Only one option, unless he wanted to do it himself. He stepped toward the woman and gently helped her up. Undisguised hate poured from her. As soon as she was standing she stepped away from him.
“Such a temper you have,” he said, focusing his voice toward her. Eyes widening, she muttered incoherent words through her gag. She was feeling his power already. The thought gave him the pride and impetus to continue. “I have a task for you, young lady. It will not take long, but you need to do it right away.”
“Elizabeth, don’t—” but Dinneck’s protests were cut short by Peter’s hand rising up quickly, stopping just short of slapping him across the face.
“Do I need to demonstrate how serious this moment is, Reverend?” Without turning from Nathan’s stare he said, “Mister Everson.” He needed to keep any panic or impatience from his voice. To keep control of these people, even for these few remaining minutes, required calm.
But he had to hurry.
When the boy looked his way, Peter repeated, “Mister Everson, please count to six, then shoot yourself in the head.”
Nathan had expected Quinn to tell him to shoot him, or Elizabeth. He shouldn’t be letting him hold their lives for ransom anymore. But Josh had killed a man tonight, if Vincent’s unmoving form meant that he’d finally passed away. Intentional or not, could he take that chance? His friend was unprepared for death. The same was true for Elizabeth. Could he let any of them die out of Grace if he could prevent it?
Josh raised the gun to his own temple.
No, he couldn’t. If there was any chance, even three more seconds of a chance... “OK,” Nathan said. “But stop now or forget everything.” Something dark stirred within him, a horrible realization too heavy to dwell on. Not yet.
“Mister Everson,” Quinn said quickly, “stop what you are doing and lower the gun. But keep it trained on the lovely Elizabeth.”
Nathan felt Elizabeth move against him again as she began to come out of her funk. Her return to normalcy was short lived.
“Not to worry, young lady. After our enjoyable talk outside, I’ve decided to spare you, for a while. I think we can have great fun together. In the meantime, you will please go to the podium and put Mister Tarretti’s gun atop the back altar so it is no longer within his reach.” Elizabeth did not respond, but quietly took a step toward the sanctuary. “One moment,” Quinn said, his voice losing some of the calm of earlier. Elizabeth hesitated. Quinn cursed quietly and fumbled with the knots binding her wrists.
Seeing this man touch her, even if only untying her, filled Nathan with a rage he could barely contain. He looked sideways to Josh, saw the pistol still aimed at her.
Even if only for a few seconds... he reminded himself. He did not know how much longer he could hold back. His hands were tied, but if he surged forward, perhaps knocked Quinn’s head against the floor...,
God, give me patience. So many lives are at stake. Help me to know what to do.
The short prayer calmed him, if only enough to stay his ground. The darkness returned to his heart. In those brief seconds when Josh had raised the gun to his own temple, Nathan understood how much he had failed these people. All his life, the only thing he wanted for himself was ordination, a chance to share the Gospel with as many people as possible. People except, apparently, those closest to him. Nathan went out into the world, but left Elizabeth and Josh to find their own way to salvation. She never wanted to hear it, true, but Josh... for all Nathan knew, his best friend yearned to be part of Hillcrest Baptist, to follow the path Nathan walked. But in all the years they’d been friends he’d never asked, save for casual invitations. Afraid it might come between them. Now, it was too late.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Quinn managed the knots at last and flung them away. The rope landed across Manny Paulson’s shoulder. Paulson had managed to move against the pew, obviously trying to reach the side exit, but his strength seemed to be ebbing as fast as the blood from his hip.
“Peter,” he gasped from his dark corner. “Peter, call an ambulance. Please help me. I can’t move my leg.”
Peter ignored the plea. It felt as if he’d lost an hour just untying the stupid woman. Now that she was free, he needed to maintain a steady voice. He expected to hear police sirens approaching in the distance at any minute.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered into her ear. “You may now approach the man on the altar and take his weapon.”
She did so, with hesitant but obedient movements. When she had the gun in her hand and Tarretti made no sign of resisting, Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. One less obstacle, at least. “Please lay it atop the altar and return here.”
As she did, Peter stared down at the dirty sack beside the dead man. It was surprisingly free of any bloodstains. Tarretti’s body had been mostly moved aside by Paulson. The long-sought-after tablets, carved by the finger of the Israelites’ God, lay inside. As if this thought was the catalyst, the sounds they’d all heard earlier returned. A single note from a distant organ, voices that were nothing but wind, voices singing, chanting.
Stop it! Focus.
Elizabeth slowly returned from the back of the sanctuary and stood between Everson and the preacher. The gun lay on the altar, too far for Tarretti to reach without giving away any pretense he might be playing at. Peter moved the flashlight beam away from the prize and saw again the faint glow; felt it, electric, a tingling across his face.
“I—” Peter began, but the overwhelming significance of what he was about to say caught in his throat. So long searching. So long, and now he would be the one to bring it to fruition. Not his uncle, not some faceless follower a hundred years from now. He would finish it.
Tears welled in his eyes. He used the hand holding the flashlight to wipe at his face. Before he dared touch the Covenant, he needed to confirm its true ownership. It must change “hands” officially.
He walked into the sanctuary, ignoring the others, lowering his trembling hands. “I claim this prize,” he said, whispering at first, then cleared his throat and continued in a louder, assertive voice, “that which once belonged to Solomon, King of Israel, devoted servant of the dark god Molech. I claim the tablets of the Covenant in Molech’s name, to be taken under the care of the Ammonites, his eternally faithful servants, now...” he reached closer, “...and forever.” He closed his fingers around the sackcloth and the prize within, felt its power course through his hands, up his arms. For a fleeting moment, he thought he would burst into flames, melt away, like in that absurd Hollywood movie. He did not. The power passed through him. His body was a conduit. It did not kill. It empowered him. Now he understood how Tarretti had survived such a long and arduous journey with his injuries.
Peter stood, wanting to laugh with sheer joy. Nathan Dinneck beat him to it. The boy laughed, a weak, pathetic attempt at indifference. Peter could hear his terror. That, too, empowered him.
“Solomon was no servant of any demon. You’re fooling yourself—”
“He pledged his support to many dark gods later in his illustrious life, Reverend. You know that. Granted, it depended on which wife he was trying to coax into bed at the time.” Peter walked slowly, reverently, from the sanctuary, stood as he’d done before in front of the first pew. “When one pledges devotion to Molech, even if only to ingratiate himself with a woman, such devotion is forever. Does not your God say the same of his own people?”
He glanced into the front pew and another ripple of excitement ran through him. Paulson had brought the two-gallon gasoline jug as Peter had instructed him. He’d also opened the tall stained-glass windows along the front and side of the church. The upper portions were fixed, unable to be opened. But the lower half of each was hinged to open outward at the turn of the crank. Paulson had done well. Faithful to the end, he mused, and the joy overflowed now. Everything had come together.