingers through his hair, putting it back into some sense of order.

He forced himself to breathe steadily, clearing his mind. So close, but not there yet. In whispers, he used the Voice to instruct Josh Everson what he must do.

Chapter Fifty-Two

The whole room was barely twice as large as the area in which the three of them currently stood. There were no furnishings save one significant slab of concrete raised a few feet from the floor, with matching slabs acting as supports. The setup reminded Elizabeth uncomfortably of an altar. Most of the room lay under the base of the angelic statues. On either side of the concrete altar, from floor to ceiling, rose two cylindrical supports like she had in her own basement.

What drew everyone’s attention, however, was what sat on top of the slab.

In the beam of her flashlight, the gold trim of the Ark glittered as if freshly washed. The dust that permeated every corner of the room seemed not to touch it. It was a chest with elaborate gold designs of multi-faced figures staring out from the ornate sides. The lid was trimmed with more gold along its edges, but was simple in its design. She remembered again the memory of the chest in Gram’s attic. The entire vessel was no more than a yard wide, rectangular, much smaller than the images she’d seen once or twice in pictures from her old Sunday school books. She thought there should have been something atop the lid, statuary or some such decoration. The word “seat” came to mind but she wasn’t certain why. Overall, the structure seemed too small. Something occurred to her, then. She wasn’t sure what that something was, but the Ark’s size and details no longer seemed wrong. It was just, well, different than she’d imagined.

The gold reflected more light than could have come from her flashlight. Even so, when she lowered the light experimentally, no additional glow emanated from that side of the room. She scratched the back of her neck with her free hand. The air felt... itchy . Like it was filled with static electricity.

Knock it off , she thought, trying to regain her composure. It’s just a fancy box. Nothing more .

Nate, however, must have thought otherwise. He slowly fell to one knee, with an expression of wonder and awe. He said, “How can this be? How can this possibly be?”

Tarretti shrugged. “It’s God’s will that the Covenant not fall into the hands of anyone but His followers. It’s been a long race, a long struggle. We cannot understand the why of it, except for the reasons I’ve already explained. More than that, we’ll never know. Not until we’re with Him in paradise. Someday you can read some of my translations of earlier caretakers’ theories, I guess. There are references to the Ark of the Covenant in the book of Revelations, but in those, it appeared within the glory of heaven. Nothing earth-bound.