Solomon's Grave

Max and Abby Quinn were sitting on the couch watching television when Roger called Peter’s name and said it was time to leave. His parents looked up sleepily when Roger waved his nephew toward the door. “No need to say goodbye, Peter. Your mother and father are too immersed in their show. They have, however, agreed to let you come with me.” The last he saw of his parents was the slow turning of heads, in perfect unison, back toward the television set. It was then that Peter Quinn had the first true glance at his uncle’s power. Over the next ten years, the man phoned Peter’s parents often, lying about a school his nephew never attended, each time lowering his voice to a whisper before hanging up.

Peter Quinn learned everything about his uncle’s true mission in life. His, and others’. Dozens, perhaps hundreds—their numbers known only to a few—of disciples like himself scattered across the globe, servants of Molech. They were modern Ammonites, an association reflected only in the dark god they served rather than any lifestyle. They were bloodhounds. Sniffing, searching. Always cautious. Funding their covert activities through other, more conventional means, including an extensive drug cartel and occasional prostitution ring. The Quinns’ specific line of business was mostly a respectable one, loan collections and money laundering. Any occasional drug-running was done only as a cooperative effort with the many pre-established channels in the city.

Uncle Roger and his people preferred to keep low profiles. Waiting for the day that their adversaries, who hoarded the prize like frightened children, made a mistake.

The general consensus among the worldwide Ammonite movement was that these zealots were well- organized, both Christians and Jews, able to communicate quickly and discreetly among themselves. Peter Quinn’s people were patient. The prize was rightfully theirs. To appease his many wives, old King Solomon himself pledged servitude to their gods, to the point of building temples to them. Most of these other gods were weak, at times nothing more than cheap clay monuments. But Molech—when one declares devotion to the master, he does so forever. As such, the king had given up any rights to property. All was to be offered to the master. Among all the treasures of that ancient age, there was one they desired most. The Ark of the Covenant. Its mere presence offered the power to destroy any enemy. There were other reasons, as well, why the relic was so precious, reasons which Peter didn’t think warranted too much consideration. Echoes of a superstitious time, best put behind them if they were to focus on the present. Talk of it being an actual gateway into Heaven, a door through which the very God of the Israelites would move when he deemed to do so. And like any door, it could swing both ways. Ludicrous, in Peter’s opinion, but a concept that served to drive his predecessors with more force than the obvious wealth such a possession would promise.

But until this age, it was not to be. If rumors and legends were to be believed, a handful of priests in Solomon’s court discreetly smuggled it west into the land of Ethiopia. They never returned. Other theories pointed to Josiah, one of the last kings of Judah. Knowing the end was coming when his obsessive destruction of the altars to Molech and Baal—including the priests who served at them—did not appease his God, he chose to have the Ark stolen away to safety before his death. Regardless, when the Babylonian army at last swarmed into Jerusalem, the relic was gone.

Quinn’s predecessors came close in their search many times, felt the power at their fingertips. The experience of such proximity was chronicled in official documents preserved for centuries—even, in a few cases, for millennia.

Peter spent his early days with Uncle Roger studying these accounts, watching as the man traced theoretical travel routes over the centuries on a well-worn wall map. From the African continent, to the Mediterranean and an extended stay in Greece during the Middle Ages, the wastelands of Russia, back to a small village in what was currently called Uruguay. Eventually to the self-proclaimed Free World. The last time a confirmed sighting occurred was a year before the turn of the twentieth century, in Arizona. The desert landscape was a mirror image of its original homeland. But the Ark was gone when his predecessors found their way into the recently-abandoned cave once belonging to a relocated Yavapai Indian tribe. Twin wooden carvings of angels stood sentry, their crude renderings of wings crossing each other over the cave’s narrow entrance.

Then nothing. Year after year after year.

Until now.

