by Jen Blood
I thought of Payson Church again, trying to push past the memories I had to whatever lay beneath: my father on his knees, Isaac Payson standing above him. This is an act of revolution, I remembered Isaac saying. We are reinventing the word of God. My father, head bowed. And then, later, the two of them arguing outside—I could see myself, suddenly, watching them from the safety of the bushes. This was supposed to be our Utopia, my father said. But you’re doing everything we swore we would never do.
Mitch Cameron was behind this. His people—whoever they were—were at the root of this fire, and the death of Barnel and his followers. J. Enterprises. Max Richards had been part of it. My father had been part of it.
How many people had they killed, for reasons I couldn’t begin to comprehend?
My chest tightened until there was no room left for air. The last of the ambulances pulled away. Juarez and Blaze stood on the sidelines, talking strategy.
Diggs didn’t come out.
Finally, at 1:30, Jack came over again.
“Come on,” he said. He put his arm around my shoulder. I didn’t move.
“Wait.”
I could barely get the word out. He stopped, caught by my tone. My pulse picked up. I tried to say something—anything—but I couldn’t make another sound.
A figure appeared, a phoenix in tattered clothes, coming up over the hillside half a mile from the still-burning auditorium. I stood.
A second figure followed, this one carrying someone in his arms. The last remaining paramedics sprang into action. Emergency vehicles turned around and headed back. Another twenty people appeared on the hillside, silhouetted against the night sky, broken and limping and, miraculously, alive.
I ran to meet them.
1:30 a.m.
DIGGS
My legs gave out when I realized we were safe. Casey wasn’t moving, but I could feel her heart beat and at some point she’d roused enough to wrap her arms around my neck. I fell to my knees, just barely managing to keep from dropping her. My lungs were screaming—it was a kind of pain like I’d never experienced before, like I was breathing rusty razorblades. Danny turned and saw me fall. One of the other survivors in our group took my arm and helped me up. Sirens flashed. Ambulances and cruisers raced toward us. Someone took Casey from me.
I fell again.
This time, I stayed down. The ground was cool on my chest, my cheek, my legs. I closed my eyes.
I don’t know how long I lay there before I felt a hand at the back of my shoulder, cool and familiar. Solomon rolled me over, and I stared at a smoke-filled sky and fiery green eyes.
“You’re okay,” she said. She sat down on the ground beside me and stroked my forehead.
“That depends on your definition of okay,” I rasped.
“You’re alive.”
I nodded. Or attempted to. “Then, yeah. I’m okay.”
She leaned down and kissed me, barely touching her lips to mine. I reached up and settled my hand at the soft slope of her neck, holding her there before she could get away.
“Don’t go,” I whispered.
She half-laughed, half-sobbed, brushing tears away. “I won’t,” she whispered back, her lips at my ear. “I’ll stay as long as you will.”
I smiled. I was still breathing razorblades, but it didn’t seem as bad, somehow. “Then you’re gonna be stuck with me for awhile, kid,” I said. I closed my eyes again. Somewhere beneath the ash and the smoke, I could smell Solomon’s honeysuckle shampoo. I clung to that, letting it wash over me like a healing rain, until the night receded and sleep took me.
Chapter Thirty-One
SOLOMON
“So, no sign of Jenny Burkett?” Diggs asked. Again. He’d been asking that a lot, actually.
His voice still sounded like sandpaper, but it was better than it had been. He was better than he had been. Despite everything that had happened, against all odds, etc. Doctors around Paducah General had taken to calling him Miracle Man—which he, of course, hated. But given the fact that he’d survived snake attacks, brawls, a kidnapping, and two bombings with minimal damage, Miracle Man seemed pretty apt. There were burns, of course, but compared with the dozens of others either dead or permanently disfigured, a few second-degree burns were nothing.
Juarez shifted in his seat in Diggs’ hospital room, looking at Agent Blaze, George, and me before he returned his attention to Diggs. “We’ve been looking—sorry. There’s no sign of her. She may have died in the fire.”
