Southern Cross (28 page)

04:45:11

I
started to panic at around seven o’clock that night. It wasn’t that I was all
that calm before then, of course… I was just much, much less calm by the time
seven o’clock rolled around. Jessie Barnel still hadn’t come to, which didn’t
bode well. We’d gone through city hall, the wreckage of Billy Thomas’s old home,
the old farmhouse where Reverend Barnel was raised, the church where he first
started preaching, the church where Billy Thomas took his first communion… We
had Feds and the National Guard and sniffing dogs and everything in between,
scouring the entire county.

And
still, we had nothing.

There
was one more lead I’d been avoiding up to this point—partly because I knew the
Feds had already been all over it. And partly because I really, really didn’t
want to go there.

I
couldn’t see my way clear of avoiding it any longer, though. I got up from my
seat in front of the computer and found Blaze, standing beside a giant
interactive map of the county. You could barely see the actual map for all the
dots and dashes and highlighted lines covering it. She looked up when she saw
me.

“You
have anything?” she asked hopefully.

I
shook my head. “But I had an idea.” I hesitated. She raised an eyebrow, a look
in her eye that suggested I’d do well to tell her that idea sooner rather than
later. “You said you have video footage of Barnel’s rituals—of him branding
those boys in the church?”

“That’s
over a thousand hours of tape, Erin.”

“I
know that,” I agreed. “I don’t need to see all of it. Just four of the rituals:
Marty Reynolds, Wyatt Durham, Roger Burkett… and Diggs.”

“We’ve
looked at them all. I don’t know how helpful they’ll be. And Diggs’ tape... ”
She hesitated. “Well, let’s just say it’s not for the faint of heart.”

So,
I’d been right: she had watched the tape. “It doesn’t matter. I’d still like to
see them,” I said.

She
nodded. “I’ll have someone get them for you.”

They
set me up with a VCR and an old TV in a cubicle in the corner. I set my pen and
paper down. Put on giant headphones. Turned on the TV.

Marty
Reynolds was thirteen when he was ‘exorcised,’ back in 1973. The A/V equipment
was primitive back then: terrible sound, fuzzy picture. Reverend Barnel’s hair
hadn’t gone grey yet, and he was carrying a few less pounds. Otherwise, he was
pretty much the same lunatic I’d seen at Miller’s Field the other night.

The
service took place in Redemption Hall, at Barnel’s compound—though in those
days, Redemption Hall wasn’t nearly as tricked out as what I’d seen the other
day. There was a pulpit up front, rows and rows of folding chairs, and that
same torturous dentist’s chair I’d seen before, equipped with leather straps on
both sides.

Marty
was a big kid for his age. The ritual was hard to watch, but not extraordinary:
it started with him being led in, stripped down to his boxers, and then
strapped into the chair. Barnel asked him his sins. He didn’t put up a fuss,
copping to a few minor infractions and a recent theft within five minutes. He
renounced Satan. Barnel branded him. Afterward, there was a hatred so deep in
Marty’s eyes when he looked at Barnel that I wondered how the preacher was
still alive today. The crowd whooped and hollered and cheered. Barnel’s lovely
assistant—a gorilla-sized goon Barnel called Brother Hollis—unstrapped Marty
and released him back into the wild.

Wyatt’s
ceremony was the same—the main difference being that he actually seemed
genuinely remorseful for his sins. Those sins were hardly extraordinary: mostly
lying and carousing and smoking cigarettes. Hardly worthy of the Barnel brand,
in my estimation. By this time, it was 1984. Brother Hollis was gone, and a
much younger Brother Jimmy—Barnel’s boy—had taken his place.

Danny’s
was one of the more recent tapes, obviously, transitioning from video to
digital. The ritual was still performed in Redemption Hall, with the Hall shown
in the video looking much closer to the one I’d seen: stadium seating, red
carpet, the works. The same dentist’s chair was still set up in the middle of
the action, but the video equipment and everything else had seen a major
upgrade.

Mae,
Wyatt, and Rick were standing beside the reverend while the ceremony took
place. Brother Jimmy led Danny in. The kid was a couple years younger in this,
wearing only his boxer shorts, and he seemed a hell of a lot more calm than I
expected. I waited for him to fight. He didn’t. He didn’t cry, either. He
recited his sins and renounced the devil like he was reading a script. The
reverend definitely wasn’t happy with the lack of pizzazz, but there wasn’t a
lot he could do, either.

