Southern Cross

by Jen Blood

  “Go ahead,” Juarez said, with a nod that included both of us. “I’ll wait.”

  Einstein greeted me at the door with a kind of subdued, anxious enthusiasm—like he was well aware the world was falling apart around our ears, and he didn’t appreciate being sidelined during all the action.

  Mae was on the couch in the sitting room, surrounded by candles. Ida slept with her head in her mother’s lap, her pale blonde hair hiding her face, while Mae thumbed through old photo albums. She put her finger to her lips when we came in.

  “We just wanted to check on you,” Diggs whispered. He looked so guilty you would have thought he’d personally engineered this whole plot himself. Mae nodded to the photos in her lap.

  “I’ve been looking over some things,” she whispered. “We had a lot of good times over the years, didn’t we?”

  Diggs nodded, mute. Mae put her hand over his and squeezed. “This wasn’t your fault, darlin’,” she said softly. At the words, Diggs swallowed convulsively. A good stiff breeze and I expected the whole room to dissolve into tears. “You don’t listen to anything I said—you were lookin’ out for my boy, the way you’ve always done. That’s it.”

  He kissed the top of her head gently. “We’ll get him back, Mae.”

  “I know,” she said. Something about the hollow way she said it, though, made me think she didn’t believe him. “I’m gonna pack up the kids and move on over to Ashley’s as soon as everybody’s up, at least ‘til this is over. It’s not good for them, me rattling around the house like this.”

  “What about Rick?” Diggs asked.

  “Sleepin’,” Mae said. “That boy can sleep through anything. Always could. Danny was always restless, colicky, always after somethin’. Rick never seemed to need anything. Danny needed the world.”

  It felt like she wasn’t even talking to us anymore, gazing at the photos of a life she’d lost in the blink of an eye. Diggs and I stood there awkwardly for a minute more before we said our goodbyes, and went upstairs together to pack the rest of our things.

  18:00:02

  The war room looked much more warrish when we got there at six o’clock that morning. For one thing, Blaze had moved from the tiny room in the back of the police station to a classroom at the local elementary school, now being powered by generators. The kids’ desks had been moved out to make way for actual, grown up replacements. New computers and a dozen agents filled the space. In front of the chalkboard and a map of the U.S. was Blaze’s nifty super-computer.

  “Wait in the hall, please,” she said to Diggs and me as soon as we crossed the threshold. She looked tired. And very pissed off.

  We did as she ordered, seated in two of those god awful student desk/chair combo torture deals, beside a trophy case and a mural of dancing tigers. I had no idea why the tigers were dancing. Maybe they were excited about the end of the world.

  Einstein took all of it in stride, seemingly just happy to be back under my feet again. A minute or two into our wait, however, he was up again, whining anxiously. Buddy Holloway came around the corner and Stein dashed after him like they were old friends, whimpering ecstatically. Another two seconds and it became clear that Buddy’s appearance had nothing to do with my pup’s warm reception.

  Grace, the Burketts’ golden retriever, appeared a few steps behind Buddy. Her tail was down and her head was bandaged. She looked miserable. Buddy waved to us; he didn’t look all that happy himself. Einstein trotted over and gave Grace a perfunctory butt sniff before he very gently bumped against her side and licked her muzzle.

  “Looks like you found a friend,” Diggs said to Buddy.

  The deputy scowled. “I didn’t mean to, believe me. The dang vet closed his office, and nobody was around to take her. Otherwise they would’a taken her to the pound, and like as not she would’a been put down before the end of the day. My wife’ll kill me, though. We’ve got a little one on the way and two dogs in the house already—I’ll be sleepin’ with ‘em if I bring Gracie here home.”

  “I can watch her, if you want,” I said, long before I really had a chance to think it over. Buddy looked like he’d kiss me.

  “You sure? That’d sure be a load off my mind.”

  “What’s one more? Though just for a few days,” I qualified. “Assuming the world doesn’t end at midnight, we’ll need to find her a permanent home. One that’s not mine.”

  “Sure thing,” Buddy agreed. He eyed the war room. “How’s everything goin’ in there?”