“She didn’t,” Diggs said firmly. “What about death toll? Do you have any numbers yet?”
“It was only three days ago,” Blaze said. “It’ll take some time. There’s a lot to sift through.”
“There were eighty-six survivors, though,” Juarez pointed out. “Many of whom never would have made it without your help.”
“Have you found out anymore about Glenda Clifton?” he asked, deftly changing the subject. So far, Diggs hadn’t been keen to talk about his heroics, characteristically uninterested in taking any credit.
“Not yet,” I told him. “Glenda was Marty Reynolds’ wife,” I explained to Blaze and Juarez. Diggs had asked about her before, and after comparing notes we had made the connection. “She was the one Marty supposedly murdered. According to records at the residential home, Barnel admitted her to the psych ward in 2002. She was diagnosed with schizo-effective disorder, and she’d been staying there ever since.”
“So, who killed her husband?” Juarez asked. “And why?”
George cleared his throat. He had burns on the left side of his face that would never fully heal, but—like so many—he’d made it out. At the question, he and Diggs shared an odd look before George looked away.
“I think I can answer that one,” the old man said. “Jesup told me during our little session together—when the cameras weren’t rollin’, of course—that Glenda called him one night, back in ’02. Hysterical, screamin’ about demons… He took her out of the house, ‘cause she said she was afraid of her husband. Brought her out to live at the camp. Then, one night he gets another call from her. She was back at the house.”
“And she’d killed her husband,” I said.
George nodded.
“But what about the cross?” I asked. “Dressing Marty up in a new suit? All the weird ritual crap that was repeated on Wyatt?”
“I think that was all him,” George said. “Including turnin’ the cross upside down…” He studied his hands for a minute, looking unmistakably guilty.
Diggs had already told me the source of that guilt: George and Jesup Barnel had killed Billy Thomas together back in 1963. Barnel himself had removed the cross and stapled it back to Billy’s chest, upside down. The fact that George had been there when all of this started, however, was weighing heavily on the old man. After much debate, I’d ultimately agreed with Diggs: we wouldn’t tell the cops what we knew. George would live out the rest of his years a free man. I still wasn’t completely sure it was the right thing to do, but I also knew I didn’t have it in me to turn the old man in now.
I caught another look that passed between George and Diggs before he continued. “Jesup told me he believed Glenda when she said she saw the devil in her husband; that it was his duty to step in once he got there and found the man dead. So, he turned the cross so there’d be no mistakin’ Marty Reynolds for a righteous man, dressed him up nice, and delivered him someplace where people would find him.”
I went over the rest of the details in my head, trying to fill in the gaps. I knew Barnel had killed Wyatt because of his involvement with Sally Woodruff’s abortion clinic, because Wyatt had said as much in the “confession” Barnel made him record before his death. It still didn’t make a lot of sense to me, though.
“Why take Wyatt early?” I asked. “Why kill him before anyone else, more humanely than anyone else, and leave him on the side of the road in a nice suit instead of blowing him up with the rest of you?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Diggs said
. “The only thing I can think is maybe he stumbled on something while he was out at the Burkett farm. Maybe Jenny said something, or… I don’t know. Something. Barnel was obviously drugged to the gills when I talked to him: if Jenny suggested Wyatt needed to be taken out early because the devil was in him, Barnel wouldn’t have argued with her.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that,” I agreed. “It still doesn’t explain why they dosed him with ketamine, dressed him up, and left him for us to find, when they just slit Roger’s throat and left him chained in the attic.”
“I think Jenny killed Roger,” Diggs said. “There’s no confession from him on those tapes… I think she just got tired of being married to the guy, and cute little psychopath that she is, decided it was time to sever ties. Permanently. She may have gotten someone else to do his cross or she may have done it herself, but I doubt it had anything to do with whether or not he was a righteous man. And Wyatt…” he stopped, at a loss.