Then,
I caught something just before Barnel lowered the brand to Danny’s chest. I
backed the tape up, and slowed it down.

Mae
and Rick were completely rapt—mesmerized, even. Wyatt, on the other hand,
looked like he was in that damn chair with his son. Just before the iron hit
Danny’s skin, I saw Wyatt mouth something to him. It didn’t take long to put it
together once I put the sound on: Wyatt was mouthing the words, just before
Danny said them. Coaching him on how best to get through everything Barnel was
putting him through.

Contrary
to what Mae might have believed, I suspected Wyatt hadn’t been so keen on
Reverend Barnel after all.

That
brought me to Diggs’ tape. Watching it felt like a betrayal—it was the last
thing he’d want me to see, I was sure of it. The last thing he’d want anyone to
see. I couldn’t think of another way, though.

I
pushed the tape in.

He
was so small.

Twelve—a
short, skinny kid with a mop of blond curls and the attitude of someone a whole
lot bigger. 

Brother
Jimmy brought him to the table. He’d already been stripped down to a pair of
Bugs Bunny boxer shorts, and was fighting tooth and nail when Jimmy tried to
strap him to the table. He bit Jimmy hard enough to draw blood, then kneed the
reverend himself in the balls. Eventually, they had to call in reinforcements.
After twenty minutes, they got him strapped to the table.

The
reverend began to pray. Then he started in on Diggs.

“Daniel,
you need to learn that your actions have consequences. Your brother was taken
from this life because of your careless disregard. His blood was spilled; and
yet, you live. That rebellion you embrace so tight is Satan, havin’ his way
with your soul, son. Your brother died because you was too weak to turn your
back on temptation. You need to beg for the Lord’s forgiveness or you’ll never
be free of the devil. Are you sorry, son?”

A
chorus of “Amen”s rose up from the audience. I clenched my hands so hard I left
bleeding crescents in my palms.

“I’m
sorry my brother’s dead. But that doesn’t have anything to do with the devil,
and it sure as hell doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Diggs said. I
smiled. Stubborn little bastard.

The
preacher kept at him, trying to get him to “turn his back on Satan.” Diggs
joked and he fought and then, when it was clear he was too exhausted to do
anything else, he went silent.

Barnel
branded his chest.

Marty
Reynolds had screamed bloody murder when Barnel did him. Even Wyatt and Danny
had hollered good and loud. Diggs kept his mouth shut and his eyes straight
ahead, his hatred so clear it was no wonder the reverend thought Beelzebub was
pulling his strings. Afterward, Barnel sent everyone in the audience home,
telling them he needed all his concentration on the demon child before him.
Once they were gone, something else took hold in Barnel’s eyes: something dark and
manic. Something unhinged.

I
turned the tape off and sat there for a second, nauseous. If there was a hell,
I hoped Barnel ended up there with someone five times his size burning molten
steel into his flesh for all eternity. I got up, got a glass of water, and
returned to my cubicle. I turned the tape back on.

Diggs
passed out about an hour in. Brother Jimmy brought him back around by dousing
him with water. Then, he put a hood over his head, and doused him again.

I
fast forwarded more of the same.

It went
on like that for almost three hours.

Barnel
never broke him. He never got him to renounce the devil; never got him to beg
for forgiveness. By the time it was over, the reverend was sweating bullets and
Diggs—twelve years old, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet—was slipping in and
out of consciousness, but he wouldn’t give an inch. Finally, there was some
kind of disturbance behind the camera, and it sounded like someone burst in. A
minute later, a big man with dark hair and broad shoulders bulled his way past
Brother Jimmy and tore the straps off Diggs’ arms and legs. George Durham.

“Get
away from him, you damn fool,” George said, his voice raw with fury. Wyatt was
on his heels. He started to pick Diggs up out of the chair, but Diggs pushed
him away and got up on his own.

“Give
me my fucking clothes,” mini Diggs said hoarsely to Barnel.

“He
needs to be cleansed,” Barnel said to Wyatt.