  “Not sure,” Diggs said. “We haven’t made it in there yet. What’s the status on the DQ bombing? Any news?”

  “Two dead. About twenty-plus injured. No damage beyond the Dairy Queen and… well, the sheriff’s van, of course. Looks like he used a few homemade Malatov cocktails; had some explosives inside his car, too.” He shook his head. He looked as tired as I felt. “I still can’t believe he’s gone. And I sure can’t believe the way he went.”

  Blaze opened the door then and greeted Buddy with a perfunctory nod. “You mind giving me a few minutes, Deputy? Go on in and find a seat—I’ll be in shortly to brief everyone.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said quickly and stepped past her. I had a feeling Diggs wasn’t getting off so easily.

  Blaze nodded to our torture chairs. “Have a seat.”

  We sat. The dogs settled in at our feet and Blaze walked down the hallway until she found a normal chair and carried it over. She set it facing Diggs.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Few stitches. Nothing major.”

  “That’s good,” she said. She looked at me.

  “I’m fine,” I said before she could ask.

  “Excellent. I heard what you two did after the explosion—how you helped getting people to safety. Well done.”

  “Thanks,” Diggs said. “It was mostly Solomon, though—”

  “I’m not finished,” Blaze said. Her eyes never left Diggs’. It was getting damned uncomfortable in that hallway.

  “This worked out, in the sense that you’re both alive, and you apparently were not the motive behind Jennings’ attack. But, if you ever ditch me again, I will put that cute little ass of yours in jail faster than you can say ‘prison bitch.’”

  “I didn’t—” Diggs began.

  “Still not done,” she said shortly. “Make no mistake, Mr. Diggins: I believe these people will come after you. It’s not a question of if, it’s a question of when. But I’m not just here to protect you; I’m here to stop a plot that as far as we know could kill dozens, if not hundreds.

  “I know exactly what you and your little girlfriend here pulled on Agent Juarez in Canada over the summer. That will not happen here. When I tell you to do something, I want it done. And you two can roll your eyes and make snide comments all you want—I’m here to do a job. I’ll do everything in my power to see that you and everyone here makes it through this. But if that doesn’t happen, it sure as hell is not gonna be because you refused to follow basic instructions from me regarding this investigation.”

  And then, she took out a pair of handcuffs and slapped one around Diggs’ wrist and one around his desk.

  “This isn’t baseball—there’s no three strikes rule. Ditch me once, shame on me. Ditch me twice, your balls are in a vice. You’re in protective custody from here on out.”

  She looked at me. I swallowed hard and tried not to look even remotely obstinate. “Agent Juarez assures me you’ll do whatever he says regarding this investigation. So far, you’ve proven that to be true. See that it stays that way.”

  She got up, patted Diggs on the head like he was one of the pups at our feet, and walked away. I stared after her.

  “Wow,” I finally managed. I looked at Diggs. “Honestly? I think I’m a little turned on.”

  “I wish you two well,” he said. He glared at his cuffs. “This really isn’t gonna work for me, though.”

  <><><>

  One of the new agents from Blaze’s team�
�Agent Keith, an overly muscled little guy with an obvious Napoleon complex—came out a few minutes later, uncuffed Diggs, and led us back into the war room. Blaze’s point had clearly been made.

  Inside, Diggs and I took our seats in the back, the dogs once more at my feet. In addition to a dozen FBI agents, there were now half a dozen National Guardsmen and women lined up at attention in the back of the classroom. It made for a disconcerting meeting, to say the least.

  “So, what do we know?” Blaze asked Agent Keith. He stood.

  “Jesup Barnel was a preacher who began holding services at sixteen, back in 1962. He started the casting out of demons for which he was known, officially in 1967. However, there are indications that he may have begun as early as ’63.”

  A video came up on the screen at the head of the class: A much younger Barnel, standing over a teenage boy strapped to a table. The boy was stripped to his tighty whities, surrounded by about twenty men, women, and children exhorting the Lord to rid him of his demons. Barnel’s son—Brother Jimmy, the same guy who’d clocked Diggs after Wyatt’s funeral—handed him a branding iron. The end was blazing orange. The kid screamed.

