Keohane, G. - Solomon's Grave

Another nod. Nathan, who’d been pulling the Ark from the back seat and trying to make the action look more like a struggle than it truly was, looked up at the name. He couldn’t have meant him , so his father was here!

What did Dad have to do with this? More insurance?

Quinn moved around the front of the car, the fingers of his right hand grazing the hood absently. “Leave him there for now. He won’t disturb us.” He turned to Josh. “Mister Everson, please follow our Holy Man into the building.”

Nathan straightened and gave Josh a look. His friend stared back blankly. What was he was seeing? Nathan followed Quinn into a long rectangular room, dark save for a row of short red candles burning along the far wall. There was a lingering odor of sulfur, from the matches Paulson likely used to light them. Nathan remembered the sudden welling of fear this morning, a sense that something evil lurked inside this room. The fear returned, though not the overwhelming terror of earlier. Nathan thought, Lord, protect me. Give me strength to face what’s in here .

Bathed in the candles’ red glow and drifting among a thin line of sweet smelling incense, sat a small altar. It reminded Nathan of a Japanese Zen shrine, minimal adornments, set low so one had to kneel before it. The incense stick’s tip had only a small bit of ash.

Seeing what adorned the altar gave him a start. The small statue had a body of gold, though the gold was likely no more real than that which adorned the Ark in Nathan’s arms. It was difficult to tell in the dim light. The idol had the head of a bull, outstretched arms waiting for an offering.

Forgery or not, he did not want to put the Ark on the floor in front of such a desecration. He looked away. Elizabeth stood near the wall on his left, not far from the door leading to the front room where his father was apparently waiting. Her expression was less blank than Josh’s now, and when he looked her way she blinked and returned his gaze.

Quinn said, “Ah, welcome back, young lady. I trust you had a pleasant sleep.”

She was wild-eyed now, looking around the room in a panic. Only when she tried to move did she realize her hands were tied behind her back.

“Nathan, what—”

Quinn raised his hand. “Do not speak.” She stopped talking like an obedient servant, but Nathan was glad to see her expression remained alert. She looked at him, mouthed where are we? Then her eyes fell on what he was carrying. Her look of shock changed to confusion. Maybe she saw it now for what it truly was. She mouthed something else, but Nathan was too preoccupied to interpret it.

Quinn stood in front of him, closely inspecting the Ark without actually touching it. His expression moved slowly from one of awe, to curiosity, to something else. Something darker. He looked up with his eyes only.

“Getting a bit heavy to hold, Reverend Dinneck?” Nathan didn’t like the tone of voice. Sarcasm?

“A little.”

“A little,” Quinn repeated. He reached out, as if to touch the lid, hesitated, then waved his arm instead toward the altar and the Molech icon. “Please place it on the floor, there, just before the altar. Do not try anything stupid or one of your friends will die. I haven’t decided which yet. Just know that I am very serious.”

Nathan put the Ark down, deciding to curb the pretension of it being a struggle. He assumed the charade was about to end. Had Vincent Tarretti known the Ark was not real? Maybe. The man had sounded so convinced, beyond any doubt. A sudden thought, a realization that... he quickly put it out of his mind. Deal with the present. On the altar the statue’s eyes stared up, its bull-head drifting in and out of clarity with the thickening smoke from the incense stick.

Nathan felt renewing tugs of irrational terror return, as if seeping from this idol. Drifting like mist along the floor to his knees. He found he couldn’t pull his face away from the dark animal-face with its wide, open mouth. His fear grew.

God help me, he began to think, before his thoughts became muddy. It was hard to focus. He was aided unwittingly by Quinn, who grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him away.

“Please step back, Dinneck.”

Nathan stumbled, wanting to swing out, to keep the man from touching him. He was pulled back ten steps. Quinn’s white hair and moustache, when he moved to stand beside him again, were red in the candle light, flickering in shadows.

“It’s show time,” he whispered. “Need I remind you not to move from this spot?”

Nathan didn’t reply. His captor slowly approached the Ark and knelt before it. He began to chant, the words nonsensical. Nathan wondered if this was an actual language, or sounds to help him concentrate. He’d heard of such things, even in the Christian community, with people speaking “in tongues”, people so lost in the rapture of prayer they involuntarily uttered sounds with meaning only to them.

Only this man was not praying to God, but to a demon from the Old Testament that most assumed had long ago faded into historical obscurity.

The dark stench of the terror in the room built to a physical level. Elizabeth tried moving beside him, but Paulson raised his hand, shook his head. A small fact occurred to Nathan, but one which he thought might be important, perhaps for later use. Neither of these men carried guns. At least, none that he could see. Quinn’s voice had been weapon enough so far, controlling the only person who was armed: Josh.

If the police ever became involved in the murder investigation, all evidence would point to his friend.

After a few minutes, Quinn stopped his chanting and rose, slowly, to stand over his prize. He stared at it for a long time, long enough that Nathan was starting to get worried. Nathan looked at his watch. Only eleven-thirty. It seemed they’d been captives for hours. He looked around the room. The mini-mart at the end of the strip mall closed at ten. Wasn’t Josh supposed to be the closer? Either way, anyone working there had already left. Maybe there was an alarm. He needed to get outside, break the window, do something to get the police here.

With Quinn occupied, Nathan could grab Josh’s gun before Paulson had a chance to stop him.

He tensed, preparing to lunge at his friend before Quinn could realize what he was doing. From the way the man was scowling at the box, that would happen any time now.

“Mister Everson, shoot anyone who makes a move toward you. Be sure the bullet goes into their head. More efficient that way.”

The internal momentum Nathan had been building almost pushed him toward Josh anyway. His friend had the gun raised and pointing directly at Nathan’s face. Still, if he could cut to the side....

“Actually, Mister Everson,” Quinn continued, still with his back to everyone else in the room, “shoot the woman if anyone makes a move toward you.” Josh quickly moved the gun away from Nathan and toward Elizabeth’s head.

Damn you , Nathan thought furiously. How did you know? How could you know?

Quinn turned around to face his small congregation. His smile was slight and mocking.

“Manny, if you would be so kind as to tie up Mister Dinneck, we have much to do, still.” He looked at Nathan. “One doesn’t need to be a psychic, Reverend, to sense when someone is planning a move against you. You wouldn’t be a very good poker player.” He glanced back at the Ark, the semblance of a smile dropping again. Paulson roughly tied Nathan’s wrists behind his back with what looked like a blue paisley necktie. His shoulders stretched painfully in their sockets. Quinn looked from the Ark back toward him, and his smile did not return. In fact, his mouth continued down, past what could simply be called a frown or a grimace. With a hiss, he added, “Still, everyone has one good bluff in them sometimes, don’t they?”