“Save
the party line, Jesup,” George said. “My wife might buy it, but I don’t hold no
stock in a man who strips boys down and tortures ‘em in the name of God. Now,
give the boy his damn clothes and let’s be done with this.”

Barnel
grabbed George by the elbow and pulled him aside. I got the feeling George
Durham wasn’t the kind of man accustomed to being manhandled: he jerked his arm
away and wheeled on Barnel. The fear on the preacher’s face was obvious. He
stepped back enough to give George some room and lowered his voice until it was
inaudible on the tape. I fiddled with the audio levels, trying to get some
sense of what they were talking about.

I
could only make out one thing through the entire whispered conversation, but it
spoke volumes. Barnel said a name, and George’s face went pale. I knew that
name well:

Billy
Thomas.

They
fought a little longer before it seemed that the two men came to a stalemate.
Finally, Barnel gave the nod and Jimmy brought Diggs his clothes. He was so
weak he could barely stand, but he pulled on his pants and a Van Halen t-shirt,
shot Barnel one more killing glare, and limped out alongside George and Wyatt
Durham.

No
wonder Diggs loved the Durhams. And hated Jesup Barnel.

I
only had one question: What the hell did George Durham have to do with Billy
Thomas?

03:30:16

Jenny
Burkett came and got me three and a half hours before the world was due to end,
trailed by the ski-mask-wearing, gun-toting giant who’d taken me from the
hotel. Jenny looked cool and collected, and Danny hadn’t been kidding: she was
definitely a looker. Heavily-lashed, wide brown eyes gazed out from a
heart-shaped face, her full lips quirked up in a smile that was anything but
pious. She came over holding a black hood that was clearly meant for me.

“Why
bother with that?” I asked. “What’s the point of secrecy if you’re just gonna
kill us anyway?”

“Who
says we’re killing you, Slick? A few lucky guests may just walk out of this
without a scratch. We’ll see how it goes.” Her smile was more predatory than I
typically associated with Barnel’s flock.

“So,
the reverend’s deciding who lives and who dies now?” I said. “Isn’t that job
supposed to go to the man upstairs, according to all the rhetoric?”

“You’re
just full of assumptions, aren’t you.” She knelt beside me, leaning close
enough that I could feel body heat and the press of her breasts against my arm.
Her lips were close to my ear when she spoke again. “I never said the reverend
was making any decisions.” 

That
set me back. Before we could continue what was proving to be a fascinating
conversation, the giant in black leveled a gun at my head.

“That’s
enough,” he said. “Just put the damn hood on him so we can get moving.”

I
nodded. “Be my guest.” I sounded a lot more cavalier than I felt. Once I was
rendered fully blind, The Giant hauled me to my feet and led me out.

I’m
not overly partial to hoods or blindfolds; Reverend Barnel ruined that
particular fetish for me early on. Last summer, Will Rainier sealed it. My
intestines knotted and the air left my lungs when the cloth fell over my face.
I fought to stay calm, the smell of must and sweat in my nose, that
claustrophobic blindness I remembered from my youth shutting out everything
else.

I
walked with Jenny on one side, her hand cool and delicately feminine on my left
arm, while The Giant’s sweaty mitt gripped the other. The floor of the first
corridor was dirt, and the place smelled of cobwebs and old earth. They opened
a creaking door and we walked up a flight of fifteen narrow stairs. Another,
heavier-sounding door opened in front of us. It was warmer here, the floor
concrete. I heard music that was either live or broadcast through a damn good
sound system, coming from a floor above us. It was Stevie Wonder’s “Higher
Ground”—the original, not the Chili Peppers cover.

Halfway
down the concrete corridor, “Higher Ground” ended and a chorus of trumpets
began; that segued into the first strains of “Jesus Children of America.” I
felt another surge of excitement. “Jesus Children” is the track after “Higher
Ground” on
Innervisions
, Stevie Wonder’s second album to go gold. There
was no way it hadn’t made it into Jake Dooley’s top five records of all time.

 Wherever
we were, they were broadcasting WKRO. And there was a network of subterranean
tunnels to which Jenny Burkett, Reverend Barnel, and all their foot soldiers
had ready access. I didn’t know where that led me, but it seemed like I was
getting closer to some answers.

