Free Solomon's Grave by Daniel G. Keohane Page B

came upstairs to make sure he was actually going to bed.
    “Mom,” he said, already feeling sleep overtake him.
    She stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around. “Yes?”
    “How’s Dad?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Is he home?”
    She looked away, down the hall, as if searching for his father. “No, probably not. But today’s Sunday and he still has work tomorrow. He won’t be out too late. You get some sleep, and don’t worry about him.”
    She looked back, and saw that her son was already asleep. She turned off the light.

Chapter Fourteen
    The rain began near midnight. It slashed against the narrow, painted-over windows of the storefront’s back room. Peter Quinn knelt before the altar—an area on the floor designated by flickering black and red candles. In the center stood a cross-legged statue of a man with the head of a bull. Its bronze skin shone in the firelight. A steady stream of aromatic smoke issued from its open mouth and through small holes at the end of long tapered horns. Human-shaped hands reached palm-up, as if waiting for an offering.
    Long ago, the statue would have risen twenty feet into the air, the hands large enough to hold its squirming, sometimes screaming, sacrifice. Like this small representation before him, the idol’s body would be hollow and the furnace within would illuminate the open mouth like the entrance to hell itself. When the offering was placed in its palms, the arms would rise on gears and pulleys, dropping the child into its mouth to feed the dark god’s hunger.
    Quinn’s resources, and his required discretion, prevented him from establishing a true temple for Molech, but soon he would have enough power to build a massive sacrificial statue wherever he desired.
    Then the true sacrifices to his dark god would resume. Sacrifices to his master, the most powerful of demons, had always been—always would be—the first born of a chosen follower. Quinn thought of the report given to him by Paulson this afternoon, the incident with Dinneck’s son, the weak minister. His first day of official service, he had fainted like a schoolgirl.
    He smiled. The good are weak , he thought. If a sacrifice would soon be needed, he wondered if he could make Art give up his first born. A Baptist minister as an offering. That sounded delightful. Its body bathed in candlelight, the small statue seemed to smile back in agreement.
    All in all, it had been a productive day. Until this morning, Quinn had some doubts as to Vincent Tarretti’s role in this grand game of hide-and-seek. The caretaker played his cards very close to his chest. No amount of research into his life turned up much more than the obvious fact that Tarretti was an eternally dull man. But Quinn saw the fear in his eyes when he suggested his group lay those flowers down. Any lingering doubt that he was involved in some way, dissipated during the conversation.
    Still, Peter had to remain cautious. The Elders would be reading his weekly reports with a deserved grain of salt. They would not stand for another Chicago incident. He would not survive another blunder. His uncle would make certain of that.
    Peter had stopped at Greenwood Street Cemetery before visiting Tarretti. He’d wandered among the grave markers, moving circuitously deeper and deeper into the far section of the old graveyard. It was his third visit. He stared for a long time at the angels standing guard over the grave’s placard. The name Solomon so clearly engraved. As before, the elation had filled him, nearly causing Quinn to fall to the ground and dig with his bare hands.
    He did not. If he was as close to the prize as he suspected, he needed to be careful. Instead, he walked around, moving leaves and dirt with the toe of his shoe, always kicking them randomly back into place so as not to reveal someone had been there. It was a crypt, no question. Crypts were used to store things, though usually just bodies. Peter was certain no human lay inside. It