“Jesup always liked Wyatt,” George said quietly. Everyone turned to look at him. He shrugged. “I think maybe it’s that simple. Before everything got turned around and kids were gettin’ poisoned and colleges blown up, I think he felt bad for what he’d done to a man that he knew, deep down, was good. And Wyatt was that. My son was a good man.”
I looked at Diggs, watching his face change as he thought about that. He nodded.
“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “That he was.”
We sat there for a few seconds of silence. I was reminded yet again of all that had been lost in this, for reasons I still didn’t understand. I finally had some names to hang on the conspiracy involving my father, whatever it might be: J. Enterprises; Max Richards; Mitch Cameron; Jenny Burkett… The fact that I wasn’t just running around after some nameless guy in a hood anymore was moderately comforting, but it didn’t help me sleep any better when I thought of just how little value these people seemed to place on human life.
I rallied, intent on finding a few more answers before everyone scattered to their separate corners. “And the rest of the story?” I asked. “Who the hell killed Jimmy Barnel and shot the reverend at the tent meeting earlier this week?”
“Jenny Burkett,” Diggs said promptly. “She took Danny’s truck right after she doped him, drove out to Miller’s field, then took out Jimmy and winged the reverend.”
“I don’t suppose you have motive or evidence to support that theory,” Blaze said dryly.
“Motive is easy: she was trying to stir the pot,” Diggs said. “Fuel Jennings’ and Barnel’s paranoia by making it seem like there really were people out to get them.”
“Ensuring that Jennings would go through with the bombing the next night,” I said.
“And Barnel would be that much more convinced that the world was ending and he needed to get the hell out,” Diggs said. “Thanks in large part to an endless supply of speed and barbiturates I suspect Jenny Burkett and her people supplied.”
“All of which is supported by the final video he recorded before he took the stage in Kildeer auditorium,” Juarez said. “Most of it is just a lot of paranoid ramblings about the end of the world and government mind control, but it seems clear that he genuinely believed he was working in everyone’s best interest by taking out the hardcore sinners he couldn’t save, and then bringing the rest of his flock home with him.”
“That’s all well and good,” Blaze said, “but the bigger question for me is who the hell was pulling the strings? Who is this J. Enterprises? What part did Jenny Burkett-Lanahan-whatever-her-name-is play in all of it? Did she actively pursue Roger Burkett while he was in San Francisco, with the intention of moving here? And if so, why would anyone put the time and money and energy into a plan like this in a nowhere town in Kentucky? I still don’t understand the endgame here.”
The doctor walked in then and cleared his throat as he approached Diggs, who was clearly starting to flag.
“And I think that’s my cue to clear the room, folks,” the doctor said. “No playin’ twenty questions with my patient.”
“Of course,” Blaze agreed, standing. “We need to get on the road, anyway—my kid’s been virtually on her own for a week now. God only knows what I’ll have waiting for me when I get back.” She shook Diggs’ hand, then looked at us both solemnly. “No offense, but the next time the world’s ending, I hope you two stay home.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Diggs agreed.
Jack leaned in and hugged Diggs with a surprising absence of malice. It’s not that I wanted them to duel over me or something, but a trace of tension between them might have been a little reassuring.
“We still on for July?” he asked Diggs.
“You bet,” Diggs agreed. “I’ll supply the lobster if you bring the fireworks.”
This was news to me, but I said nothing. With the other goodbyes taken care of, I locked eyes with Juarez and felt a flash of panic. Decisions had been made and, logically speaking, I knew they were for the best. It didn’t mean it was easy, though.
“I’ll walk you out,” I said.
Blaze and George excused themselves once we were in the sterile hallways of Paducah General, leaving Juarez and me alone.
“You still have some stuff at my place...” I began.
“You can box it up,” he said. For the first time, a wash of sadness shined through. “Just mail it. I’m not sure if I’ll be back in Maine before summer.”
“Okay,” I agreed. A couple of nurses walked by—both of them clearly checking out Jack on their way past. I held on tight when he hugged me, focused on deep breaths and not becoming a puddle on the floor. “I’m gonna miss you,” I said into his neck.