Jenny
and her buddy led me down five steps and opened another door. A blast of hot
air hit me like a sunburst. They hauled me over the threshold and inside the
room. My heart was hammering—a sound that’s deafening, incidentally, when
you’re locked in a pillowcase. I tried to orient myself, dizzy from the
movement and more than a slight case of bone crushing terror.

“He
can sit,” a voice behind me said. My heartbeat jacked up to a sixteen count. I
whirled.

“That’s
all right. I’ll stand, thanks,” I said. 

A
meaty hand locked onto my shoulder and tried to push me backward. I channeled
my inner Jedi, tried to establish some sense of where I was in relation to my
captors, and centered myself. I brought my knee up, fast, at the same time that
I pushed myself forward. My knee connected with something soft; I heard an
oof
as the big guy hit the ground.

Of
course, less than a second later I crumpled into a cool metal chair after The
Giant retaliated with a ruthless rabbit punch to my left kidney. The whole
thing had been an exercise in futility, but I felt better for at least having
tried.

Jenny
pulled the hood off my head.

I was
in the same boiler room the others had described, a low-end digital video
camera mounted on a tripod at eye level about five feet away. A couple of
professional photography lamps were pointed my way, with a cheap white backdrop
behind me. Barnel sat in a folding chair behind the camera equipment.

“Cecil
B. Demille, I presume,” I said.

“You
never get tired of hearin’ yourself talk, do you, Daniel?” Barnel said.

“That’s
rich coming from you. What do you want?”

“Same
thing I’ve always wanted.” He nodded toward the door, and Jenny and her fella
stepped outside. I was alone with the master himself. “I just wanna save your
soul, son.”

“And
I’ll tell you the same thing I told you thirty years ago: keep your hands off
me and my soul. I’m all set. Thanks for your concern.”

He
stood and produced a sheet of paper from his bag of tricks, then set it up
carefully on a music stand just behind the video camera. My confession was two
paragraphs long, written in 24-point Arial type.  With the margins widened to
half an inch on all sides, the writing covered the bulk of the page. I scanned
the contents silently:

I,
Daniel Jacob Diggins, am here to solemnly confess a lifetime of mortal sin.

I
looked up. Despite the gravity of the situation, it was hard to keep a straight
face. “Seriously?” I asked. “You expect me to say this shit?”

He
paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. “You’re gonna say every word of
it, son.”

“If
torture didn’t work on me when I was twelve, what makes you think anything you
say will make an impression now?” I asked.

He
stopped pacing and looked at me. There was a fever in his eyes—that religious
fervor that had terrified me about him from the first time we met, now coupled
with what I took to be a chemically-induced mania. 

“You
want that nephew of yours to walk out o’ here?” he asked. “And what about
George? You want me to let George Durham, that father you never had, gather up
his things and limp out of this buildin’ intact? Because I got that power, son.
You confess your ways, accept the Lord’s punishment for the sins you done and
the life you led, and maybe not everybody you love has to die.”

I
froze. “George isn’t with us.”

“He’ll
be in there when you get back, boy. The two of us had to have it out first—that
man’s almost as stubborn as you. But he saw the error of his ways by the end,
just like you will.”

“I
thought the world was ending,” I said. “If the planet’s getting swallowed into
hell in a few hours, how will my confession save anyone?”

For
the first time, he hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty washed over his florid
face. “The end of the world means different things to different people. You’ll
understand when all’s said and done.”

“Okay,”
I said slowly. “So, I read this bullshit you’ve written for me, and you let
George and Danny go. And then, what happens to the tape? Are you and your
minions headed to Sundance when this is all over? Or does it just get added to
your twisted archive?”

“People
see it,” he said, to my surprise—I thought he would have just put me off. “They
watch, and they know who I was. What I done. The souls I saved before the Lord
took me home.”

It
wasn’t what I expected—not by a long shot. The biggest surprise, however, was
the preacher’s obvious exhaustion and the agony in his eyes.

“Fine,”
I said.

He
looked at me in surprise. “What?”

I
shrugged. “Screw it. You took the time to write it—I can take a couple minutes
to read it. What the hell? It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

His
eyes welled. He nodded rapidly, pulling the stand a few inches closer so I
could see more easily.