When Peter arrived in Worcester, Massachusetts he began a slow, methodical search of the city and its surrounding towns. He often wondered if he would end up like so many others who came before him, his life spent in fruitless search, never feeling the prize brushing so close to his fingertips as it had been these past few months. When he discovered the existence of Solomon’s grave, he felt a rush of certainty that his mission was going to be different—glorious perhaps. The misunderstanding in Chicago was not a blunder, but a necessary step taken by his master to send his Chosen One here, to the very doorstep of heaven’s power. It was a drug a thousand times more potent than any he’d taken in his youth.

Still, training taught caution. This town was a reflection of a much different world than where the relic had ever before resided. He must move slowly, establish a small cadre of followers, aides for when the prize was uncovered. Those whose minds and souls could be controlled. Except for Manny Paulson who, by his nature, was evil enough that he could be controlled simply with the promise of power. He and the others could be eliminated or left to themselves if the location proved a ruse, a red herring planted like so many others in the past.

The angels and the name of the gravestone, after all, were too convenient.

Still, the grave had sat here almost a hundred years without being discovered. The United States was a big country, this town an insignificant speck. So easy for it to remain unnoticed.

His next steps were clear—stir the pot as he’d done today with Tarretti, and wait for someone to make a move, reveal whether John Solomon’s grave was his target. In the past, false locations were more than simple diversions. They were death traps, man-sized Roach Motels luring the unwary inside and devouring them. Best to keep an eye on the prize, but with an open mind and cautious step. Paulson was keeping the caretaker under casual observation. If Tarretti made a move, Peter would hear about it.

What of Hayden? Rules set down centuries ago would be no different today. Their God was like that, big on tradition. Too many corpses lined the streets of the past, men and women foolish enough to test it.

But wasn’t Peter, himself, a priest serving a much mightier deity than their silent God? When the time came, he was certain he could carry it to the feet of Molech, to the new temple which his people would finally build.

The fabled yet very real Ark of the Covenant, the ornate chest housing the stone tablets on which Yahweh Himself scrawled his Commandments to the Israelites—and at one time containing the budding staff of a man named Aaron, the Book of the Law and even some manna which had supposedly fallen from Heaven—would finally be delivered to its true owner. And, if those crackpots of yesteryear were to be believed, the very portal into Heaven would be opened. A doorway through which Peter Quinn’s dark master and his legions of damned would pass and wreak long-awaited vengeance on those who cast him out. There were some in their group who believed this latter part very much. These were the true elders of the Ammonite organization, reclusive people whom Peter hoped never to meet. Unlike his Uncle Roger. The only time the man had shown the smallest sign of humility, or fear, in front of his nephew was the one time Peter asked about these people. Of course Roger told him nothing. Why waste his breath on his own nephew?

Peter Quinn took a cleansing breath and leaned back onto his heels. There were final preparations needing attention, including some flowers to personally deliver in a week. Not to the cemetery. The flowers would be for Hayden, to greet him on his arrival at the monastery. An excuse for Peter to learn where in the complex the man was staying. After that, he and Pastor Hayden had much to talk about.

Chapter Fifteen

Nathan met and spoke to a dozen-plus parishioners Monday morning. They had stopped by the church to see how he was feeling, or used some other pretense. Always the same questions, but asked with genuine concern—at least outwardly. He’d gotten his explanation for yesterday’s collapse down to a reasonable, but condensed, rhetoric. He spoke with an easy, unconcerned smile, but inside he squirmed with embarrassment. The dread he’d felt about facing the group at Wednesday night’s Bible study and next weekend’s service slowly dissipated. Everyone seemed to understand, more so perhaps because he was already one of them, someone familiar, given a little more slack than an untested newcomer.

He’d slept soundly all last night and did not dream. Nathan felt better, but the nagging continued in the back of his mind. If he didn’t face it soon, the same thing might happen all over again.

The agenda for Monday afternoon, planned out by Hayden, was lighter than usual. He’d apparently decided to