  Blaze turned the video off.

  “Barnel apparently fancied himself a filmmaker: his activities were well documented over the years. This is footage from one of Barnel’s standard exorcisms, performed in 1986. Of more than two thousand such rituals, we’ve found video footage of more than half.” I felt Diggs tense beside me. Blaze caught his eye, then looked away. I caught the significance of the look, though: they’d seen footage of Diggs. Or, if they hadn’t watched, they at least had it there. Blaze continued, her focus back on the rest of the group.

  “To date, four of Barnel’s victims have now been executed and defaced by the removal of the preacher’s ritual cross, and the subsequent reattachment of the skin upside down, resulting in an inverted cross. There are two possible meanings for this.”

  She shifted, bringing something up on the Smart Board. “An inverted cross is used widely in satanic ritual, and may be the killer’s way of taking credit for the crime. The victim, in this case, would be viewed as a sacrifice.”

  “But you don’t think this is Satanists,” Diggs said.

  “No,” she agreed. “I’ve consulted with my colleagues, and we agree this is more likely rooted in Christian symbolism. For those unfamiliar with Biblical scripture, there is a story in early Apocryphal works relating how Christ’s apostle—Peter—requested that he be crucified upside down, as he didn’t feel he was worthy to die in the same manner Christ had. From that point on, an inverted cross became known as the Cross of St. Peter, or the Latin Cross. In Catholicism and other Christian religions, it’s become associated with humility and deference to Christ.”

  “So, these Latin crosses are to show the world that the victim isn’t worthy of an actual, right-side-up cross,” I said.

  “That’s our thought,” Juarez agreed.

  “And the upside-down crosses they’re torching all over town?” I asked.

  “Similar meaning,” Blaze said. “A way for them to identify those unworthy during the judgment that Barnel has set in motion.”

  Diggs raised his hand. Blaze glared at him, but she gave him the floor. “You said four of Barnel’s boys have been killed and marked with the Latin cross. The last I heard, though, there were only three: Marty Reynolds, Wyatt Durham, and Roger Burkett.”

  Juarez looked to Blaze, who nodded. “Last night,” Juarez said, “we looked more deeply into town archives, and found something. In 1963, a nineteen-year-old college student named Billy Thomas took a bunch of kids hostage while they were on a field trip in the Justice Town Hall. He let most of the kids go. He kept three girls, however, saying they were possessed by demons. That night, he raped and killed all three girls.”

  “I remember that story,” Diggs said. “What does that have to do with this? Billy left the town hall after he killed the girls, went back to school, and hanged himself.”

  Juarez rearranged a couple of images on the Smart Board, enlarging one: Barnel’s cross, excised and reattached—though not nearly as neatly as those on Wyatt or Roger Burkett’s chests. This one looked like it had been reattached with a staple gun.

  Diggs turned away. I blanched, but held strong.

  “According to the coroner’s report at the time,” Juarez continued, “this was self-inflicted by Billy.”

  I studied the gory handiwork doubtfully. “There’s no way it could have been,” I said. “Any idiot would know that. And it must have been done shortly before he died—the blood hadn’t even had time to dry.”

  Blaze nodded. “That was our determination, as well,” she agreed.

  “So, what does this have to do with what’s happening now?” I asked. “You think the same person is behind all four deaths?”

  “The date the girls were murdered and Billy Thomas allegedly killed himself,” Blaze said, “was March 15, 1963.”

  “And the date Barnel gave for judgment is March 15, 2013,” Diggs said. “Exactly fifty years later.”

  That statement hung in the air for a minute before Diggs spoke again.

  “There was a rumor that Barnel put together some kind of a review board to follow the progress of the boys he cleansed,” he said. “Supposedly in the mid-1960s. I could never substantiate that while I was here, though.”

  Blaze didn’t look surprised, which made me think this wasn’t the first time she’d heard of this.

  “If there was something like that, do you have a sense who might be involved?” Blaze asked.