I
looked into the camera and read his words—all of them nonsense, the gist of the
message having to do with betraying God and embracing my inner demon for most
of my life. When I came to the end, I looked up and noted that the preacher was
standing by with his hands folded, silently mouthing the words along with me.
Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Can
I say one more thing?” I asked when Barnel shut off the camera. He looked at me
suspiciously.

“What?”
he asked.

“I’m
assuming these are my last words,” I said. My chest went unexpectedly tight at
the thought. I pushed past that, maintaining eye contact. “If they are, I’d
like to make my own peace, if I could.”

He
wrestled with the idea for a few seconds before he eventually nodded. “You
gotta be quick about it, though,” he said. “We ain’t got much time for what
needs doin’.”

I
didn’t question that, as much as I wanted to. Instead, I waited until he’d
turned on the camera and began.

“Since
this is apparently my last will and testament,” I said, my eye on the little
red button blinking at me. “I wanted to say one more thing.” I hesitated for a
second, working past the lump in my throat. It wasn’t fair, what I was doing—if
this was indeed all that would remain of me after the fact, it wasn’t right to
put Solomon through this. But if it were me in her place… As horrible a thought
as that was, I knew I’d want those last words from her. I hung onto the memory
of her eyes and went on.

“Solomon,”
I said quietly. I wet my lips. “I know I’ve made more mistakes in this life
than most ten men. I stand by a lot of those mistakes… there are only two that
I’d change. The first is that day I convinced a ten-year-old kid to follow me
off a cliff. The second is the morning I walked out on you.”

I
took a long, deep breath. Barnel moved to turn off the camera. I shook my head
and he stopped, waiting. I continued.

“I
hope you get what you’re looking for, kid. You’re an amazing woman... even if
your best record is
Original Soul
. You’ve made my life better in a
thousand ways. I’ve always loved you, Sol. Even when it wasn’t smart. Even when
I had no right. I think I always will.”

I
stopped, trying to maintain control. Barnel turned off the camera. He looked
very old, suddenly.

“Why
are you doing this, Jesup?” I asked. “You’ve lost your family. Your congregation.
Your friends. You clearly don’t believe the world’s really ending at midnight.
So… why? You honestly believe this is what your god would want?”

He
scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “The end may not be comin’ tonight… but it’s
on its way. The Lord’s been walkin’ softly too many years. My time’s up—and I
ain’t leavin’ those I love for the hell that’s to come. There’s nothin’ keepin’
me here. Once I know I done my duty for Him, I’m takin’ my loved ones and we’re
gonna retire to those streets of gold.”

“And
you don’t think any of this goes against those messages of peace and good will
other followers of Christianity preach?”

His
face darkened like a storm cloud had fallen. “There ain’t room for mercy or
coddlin’ anymore. No room at all. The Guard taught me that.”

There
was a light knock on the door. I thought about his words as Jenny came in
without waiting for a response from Barnel. The storm cloud on his face
darkened.

“We
need to get moving, Reverend,” Jenny said.

He
glowered at her. “I ain’t finished here—I told you I’d come for you when I’m
good and ready. Your people might not think so, but I’ve still got the reins.”

She
ignored him and looked at me, a spark of interest touching those deadly brown
eyes. Everything I thought I knew about what was happening had turned upside
down.

“Don’t
get testy, Reverend,” she said. “I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”

She
left. Barnel stared at the door for a second afterward, seething.

“Looks
like they’ve got you on a pretty tight leash,” I said casually. “Just who,
exactly, are Jenny Burkett’s people? What’s this Guard you just mentioned?”

He
looked shaken for a moment. “It ain’t none of your concern. You’re gonna be
long gone. Trust me, son. I’m doin’ you a favor.”

He
took the video camera off the tripod and went to the door, refusing to answer
anymore of my questions. “Everybody’s got an agenda these days, boy,” he said
as he stood at the threshold, eyes on me. “I reckon the best you can hope is
that you find somebody willin’ to foot the bill for yours ‘til you can bow out
o’ the whole dang mess.”

He
pulled the door open viciously and left, slamming it behind him.

I was
more confused than ever, except for one sobering thought: I was suddenly
positive that Jesup Barnel’s private battle in Justice, Kentucky, was just one
front in a much larger war.