But he needed to play along. He put his hands against the wooden box’s cool and dusty sides, and lifted.
“Don’t forget to use the knees, young man.” Quinn spoke without humor, too intently waiting for something terrible to happen.
If Quinn saw a gold-laden chest, Nathan needed to struggle. In fact, though the box was a bit heavy, it didn’t weigh nearly as much as it should.
“It’s heavy,” he said, trying to sound out of breath.
Quinn smiled gleefully. “As well it should be. I apologize for not giving you enough notice, time to join a gym or something, but time is of the essence.” He nodded to Vincent’s body. “Wouldn’t do for us to be found in here with a dead man. Time to go topside and give Mister Tarretti that decent burial I promised.”
He walked around the room, always facing Nathan, and stopped at the ladder. “After you, Pastor. I’d offer to help, but I’d prefer you carry it until it can be properly consecrated on my own altar.”
In his relief, Nathan thought of a few retorts, but he held his tongue. He couldn’t show too much confidence. Quinn was smart enough to see through most deceptions. The question was, how long before he saw through this one?
He turned back to the box, took a deep breath, and prayed to God that he wouldn’t overact. He lifted it, turned, and took half-steps toward the ladder. As he did, a rope uncurled itself from outside. It was long enough for Nathan to tie securely to his burden and, he assumed, pull it to the surface himself.
“You didn’t think I’d make you carry it up the ladder? You may be young and strapping, but that might be asking a bit much. Lay it down here and tie it off.”
Quinn backed up until he was standing with his back to the wall, allowing Nathan room to put down the box and begin tying the rope in loops around it. Dust drifted up from the floor and the box’s lid as he worked. He had to stop more than once to cough. A taste like old, forgotten books lingered in his mouth. He worked the knots, silently thankful for his four years as a Cub Scout. When he was done, he stood and wiped dust onto his pants.
Quinn waved him up the ladder. “Up you go, please. And, Reverend? Don’t drop it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Nathan said, unable to resist.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Again, Peter Quinn chided himself for being too celebratory, too soon.
But he had it!
Sand, gripped too tightly in one’s hand, spilled. Caution, slow and steady progress was his only option. He checked that Paulson was waiting at the lip of the opening as the minister ascended the ladder. Dinneck kept one hand on the rope as if never quite wanting to leave the treasure completely alone. Something the two of them had in common. There was more than enough rope, and he assumed Paulson had already secured the other end up top, maybe to the statue of the pathetic angels. He would see if the preacher could lift the vessel on his own. If not, he’d have Josh Everson help him. Though he might still serve a purpose—there was already blood on his hands as it was, and with the same gun used on the old minister—he was also the most expendable. Peter assumed the woman would serve as the best inspiration for Dinneck to play along.
Looking again at the glorious Ark before him, he was certain the preacher could lift it out, though not without some effort. Again, its size bothered him, and the lack of cherubim atop the mercy seat. Perhaps they’d been broken off, stolen ages ago during its many travels. He looked closer, trying to see if there were any other questionable features. The gold was radiant; certainly it was real. If that were so, however, how could Dinneck lift it? His smile faded a notch. Then he felt the power of the thing, like a wave washing across the room.
His smile returned. It was his. His!
Let the man think he still had the upper hand. When their god chose leaders for his new temple on earth, Peter would have his day. He reached into his pocket and produced the cell phone. The signal was strong, even down here. Yet another positive turn of events. He pressed the speed-dial labeled RQ.
The phone rang on the other end of the line. As he waited, Peter felt something like a ball of clay grow in his stomach. What if his uncle didn’t believe him? He needed to be calm but confident. Play it cool, but assertive.
“Quinn speaking,” a gruff voice answered. Peter wanted to take a deep breath before speaking, but what sort of confidence would that imply?
“Uncle Roger, good evening. I have some news.”
Roger Quinn’s sigh crackled across the connection, which had a tinny quality to it this time. Maybe the energy emitted from the slowly rising Ark was causing interference. “Peter. I should have known. Is the chase off, as I expected? Another false alarm?”
Dinneck was making slow progress, pausing to catch his breath. Peter heard Paulson’s voice from above but ignored it. “One moment, Uncle. Be careful, Reverend,” he said louder. “Damaging it now will cost you and your girlfriend dearly.”
Roger still had not responded. Peter remained silent. He could wait. The Ark was nearing the concrete lip. Dinneck was saying something. Again, Paulson’s voice, clearly saying, “No way, Man. I ain’t touching that thing.”
“Just the rope for heaven’s sake. I need both hands.”
Uncle Roger’s voice finally returned. “How can you be sure it is real, Peter?” Not a mocking tone, but not entirely convinced.
“I can’t be, Uncle. Not yet. But the vessel is covered in quite ornate gold leaf. It would be an awfully expensive forgery to be sure. We’re moving with caution, though.” He wanted to mention the power he felt emanating from it, but could not decide how to describe it accurately without sounding foolish.
Paulson must have conceded to hold the rope, for Dinneck was now standing on the second-to-top rung of the ladder and trying to lift the chest above his head. Then it was up, and resting on the surface. Dinneck disappeared from view.
Peter felt a wash of relief. Closer now than ever before, he thought.
Roger was speaking again, and he tried to focus. “...man I sent down from Maine’s name is Lou Hautala. He should be there by midnight. Where will you be?”
Now, he noticed, Roger’s voice was tinged with excitement. Considering how excited he felt himself, how much more breathless must his aging and overweight uncle be?
“We’ll be at the storefront, in the back room. We’ll arrive in the alley and I’ll be sure to send any loiterers out front home before we examine the contents.”
“Send them all home, yes, but don’t do anything else until I arrive!” Roger’s voice was strained toward panic. “This may be nothing, but I’d be a fool to let you do anything further without our people there. If it is the true Ark... if it is...”
His voice trailed off. Peter imagined his uncle’s eyes darting across the room, lost in swirling thoughts. Even with the apparent insult just given, he was overjoyed at the reaction. But how long would it take for him to get all the way to Hillcrest?
“Uncle Roger,” he said, tentatively, “it’s quite a long trip from Chicago, and no telling when you’ll find a flight. I’d be happy to wait for your man from Maine, but I feel strongly we should at least do more to validate the find before you waste any money or time on such a trip.”
“I’m closer than you think, Peter. I should be over Providence by the time Hautala shows up at your doorstep. Expected arrival in Boston at one-fifteen. I have a car lined up when I get there.”
Peter rolled his eyes. Roger hadn’t been as skeptical as he’d sounded during their previous discussion. He‘d booked a red-eye into Logan.
