She moaned through the gag. Please, no.
The car stopped a yard from her, engine running, headlights blinding her to everything but the vague shape of the driver’s door opening. Someone stepped out. For the slightest of moments she thought—or hoped—the voice she heard would belong to some concerned parishioner stopping by to check on his young pastor. But, of course, it belonged to Quinn The Magnificent. She sighed into her gag.
“Well, well, the damsel in distress tires of waiting for her—”
Elizabeth stumbled to her feet and ran toward the church. Realizing the error in this, she cut sideways and made for the woods. Quinn appeared in front of her, arms open.
“Not so fast, young lady.”
“MMM NNN SS ELZZZHHH!” she screamed and sent her knee up between his legs. He closed them in time to trap her leg, then twisted his body sideways. She fell off balance onto the ground. He grabbed her bound arms and pulled her up. She squirmed, but his hands were all over her, strong, confident, assuring she could not escape. He was stronger than he looked.
“Enough,” he said. “Calm down now or you go back into the trunk and you will never leave it again.” He kept his voice low but the honesty in the threat was clear. She stopped struggling, telling herself the battle wasn’t over. She wouldn’t give up.
She sifted sideways, enough to get his overly curious hands to shift, then said, “WZZ NNT?”
He began to lead her toward the church door. He waved a hand toward the car and the passenger door opened. Josh got out, opened the back door and gestured to Nathan with the gun.
Quinn said, “NNT,” mocking her gagged speech, “is right here. Time to play nice with your friends now—Elizabeth, was it?—or someone is going to get hurt.”
Nate was tied in a similar manner as herself, though he was fortunate enough not to have a rag stuffed in his mouth. He looked at her, tried to smile but winced as his bruised cheek stretched painfully. He settled for a small nod, then focused on the sidewalk.
She glared at her captor. “WW DON OOH JZZS HHHMMMTZZ MM AGN?”
“Well,” Quinn said, ushering her into the back door, which was now open with an impatient Paulson waiting for them, “I could hypnotize you again quite easily, as you’re well aware. But then we’d have no need of the gag and I’d miss you talking in such an eloquent manner. I’m beginning to enjoy this little game of ‘What is ELZZZHHH saying?’”
“FF YEW, YEW...”
“Elizabeth,” Nate’s voice, behind her. “Chill out. Our time’ll come, I promise.”
Quinn laughed. “That’s the first correct thing you’ve said all night, Pastor.”
Hearing Nate’s voice brought with it a surprising calm. She was with him again. That was something, at least. For better or worse. They entered the darkened kitchen, then into the church hall. Things were quickly moving toward the for worse part, when Paulson shined his flashlight into the sanctuary.
Behind the gag, Elizabeth screamed.
Chapter Sixty-Five
As a group, they walked slowly around the sanctuary, staring at the scene in the flickering light from Paulson’s unsteady hands. A man’s body lay prone in front of the podium. A thin trail of blood smeared along the floor, leading back the way they’d come. Nathan had noticed the trail dotting the sidewalk, but hadn’t time to consider it because of Elizabeth and Quinn’s argument.
Now he understood. Vincent Tarretti, if he hadn’t been dead before, had to be now. There was a gaping jagged hole in the back of his jacket. Small puddles of blood pooled around his body, less than Nathan would have expected if the man were still alive.
“It’s there,” Paulson said, moving the light so the bright center of the beam shone on something half-covered by Vincent’s body. “I don’t know if it was already here, or if he carried the thing all the way, but—” He stopped, his voice reaching a fevered pitch as he spoke. He must have realized how he sounded and simply stopped talking.
Quinn stepped past the short railing and knelt a small distance from the body. All was silent, and then Nathan heard the sound. He looked around, unable to place its source, deciding perhaps that it was only in his head. Singing, maybe? That made no sense. Voices, yes, but distant, changing in cadence and pitch. Chants, like monks, then only wind through the trees, applause, a child crying, water, thunder, more voices, an orchestra playing one incessant note....
Peter Quinn stumbled backward until he was outside the short railing. His movements were of a man suddenly terrified. In his face, however,—even in the half light of Paulson’s flashlight—was the unmistakable glow of rapturous joy. With his movement, the sound diminished, fading to nothing, coming back to linger in the back of Nathan’s head.
“Turn off the light a moment,” Quinn whispered.
“What?”
A little louder, “Turn it off.”
With a click, they were cast in darkness, save for the glow of one streetlight shining through the stained glass windows. A glow, faint, like a child’s glow-stick the day after trick-or-treat, emanated from beneath Vincent Tarretti. Nathan blinked. He struggled to find a thought that fit what he was seeing. The light wasn’t really there. That made no sense.
He cleared his throat, needing to break the silence. He knew, with no more doubt, that Vincent had been telling the truth. Perhaps not the entire truth, as evidenced by the false Ark, but he knew what lay beneath the man’s body. It was what these people had been after. At least part of it.
God, what do I do?
The flashlight lit the scene again, this time in the grip of Quinn himself. His voice was breathy, as if in the throes of passion. “Move the body, now. Carefully! Do not touch the package beneath him.”
Manny Paulson looked incredulous. “You’re not serious. You think I didn’t see that? I can hear something, too. Something’s not right here.”
“Do it, or I’ll have Mister Everson shoot you in the heart. Let’s see if you last as long as Tarretti did.”
Paulson looked over at the other three. He seemed about to say something else, perhaps suggest one of them do the job, but apparently decided against it. With Quinn keeping the light shining toward the podium, Paulson stepped forward.
Nathan looked away a moment, and almost jumped in surprise. Sitting in the fourth pew, a serene expression on his face, sat Art Dinneck.
Nathan whispered, “Dad?”
“Not another word, Dinneck,” said Quinn, his voice losing some of its earlier awe. He kept his eyes riveted on his assistant. Paulson reached down and gripped Vincent’s bloody shoulder as Quinn added, “Not another sound.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
The Red Sox were down by three runs in the second inning. It was still early. The crowd eagerly cheered for the new batter. Beside Art, Paulson took a bite of his hot dog and said nothing. In the man’s silence, Art felt obliged also not to speak. Manny had said something to that effect, some word or suggestion when they found their seats that told Art it was time to watch the game and keep silent.
The rookie, Baker, was up. The count was two balls, one strike. Lead runner moving from first, a bit too far. He’d better be careful. A homerun right now would bring them to within one. Art closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sun warm his face.