Keohane, G. - Solomon's Grave

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.

He waited, taking shallow breaths, hardly breathing at all. He needed to seem dead to the invaders, and it was the only kind of breath he could manage. One of his lungs might have collapsed. He wasn’t sure. The flow of blood from his wounds had not stemmed, weakening him almost beyond hope. Almost.

The impression of light he’d detected through his closed lids was suddenly gone. Sounds of concrete on concrete above him, echoing in the small chamber. They had sealed him in.

God , he prayed, give me strength for just a little while longer. They’ll be back. I need to do one final act for You. If it’s Your will, help me. There could be only one reason the Lord hadn’t yet taken him.

He opened his eyes, just a crack. The darkness was so complete he had to blink a couple of times to be sure his eyes were open. Everyone was gone. He waited to see if his vision would adjust, but there was no light to latch on to. He rolled from the position he’d held during those eternal minutes after regaining consciousness. The fire in his chest spread to every corner of his body, even the tips of his fingers. He opened his mouth to scream and shoved the heel of his right hand into his mouth. It had not been long since they’d left. They may still be above him. Quiet. Have to be quiet.

What did he think he could do? If they came back, they would search the room, look for signs of the treasure. If they were diligent, they would find what they were looking for.

Using his elbows and arms, he pulled himself across the floor, toward the opposite side of the altar. The gun in his coat pocket pressed into his stomach, dragging along beneath him. It was no use to him now. Maybe that was a good thing.

He had to take the Covenant from this place. Ruth Lieberman had shown him the compartment in which it lay. He shifted again; the fire burned through him. Even if this motion didn’t kill him, what he was planning to do most certainly would. He was not a priest. He was not a minister or rabbi. He was wearing Levi’s, but he didn’t think that counted.

Drag.

His chest felt heavier on the right side and he listed in that direction. It felt like a sack of water had been shoved inside him. He hoped this short trek across the room wouldn’t cause his other lung to fill with blood.

Was he forcing himself along only to die at the end? Ruth had been adamant about following God’s law. He mustn’t touch them. No, the rule was he mustn’t touch the Ark. There was nothing saying anything about the tablets of the Commandments themselves. He’d find out soon enough.

Two more lengths across the floor. His left foot had drifted outward and now hit the base of the altar. That meant the majority of him had already moved past it. He was close. Dust smeared his face, coating his mouth and nose. He wanted to cough, or sneeze. Doing that would probably be the last thing he ever did.

Lord Jesus, help me. Forgive me for what I’m about to do. Make me a priest of your teaching. A minister for these last few moments of my life, so that I might end my oath to your Father by serving him in this last way .

His head bumped into the wall. His left hand became caught underneath his body. His fingers opened, and he felt the small hole just above his belly. He panicked. I’ve been shot. I should be dead. God, please .

He worked his wet hand free and felt along the wall. Focus. The wall was smooth, caked in dust. Cobwebs of it stuck to his fingers. He wiped them on the wall and felt for—there! Three small indentations. He felt further and could make out the outline of the brick, pushing aside more dust from the cracks.

He could barely gasp in enough oxygen with all the dust, and was now going to try to pull this cinder block free from its resting place; move it from the spot where it had lain for almost one hundred years, with a hole in his chest and probably his back. One working lung.

Vincent laughed, then caught himself. He couldn’t risk that first and fatal cough. Still, it energized him. This was not how he thought it would end. Almost dead, lying on the floor of John Solomon’s grave, planning on pulling a forty-pound cement block from the wall.

Entry 823 , he thought. This one’s a doozy .

He worked three fingers into the indentation. The inward curve of the holes allowed him a reach up to the knuckles. A good grip, well-designed by the caretaker before the caretaker before Ruth. He’d been a mason, that one; and, he assumed, a good man. At the very least, a good mason.

Here goes nothing .

He moved away from the wall, rolling onto his side and ignoring the resurgence of pain and fire inside, and pulled.

The stone slid free a couple of inches. He pulled his fingertips out to feel the distance. More than he’d expected. It gave him incentive to try again.

Gripping again with his fingers, Vincent moved himself back, pulled and rolled, using his body’s momentum. The stone followed. He didn’t check on the progress, but shimmied away and pulled again. And again. His head began to tingle. He closed his eyes. The lack of any change in the blackness gave him vertigo and he opened them again.