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.
“You’ll never guess, Reverend, where we’re going.” He nodded to Everson. “Bring him back to the car, please.” With that, he walked across the grounds toward the parking lot.
Not this time.
Chapter Sixty-Four
One more time. I know it hurts, but one... more... time! Elizabeth kicked with both feet against the trunk. There wasn’t enough room in the cramped confines to give herself any leverage. Like the four previous attempts, her sneakers hit the inside of the trunk lid with an ineffectual thud. She paused, listening for any footsteps, for the man Paulson to open the hatch and shoot her.
Nothing. She wasn’t certain if the guy even had a gun. Still, with her hands tied behind her, he could do her plenty of damage.
Another sob worked itself up. She swallowed it back down. The psycho had tied a dirty rag around her mouth before throwing her in here, and the constant nausea she felt from its stench made her worry that crying would be the straw that sent her vomiting into the gag. God knew what would happen then.
Was she at the church? Quinn said to bring her here, but had then whispered something else she couldn’t hear. For all she knew, they were clear on the other side of town. The turns felt right, though.
Not that it mattered. Quinn was seriously nuts. More than Tarretti or even Nate. And what was with Nate’s dad? Hopping into the car and chatting with Paulson about a Red Sox game they were going to. Did he really think they were heading to Fenway Park at midnight? Another loony in a town full of loonies.
She remembered, reluctantly, that fuzzy period after Tarretti had been shot, when she drove with Paulson to the alley to meet the others. She’d wanted to go with him, nothing more than an evening drive with an old friend. The world had been a hazy whiteness, like she was sleepwalking, or half awake under the sheets. Memory of that time seemed clearer now than when it actually happened.
Is that what was going on with Mister Dinneck? Did he even know where he was?
No, no, no! She kicked the truck again in her frustration. This was insane. Mad Karnak the Hypnotic Genius was not controlling everyone’s minds. Josh was not a murderer. Nathan was not chosen by his God to—
“NNN!” she shouted through the gag and kicked the trunk again, and again, and again.
The trunk popped open.
For a full minute, she lay there, sucking the cool, beautiful air into her nostrils as it flooded into the trunk. She stared at the billion stars in the sky.
Well, she thought with a sudden calm, this is a good sign.
Even as she squirmed to get into a position to raise herself up, Elizabeth heard the sound of an approaching car. Thank God. Yes, hurry. There was no time to be dainty. She rolled out of the trunk, slammed onto the pavement and broke the fall with a sloppy half-roll. As she did, she noticed two things at once. She was, indeed, in the parking lot behind Nathan’s church. And, the car she heard was pulling around the building and coming her way. Speeding up, actually.