Keohane, G. - Solomon's Grave

Nathan looked across the room, to the wreckage of the Ark. Part of him wondered the very same thing.

Chapter Sixty-Two

Nathan wished he could have seen his father, though he was certain Art Dinneck was so much under Quinn’s influence that it probably would have made no difference. It was possible the reason Quinn didn’t simply put Elizabeth back under was that he could only control so many people at one time. Especially in his current, near-panic state of mind. Quinn’s confidence had been shattered in the back room. Even now, as he led him and Josh across the dark grass of Greenwood Street Cemetery, he walked quickly, impatiently.

Time was running out, for all of them. Quinn included.

Nathan heard a subdued pop ; then the pain in his right arm faded. His shoulder had slipped back into its socket. The shoulder had been a constant source of hurt since he’d landed on the floor, though he hadn’t realized how much until it was gone. The left side of his face, however, felt like he’d been loaded up with Novocain at the dentist’s office. Swollen and misshapen. It probably looked as bad as it felt.

He limped behind Quinn, not from any injury to his legs but rather from the ache in his back where he’d been kicked. Whatever damage had been done to his kidneys wasn’t high on his list of worries, since most likely he’d be dead soon.

He didn’t want to go back into the crypt. Though it would be a relief to have the ropes binding his hands behind him loosened, Nathan was pretty sure that once inside, he would never come out.

But John Solomon’s grave was not as they had left it.

The concrete slab was moved aside. Enough for someone to crawl in. Even as Quinn lost whatever composure he’d mustered over the past ten minutes, the implication of the scene made Nathan’s mind reel.

There had been someone else. Someone waiting in the wings for Nathan and his fellow stooges to be taken away, or killed, before moving in to remove the true treasure.

Shouting curses, Quinn tossed the slab aside as easily as he’d smashed the Ark in the back of the store. He flipped the lantern’s switch, bathing the area around the grave in light.

Josh stared at the angelic statues, waiting for his next order. Nathan and Quinn noticed the grass at the same time. Something had been dragged across it, glistening dark and wet in a wide, staggered path away from the open grave.

“Shoot Dinneck if he says one word!” Quinn forgot about the ladder and jumped into the grave with the lantern. Nathan found himself in darkness again, staring at the brightly lighted square in front of him. Quinn’s shadow bounced wildly against the visible section of wall. Whoever had come in here had dragged something away, toward the woods. But what could have caused the wet.... Tarretti. Oh Dear God , Nathan thought. He’s still alive .

He searched the trees beyond the bordering wall, trying to determine which way Vincent could have gone. How could it be? He’d been shot point blank in the chest. Lazarus rising from his tomb. Nathan shuddered, and felt the end of Josh’s pistol press into his ribs. He did not move, after that.

Chapter Sixty-Three

This can’t be happening . Peter Quinn cursed his earlier impatience. He should have put another bullet into the caretaker before leaving. But the man hadn’t breathed the entire time they’d been in this room.

Apparently, that wasn’t true. A long, smeared line of red traveled from the not-so-final resting place of Vincent Tarretti to a hole in the wall which had not been there earlier, then angled back to the ladder beside which Peter stood. The lamp shook in his hands.

He was alive, and had escaped with the real prize. He followed the blood trail to the opening in the wall and gave the cinder block a push. It was heavy. This was real blood around him. If Tarretti wasn’t dead, he was seriously hurt. How could he have moved something so big? Or the concrete slab above him?

There was no way. No way.

As had happened too often this night, Peter felt events slipping from his control. So long he’d waited, so joyously he’d congratulated himself at making his move at the right moment. Now everything was falling apart.

He reached into the hole at the base of the wall. It wasn’t big enough to hold the true Ark of the Covenant. That, he was certain now, would have been so much larger than the forgery he’d taken from here. How could he have thought that... sham ... was the true Ark? It had been too small. It had looked so glorious when first seen, but so fake and wooden in the back room of the club. How? Was he susceptible to the same parlor tricks he played on others? No. His mind was too well-trained, and their God too passive to intervene so dramatically.

He sat back on his haunches, focusing on the moment. There was no Ark hidden here. Only the Covenant itself, laid within this wall so long ago. The tablets were obviously the true source of power. All was not lost, then. If a dead man had them, he couldn’t have gotten far. Not in only half an hour. Most of that time must have been burned by Tarretti simply getting out of this place. For all he knew, he was lying dead in the woods a few yards away or hiding behind another tombstone.

Even with these thoughts, Peter’s stomach burned with fear. It had been in his reach, or so he thought, and now it was gone. These disappearing acts had happened before; the caretakers never found.

Not this time , he told himself. Not this time .

He stood at the base of the ladder, composing his own resolve before climbing. He’d already had to release his hold on the girl. Tonight’s events flustered him so badly he was surprised he still had control of Everson and Art Dinneck. He needed to focus, stay positive. All he had to do was follow the caretaker’s clear path and see where it led him.

He was spared this task when his cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID: M Paulson . It had rung once before as he was parking in the cemetery’s small lot, with the ID “unknown caller.” His uncle’s man from Maine, no doubt, standing in front of the Hillcrest Men’s Club wondering where everyone had gone. Peter had allowed his voicemail to take that call. The phone was bound to ring again, and it would be Uncle Roger. When that happened, would he have the nerve to ignore it? Likely not. The man had as much hold on him as Peter had on these mindless locals.

He clicked the flash button. “Quinn speaking,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Paulson’s voice was shaking with either excitement or fear. “Um, Peter? Are you at the grave?”

Any other time, Peter would offer a short, threatening remark and hang up, but something in Paulson’s voice made him say, “Yes, and it’s empty. Tarretti’s gone, along with what I believe is the prize we’re after.”

A pause, then, “Well, I’m standing in the church right now, and you might want to come over here. Now. The caretaker’s here. I think he’s dead. He was carrying something in a bag. Pretty big, whatever it is. Can’t tell what; he’s lying on top—”

“Do nothing! Touch nothing until we get there.”

He wanted to be happy with this turn of events, but at the moment he couldn’t afford the luxury. Things had been within his reach before, only to slip away. He had to be careful. He had to be fast. Disconnecting and pocketing the phone, Peter climbed the ladder. The outside air was cooler than he remembered, such a contrast to the staleness of the crypt. An autumn breeze filled him with renewed hope.

Not this time , he thought again.

Dinneck was standing where he’d left him, looking as helpless and pathetic as his father always had. His face was swollen, twin lines of blood drying along his jaw and neck. For a moment, Peter thought Everson might have shot him, but his own bruised knuckles reminded him that he himself had inflicted the damage.