He smiled when we parted, reaching out to cup my cheek in his hand. “You can call me if you need anything. Anytime—you know where I am.”
“You, too,” I agreed. I thought of Agent Keith’s words: Not everyone wears their obsessions on their sleeve. I got serious, holding his gaze. “If you need someone to talk or listen or... whatever, I’m here. So’s Diggs. I mean—I know it’s not exactly what we had in mind when you and I first started dating, but you mean a lot to him. To both of us.”
“It’s mutual.” He took a deep breath and glanced at his watch. Instead of leaving, however, he stayed for a second longer. He hesitated. “Stay safe, all right? I know you can take care of yourself, but it seems like you have more than the normal number of demons in your past. Promise me that if you and Diggs keep pursuing whatever it is you’re pursuing that you won’t tell me about—” I started to protest, but he held up his hand. “Just promise me, please? Promise that you’ll call me if you need help. I can’t guarantee that I can do anything, but I’d at least like the chance to try.”
I nodded. “I promise.” My ability to maintain any semblance of control was slipping fast, so I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek quickly, then nodded toward the exit sign at the end of the hall. “You should probably get going. You don’t want to keep Allie waiting.”
“Right,” he agreed.
We hugged one more time. He left. I stood outside Diggs’ hospital door for a few minutes after that, thinking about everything that had happened and everything that would happen, most of which seemed completely beyond my control. I’d be lying if I said I had no mixed feelings about watching Juarez walk out of my life—even if I did have Diggs waiting for me. As much as I love the man, Diggs has never been the safest bet where my heart’s concerned.
The doctor came out of Diggs’ room then and smiled when he found me waiting there.
“He said to send you in, if you were still out here.”
“It’s all right if I stay awhile?” I asked.
“You seem to have a way of gettin’ him to settle down that my nurses haven’t figured out yet,” the man said. “Stay as long as you like.”
Diggs’ eyes were closed when I went back into the room. I took advantage of the moment to study him, thinking of the road we had ahead. He’d escaped the fire with second-degree burns o
n his back and first-degree burns to his hands. The bruises from his fight with Jimmy Barnel almost a week ago had faded, and three days of forced bedrest had done a lot to address the circles he’d had under his eyes when this whole thing began.
“Are you just gonna stand there staring, or are you coming in?” he asked without opening his eyes.
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“Nope.” He looked at me then, his blue eyes shining. There was a very faint trace of doubt in there, but no one but me would ever have noticed. “So... does this mean Juarez is on the road?”
“He is.”
“And you’re still here.”
“I am,” I said with a nod, trying for casual. “I mean—you’re still burned and broken and concussed. It didn’t seem right to just leave you in Kentucky.”
“I appreciate that.” He patted the side of his bed. “Come here.”
I went over and sat gingerly on the edge.
“I’m not gonna break, Solomon. Get up here.” He scooted over. I scooted over. We both lay back, his arm around my shoulders, my head on his chest. He smelled like burn ointment—surprisingly, not in a bad way.
“You all right?” he asked.
“I think so.” I fell silent, thinking yet again about everything that had happened. “Mitch Cameron was behind this,” I said quietly, after a long while. We hadn’t discussed this yet, but he didn’t seem surprised—at the revelation or the direction the conversation had taken.
“I thought as much,” he said.
“And J. Enterprises…”
“…has to have something to do with your father,” he finished for me.
I closed my eyes, listening to Diggs’ heart beat. “They’ve killed a hell of a lot of people.”
“They have.”
He rolled to his side so he could look at me. I studied him for a minute, running my finger along the slope of his nose, his cheekbones and jaw. I lingered at his lips, tracing the lines there. He kissed my fingertip, scraping his teeth along the pad with just a hint of devil in his eyes. We had yet to acknowledge the kiss-at-the-end-of-the-world thing, or what we planned to do about it. The feel of his lips on my skin made the question seem more pressing than it had.
