by Jen Blood
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 going to 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 screen, 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. “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 dried.”
“That was our determination, as well,” Blaze said.
“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 till 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 going to 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 t
wenty-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.
Jake wore John Lennon glasses, a baseball hat with a peace sign on it, and an Elvis t-shirt. He’d gained maybe twenty-five pounds since I’d seen him last. If that put him over a buck fifty on the scales, you could slap my ass and call me Lady Gaga. He got up and gave me a hug, shook Juarez’s hand vigorously, and sat back down—the whole circuit completed in the space of maybe fifteen seconds. Good to know the end of the world hadn’t slowed him down any.
“Seriously, Jake—The White Album? You think you could be a little more obvious?” I started out.
“Oh, I know it ain’t edgy enough for the likes of you,” he said. “I guess you’d rather I stick with records nobody never heard of. Sorry, boy, there’s a reason somethin’ gets to be a classic.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “Because unimaginative DJs the world over are too timid to spin anything new.” Jake grinned at that, rolling his eyes. “How much you want to bet I can guess the rest of that list in two tries or under?” I asked.
“We don’t actually have time for that,” Juarez said. Jake looked disappointed. I was a little disappointed myself.
“All right, fine. Business it is,” I said. “Listen, I know Barnel does a show here.”
“Never misses a Sunday, the old bastard,” Jake agreed. “One of the drawbacks of this kind of thing—can’t turn ’em away so long as they come with a check.”
“Have you noticed anything…off, about his message the past few weeks?” Juarez asked.
“You mean more than usual?” Jake asked. “Now that you mention it, I did. He’s been real weird the last couple months—paranoid, you know? And actin’ like the Lord’s put this heavy burden on him. He’s been talking more than usual about being called home, too—that’s what he always calls it. I thought maybe he was sick, but when I asked he said the Lord showed him the future. Said the world was in for a wake-up call.”
“Did he say anything specific about that wake-up call?” Juarez asked.
“Nah—but it’s not like I listened too close. He seemed to think his days were numbered, but it was pretty clear he didn’t think he was goin’ down alone.” He shook his head, uncharacteristically serious. “I wish to hell I’d paid closer attention—to tell the truth, it never even occurred to me he might talk the sheriff into somethin’ like what he pulled last night, blowing that place up.”
“So the whole thing was a surprise to you,” Juarez said.
“A surprise only because you just don’t think that kind of thing really happens,” Jake said. “Not because I never thought he was capable. Everybody else might’ve loved him, but I always said Jesup Barnel was a creepy son of a bitch.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” I agreed. On the radio, George Harrison was just kicking into his mournful back-up vocals while Paul and the boys sang of gently weeping guitars. I looked around, trying to find some sign of the rest of Jake’s list. “What about top five? You’ll have Robert Johnson in there—you may be mainstream, but you’ve got taste. And I know Astral Weeks will be in one of those top slots.”
Juarez shot me a look meant to shut me up. I took the cue. “Do you have any idea where Barnel and his followers might have gone?” I asked, getting back to the point.
“I know him and the sheriff were either out at Barnel’s camp or they were out playin’ with themselves over to the town hall. They got that ping pong table in the cellar, you know? They was always down there doing something or other. You checked the camp, I’m guessing?”
“Deserted,” Juarez said. “We’re trying to contact some of the more prominent members of his congregation now.”
“The Reese boys?” Jake asked. I nodded.
“My guess is most everyone’s gone underground,” I said. “We’re trying to figure out their next move, but it would be a lot easier if we could smoke out at least a few.”
“There’s a hell of a lot of places to hide in these hills—you know that,” he said to me. He hesitated.
“What?” I prompted.
“A couple years back, Barnel started gettin’ real antsy about the government nosin’ around in his business. I didn’t pay much attention—he was always paranoid, and it got old real fast listening to him. But I happened to walk in while he was talking to Ronnie Reese—you know those boys owned the woods out around Barnel’s compound? I got the sense he was lookin’ to extend his property lines.”
“The woods are thick out there,” I said. “It would be a good place to get lost.”
“Barnel’s a lazy S-O-B,” Jake said. “Way I see it, he wouldn’t go too far out of his way if he needed some privacy.”
“That could be a good lead,” I said. “Thanks. Anywhere else that comes to mind?”
“Not that I recall. Sorry. Hope I was at least a little help to you, though.”
&nb
sp; “You were, thank you,” Juarez said. He paused. “Listen, we’ve got generators and we’ve set up a shelter at the local elementary school if you change your mind about staying here. You can stop by anytime. There’s food and blankets, and it’s somewhere to keep warm until this passes, anyway.”
“And leave all this?” Jake asked. “Thanks but no thanks. I’ll stay right here till the final bell’s rung, if it’s all the same to you.”
Not a surprise. Juarez looked torn before he finally conceded. “Suit yourself. But you’re always welcome.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jake said. He shook my hand again, more solemnly this time. “Good to see you, Diggs. Nice to know you haven’t changed too much since you been gone.”
“Not in the ways that count,” I said. “Number one’s Pet Sounds, isn’t it? I mean—it’s the obvious choice. And then you’ll have a little Zeppelin in there, some Dylan: Blood on the Tracks… Maybe Blonde on Blonde?”
Juarez grabbed my elbow and hauled me out the door.
From WKRO, our next stop was the police station. The lobby was empty—no secretary, no lights, no phones. We found Buddy in his office, stretched out on a too-small sofa with his hat over his eyes. He sat up and wiped the drool from the corners of his mouth at our entrance.
“Sorry you caught me like this,” he said. “All-nighters ain’t quite so easy as they once was, huh, Diggs?”
“You got that right,” I said. “Listen, I know someone’s already going through the sheriff’s files, but we thought you might be able to answer a couple questions.”
“Shoot,” Buddy said.
Juarez pulled up a chair and sat, his elbows resting loosely on his knees as he leaned forward. “We’ve got two priorities right now: Finding Barnel’s people, and figuring out what their ultimate target will be at midnight. If Jennings ever mentioned any place where he may have met with Barnel…”
