Solomon's Grave

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.

Paulson reached forward and grabbed feebly at his pant leg. Peter kicked his arm away.

Dinneck continued with his frightened half-smile. “Perhaps you’ve been fooled again, Quinn. If those were the true Commandments you’d be dead now. You know as well as I do that only priests of God may handle them.”

How obscenely ignorant this holy man was. “If you held in your arms what I now hold, Reverend Dinneck, you would be silenced. I can feel their power, and it strengthens me. Didn’t you hear my claim, just now? The Covenant no longer belongs to your God. It belongs to my master. I am now his high priest.”

Dinneck shook his head. Peter suddenly realized he was stalling. Time had slowed for him, lost as he was in such rapture. But not for the rest of the world. If a neighbor had heard Tarretti’s shot, the police would come soon. Dinneck knew that. The boy was too smart for his own good.

They couldn’t wait any longer. It was going to be a pleasure to watch him die. Peter laid the red jug at the step leading into the sanctuary and said, “Elizabeth, would you be so kind as to pour this gasoline around and atop the podium, maybe a little on the altar as well? Be sure to cover Mister Tarretti’s body. Move quickly now, girl. We have one final task to accomplish.”

She did as asked, unscrewing the cap and pouring the gasoline haphazardly across the raised wooden area within the railing. Gas spilled across her slacks and shoes. She gave no reaction except to cough twice through the gag.

“That’s enough, dear,” Peter said. “Come down now.”

She coughed again, then stumbled, reaching out to catch the railing. The fact that she did this without any instruction from him told Peter that she might already be slipping from his control. It would not matter, if he performed the sacrifice quickly.

He began his final and long-planned task. The sense of urgency became a whirlwind in his head. The church was filling with fumes too quickly. No turning back now.

“What is burning down my church going to accomplish!” Dinneck shouted. Good, Peter thought, be afraid. He reached into his pants pocket and produced a Zippo lighter. He had purchased this particular one a long time ago, using it only for lighting the candles in the small temple behind the storefront, or other altars at other locations. It would be used tonight for the last time. For the ultimate burning. He liked this lighter. It would be missed.

“Most powerful master,” he shouted, keeping his gaze steady on Nathan Dinneck, “I offer you your first sacrifice!” Stepping down the aisle past the first pew, he flicked the lighter. A small flame rose up. He was ready to toss it away if the flame grew any higher; if the gas fumes had indeed filled too far into the church. Nothing happened.

Not yet.

“It is time for the sacrifice. As is decreed by the most powerful lord, Molech the Demon of all Power and Majesty, who commands blood sacrifice of his followers, I commit you,” he looked toward the pews, “Arthur Dinneck, to come forth and offer your son to him now.”

Chapter Seventy

Nathan’s father stood from his quiet vigil on the bench. His brow was wrinkled, as if confused by Quinn’s words. Still, he stepped out of the pew and walked to stand beside him. Quinn looked at Nathan and smiled—the expression no longer calm, but one of madness. Perhaps panic, as well. He shifted the weight of the Covenant under his arms. In his other hand, the flame continued to issue forth from the Zippo.

“Come forward, Nathan Dinneck,” Quinn said, then added, “and do it quickly, please.”

Elizabeth moved beside him. She coughed again, and pulled the gag away from her mouth. She blinked at him with red-rimmed eyes. Eyes which seemed to be coming back into focus.

What do I do? Nathan thought with a sudden terror. What do I do?

“Now, Reverend!”

In her remaining confusion Elizabeth muttered something Nathan did not understand, but in this lowest hour of despair he found her inaudible comment comforting.

Nathan stepped forward until he stood in the aisle between the rows of pews.

With no further fanfare, Quinn tossed the lighter over the railing and into the sanctuary. Before it landed, the air exploded with a whoosh! The sanctuary glowed in a perfectly round ball of flame. Then it twisted into a vision from hell. The podium burned, a pillar of fire enveloping Tarretti’s body and already reaching toward the railing. A wall of heat moved before it. The first wave was weak; the second, stronger, more physical. The floor of the raised platform bubbled and blackened. Rivulets of gasoline were now rivers of fire heading toward them, reaching toward the carpet lining the aisle.

A third wall of heat poured over and through them. Now smoke was rising over everything. Tarretti’s gun jumped from the altar as a round exploded. The bullet embedded itself into the sanctuary wall. Before the gun landed another explosion spit into the air, then another. The rounds exploded from the gun’s clip, tearing it apart. A projectile whizzed past Elizabeth’s arm and slammed into the pew between her and Josh. Still gripping the gag at throat level, she tried to breathe, taking in only hot, acrid air. Josh received no orders to the contrary and so did not try to stop her. He took a reflexive step back from the heat, blinking away the pain growing on his face. He lowered the gun he was holding, leaned against the pew.

As Art Dinneck approached Nathan, his troubled expression was nonetheless still void of any other sign of understanding, still under Quinn’s control.

“Art Dinneck,” Quinn said, having to shout now above the roar of the fire spreading past the altar railing, tearing up the walls of the sanctuary and ripping into the ceiling above. Long-dry wood splintered and cracked, giving itself to the fire. “Take hold of your son, firmly, and do not let him go. He is small and could get lost.” Art smiled wider and grabbed Nathan by the shoulders, his grip too strong for Nathan to simply shrug himself free.

Elizabeth looked down in time to see the carpet in the center aisle burning, reaching to where Nate and his father stood with Quinn. She couldn’t hear what the latter was saying. The sprinklers sprung to life overhead, too late for any effect. She felt water drop to her face only to evaporate a second later. The inferno coming toward them was too big already, too hot to be stopped.

Her sneakers were on fire. She tried to kick away the flames, realized in time she should simply kick them off her feet. As she did so, she fell backwards into the first pew. Her socks were not burning, but they felt wet with