  Diggs didn’t hesitate. “Sheriff Jennings, of course. Ron and Walter Reese—I think Jack and Solomon already had the pleasure with those two. The mayor, possibly…” He hesitated. “I’m not sure who else.”

  “Is it possible that if we can either find Barnel or force him to stay in hiding, we could just wait this whole thing out?” I asked. “People may be panicked right now, but if they can just chill out ‘til midnight passes and it doesn’t start raining toads, shouldn’t we be home free?”

  “In theory,” Blaze said. “But this is much larger in scope than we ever imagined. The sheriff’s act was clearly one he’d been planning—it was very carefully orchestrated. Our chatter now indicates that Barnel and whoever he’s working with have a series of similar scenarios planned for the hours leading up to midnight.”

  “And what about what happens at midnight?” I asked. “Do you have any clue what’s in store?”

  Blaze looked grim. Shook her head. “We don’t know. We’ve tried to track down Barnel’s followers, without a lot of success. Those we have tracked down insist they don’t know anything about this. Everyone else has gone underground. Whatever they have in store, it will be bigger and bloodier than anything we’ve seen thus far.”

  Wonderful.

  “So, is there a plan?” I asked. “Or are we just gonna ride out the coming storm and hope for the best?”

  “Our priority continues to be tracking down Jesup Barnel,” she said. “As well as monitoring any likely targets over the next twenty-four hours. In the meantime, schools and local shops will be closed. A strict curfew is in effect beginning at eighteen hundred. Guards are stationed with orders to search every vehicle entering or leaving town.”

  “What about churches?” Diggs asked. “Because you better believe these people will be flocking to them right now.”

  “We won’t keep residents from that,” Blaze said, “because we can’t. We will, however, be monitoring those services closely. If a pin drops within Justice town boundaries in the next twenty-four hours, we’ll know about it.”

  “And where do you want us?” Agent Keith asked.

  “We’ll switch things up this time,” Blaze said. She was looking right at Diggs and me. “Solomon, you’ll ride with me. Mr. Diggins, Special Agent Juarez will have the pleasure of your company today. And I’d like to remind you that that means Agent Juarez’s career is in your hands—if you pull something, it’
s his butt on the line.”

  Diggs grimaced, but he didn’t argue. I pulled him aside before everyone saddled up. I’d seen him look better.

  “In the past twenty-four hours, you’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake, beaten down, and blown up,” I said.

  “And your point?”

  “My point is: Let Jack do his job. Please. Work together, and you’ll be two hundred and forty-five point six times more likely to get this done than if you freak out and take off on your own.”

  “I can’t believe I’m getting this lecture from you.”

  “Trust me, I’m well aware of the irony. Just… be normal, okay? Don’t be you.”

  “Ah, the message every mother tries to instill in her young.”

  “I’m not your mother. And I will kick your ass if you get yourself killed.”

  “Solomon!” Agent Blaze shouted. I jumped. Seriously, the woman would freak out a squadron of Marines. “Everyone’ll get a few hours’ rack time as soon as I can manage. For now, I need your ass in the truck.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” I whispered to Diggs. “But I’m pretty sure it’s a threat. I have to go.” I hesitated. It occurred to me that with Armageddon a mere twenty hours away now, it might be a good time to say… something. The best I could manage was, “Be careful.”

  He nodded, holding my eye. “You, too.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  DIGGS

  17:05:08

  The town square was deserted. Shop owners had boarded the windows at the hardware store and the Qwik E. Mart. The town hall was locked up tight and the movie theater was abandoned, a couple of flyers washed up outside the ticket office. The only one still working was Jake Dooley, sitting behind a plate glass window at WKRO—home to one of the most schizophrenic programming mixes around: country, hip hop, gospel, bluegrass, top forty… and Jake.

  Juarez and I walked down a dark corridor, turned a corner, and found the ON AIR sign lit above a glass door. Jake waved us in, adjusted a couple of sliders on his control board, and removed his headphones. We were into hour seven of Jake’s twenty-four best records list, which was a genius way to go out as far as I was concerned. He’d blown over two hours on the complete Muddy Waters Anthology, which meant we were only up to number nineteen on the list: The White Album.