He rested, and considered. The tablets were just under a yard in length. Two yard-long slabs of stone which together seemed to weigh at least as much as the cinder block which had given him so much trouble. And he had to get them out of this place.
He began the long trek toward the bottom of the ladder, moving forward, dragging the sack to his side, moving a little further, repeating the process. After a couple of misdirections, he found the rungs.
He wanted to rest, to sleep, but knew he would never wake up. They’d be back soon. They were bound to be. Where would he go? At once, he knew that he could not hide from these people. Even if he lived long enough to find a place, he was going to leave too obvious a trail.
He’d go to the only place that made sense. If he died there, before or after they found him, at least he would do so in God’s house. It was the most he could do. Even then, pushing aside the concrete slab above him aside would be like moving a mountain.
He would make it to the church. Then it was up to God, and maybe Nathan Dinneck. If the young minister was still alive.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Nathan was alive, and struggling for some plan to get them out of this mess. Josh hadn’t turned against them out of any sense of free will. Quinn’s hypnotic trick could be used, with apparent ease, against anyone.
Almost anyone. Nathan wondered again about the incident in the store that morning. Quinn’s voice had been a third arm reaching for him, almost taking hold near the end. But he’d resisted, if by no other way than leaning on his faith and finding a sliver of strength. Was that it? He frowned on others mentioning faith as some sort of magical force field. It wasn’t, at least not in the way that people liked to think. It wouldn’t stop a bus if you chose to test it in the middle of traffic.
God didn’t like to be tested. Nathan had to remind himself that he’d almost lost the battle this morning. His defenses had been knocked down when he’d seen the painting. Quinn had pounced on that weakness.
Faith—not in oneself, but in God alone—was the only way to resist the devil. That was whom this man represented. Even so, Quinn either wasn’t able to control him now in the same way as the others, or chose not to. He controlled Nathan by his power over Josh and Elizabeth. What about his father? Art Dinneck was more faithful a Christian than most people Nathan knew. Art falling so far from the church was no more realistic than Josh aiming a gun and shooting a man in cold blood.
If Nathan had become prey to Quinn this morning, perhaps the same was true for his father. Maybe Quinn was threatening his mother, holding her safety against Art’s cooperation.
The man sitting behind the wheel was crazed. Obsessed was a better word. Nathan never thought he was afraid to die. Such an event was only the next logical step toward spending eternity with Christ. Regardless, the instinct for survival was strong. If not for himself, then for Josh and Elizabeth.
The influx of questions dogged his thoughts and kept him from focusing on the present. He was crowded in the back seat of Quinn’s sedan with the artificial Ark beside him. Even in the light of passing streetlights, the craftsmanship of the box was solid, but such a startling contrast to what Nathan had first seen.
He sat back and watched Josh, who, in turn, watched him over the back of the passenger seat. Nathan stared at his friend, focusing on his eyes. God give me the strength to reach him. Open your eyes, Josh. Use your mind and see what’s going on.
Josh reacted, a little. The gun resting on the top of the seat lowered in his grip. His gaze softened.
“Mister Everson, please focus on the task at hand. Maintain your vigil over the prisoner.”
Though the words were not directed at him, Nathan could feel the car fill with their power. The voice was unearthly. Demonic. Nathan believed demons were real, with strong persuasion over a person’s heart. They never had any physical presence. Feeling this man’s voice, seeing Josh’s gaze become steady along with his grip on the pistol, Nathan began to reconsider that assumption. Fear, the slow, relentless enemy of men, worked a handhold on him again.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
When Matt Corwin said his goodbyes and left the men’s club on shaky feet, Art Dinneck looked around to see who else he might talk to. He thought again of Beverly. Did she expect him home? No, she knew he was coming here. He’d told her as much. Granted, he didn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but she seemed to be fine with this visit. He’d only been here a little while. It was too early to go home.
As he walked toward the table to watch the remaining four men race for the finish in a boisterous game of cribbage—he never thought of that game as being boisterous until he watched these four play—he checked his watch.
Almost eleven o’clock.
That was late. The lights in the room seemed to dim. For the first time, he saw how faded the furniture was. The walls were a drab color, redeemed only by the colorful oil reproductions hanging unnoticed at various points. Even so, with the exception of one which gave him the heebie-jeebies for some reason, they hung old and uninterestingly around them.
What was he doing here?
He was supposed to be at work. It was work that called him, wasn’t it?
“Oh, God,” he said aloud. Steve Arruda looked up after counting his peg down the home stretch on the cribbage board.
“What’s wrong, Art?” He squinted, as if seeing something for the first time. “Man, you’re looking pale.”
Art looked at him, trying to focus. Why on earth did he come here? Someone from work called. There’d been a problem.
No, Peter Quinn called. Not someone from work.
Art staggered to a chair and sat. He gripped his right arm with his left hand, trying to calm its shaking. Steve scrambled drunkenly up from his chair and ran over.
“You OK, Art?”
Steve’s cribbage partner laid the stub of a cigar he’d been smoking into an ashtray and swiveled in his chair, not rising, but looking over with no less concern. “You should maybe head home, guy. You don’t look so good—hey! Leave those pegs where they are until Steve gets back!”
Next to him, a tall skinny man with a long, dropping moustache laughed and raised his fingers from his peg with dramatic flourish.
I’m going mad, Art thought. He leaned forward, barely hearing Steve’s that’s right, Man, take it easy and breathe. Want me to call your wife? and tried to calm down. His breath came in short gasps. He wondered if this was what it was like to have an anxiety attack. Maybe it was his heart.
The past months swam past unbidden, revealing truth in its unforgiving clarity. Night upon night, coming here, spending less time with Beverly, avoiding church. The call from Nate the other day, when Art told his son to leave him alone. He’d been acting like... like what? A man in a trance. How could he have moved so far...?
The woman, of course. Here, one night; a voice that sounded so much like Peter Quinn’s speaking quietly, like the voice of Satan himself, You cheated on your wife with her, and enjoyed it. Don’t you remember?
Yes, he did remember. He’d had too much to drink... so unlike him, at least the him before all this. A beer now and then, maybe, rarely more than a couple at one time... but yes, he did remember, one night, the woman. The details were sketchy. Memories without substance, like a movie.
Like a movie playing on a television.
What was he remembering?
“Steve,” he said suddenly, the exhaustion and confusion washing away. Even as he looked up to the man crouched in front of him, he imagined lost pieces of his life falling into place.