Southern Cross (8 page)

She
nodded with no enthusiasm. “Yeah, of course. Thanks. I’ll handle it.”

The
rest of the crowd left. Within ten minutes, Solomon and I were alone in the
church parking lot, like nothing had ever happened. Just another cold, rainy
day in paradise. I sat down on the front steps, Buddy’s hanky pressed to my
nose. Solomon shook her head.

“You’re
hopeless, you know that?” She sat down beside me. “I was gone two minutes—what
the hell happened?”

I
didn’t answer. Her arm was warm against mine, but the rest of the world had
gone cold.

“Can
I ask you a question?” she asked finally, after the silence had closed in
around us. “And you give me a straight answer?”

I had
a feeling I knew where she was headed, but I nodded anyway.

“That
scar on your chest—the one you won’t talk about? The one in exactly the same
spot, exactly the same size, as Wyatt’s scar… Did Barnel do that?”

She
studied me as I thought about the question, waiting for the bleeding to stop
and the throbbing in my nose and fist and chest to ease.

“My
old man was desperate when he sent me down here,” I said, finally. “I
mean—obviously. How often does a mainstream Episcopal minister turn to
backwoods Pentecostals for help?”

“It
does seem a little out of character for Daddy Diggs,” she noted.

“You
didn’t see him that year after my brother died,” I said. “He read about Barnel,
and I guess he figured, ‘What the hell? What else are you gonna do when you’re
raising Cain?’ ”

“You
didn’t kill your brother,” she said impatiently. “You skipped school and took
him swimming when you were twelve. It’s not like you knifed him, for Christ’s
sake. It was an accident, Diggs.”

“My
father doesn’t believe in accidents.”

“Yeah,
well… your father has his head up his ass. No offense.” Her hand slid over
mine, our fingers entwined. I fought the urge to pull back, the contact too
much just then. I could feel her watching me. I didn’t meet her eye as I
continued.

“Be
that as it may, he packed me up and sent me to Reverend Barnel’s church camp.
And the rest is history.”

“Really
crappy history,” she said. “Part of it including a brand on your chest.
Clearly, there’s more to the story than that.”

This
is why sharing things with Solomon is a pain in the ass: she’s not happy unless
she’s got all the gruesome facts. I shrugged. “The whole thing is hard to
explain unless you’re actually there to witness it. You’ll see tonight. I don’t
want to ruin the full effect.”

“We’re
really going to that? You think Barnel’s just gonna welcome you back into the
fold after your meltdown?”

“He
will,” I said. “I’m the one who got away… the one who never bought into all his
bullshit. Trust me, he wants me back.”

“Okay.”
She took a breath, considering all this. “So, we go to the revival tonight. And
you
don’t
try to kill anyone. That’s a deal breaker for me, FYI. But in
the meantime, we’re supposed to be at the cemetery laying your oldest, dearest
friend to rest, and you look like you came out on the wrong side in the UFC.”

“I
know. I’m a genius.”

“You
are. But luckily, you have me.” She stood, pulled me to my feet, and we walked
back to the car in silence. She got her suitcase from the trunk and riffled
through while I stared out at the horizon. When she returned to my side, she
had a blue button-up shirt in hand.

“Here.”

I
made no move to take it. “Is that Juarez’s?”

If it
was possible, she looked even more miserable about the situation than I was. “I
spent the weekend in D.C. before I came out here—it got mixed up with my stuff.
I’m sorry. Unless you want to wear one of my tank tops, this is all I have.”

“No.
That’s fine.” I took off my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt roughly, and pulled on
her boyfriend’s Oxford. “It’s a little tight,” I said. “You know what they say
about a man with a small shirt.”

She
took my bloody clothes and tossed them into the backseat. “Spare me. I’ll try to
date someone closer to your size next time.”

“Good,”
I said with a nod. “See that you do.”

Danny
thought he’d suffocate in the church. There were so many people—he’d never
realized just how big his family was. A damn sight bigger than he cared for,
that was for sure. It turned out family was the least of it, though, because
then there was Barnel and his people out there hollering lies, and his daddy
there in the casket, and Ida crying, and Mama trying to hold on even though her
whole world might as well be over. He sat there beside Rick, both of ‘em quiet,
and he just kept repeating to himself:
Keep it together. It’s almost over.

But
when it was over, it only got worse. Danny watched the preacher close the lid
on his daddy’s coffin, and it hit him like a running tackle in the end
zone—just took his knees out from under him and knocked the breath right out of
his lungs:

He
was really gone.

Danny
rode to the cemetery with the family, and he stayed with them while they
lowered the coffin into the ground. He kept it together when his Mama wrapped
her arms around him and held on, whispered in his ear, “You had your
differences, but your daddy was so proud of you.”

He
just kept hanging on.

Finally,
back at the house, he told Rick he was going out for awhile. “I’ve gotta
practice. The band needs me.”

Rick
frowned. “Can’t you give it a rest just one day? Mama doesn’t want you takin’
off—you should be here to look after things.”

“I
thought that’s what you was here for,” Danny said. “Trust me, they won’t even
know I’m gone.”

“That’s
bull and you know it,” he said, his back up now. Rick was a little smaller than
Danny, but he was in better shape thanks to tennis and runnin’ and whatever
else kept him busy while Danny was out causin’ trouble. Back in the day, Danny
could usually be sure he’d win in a fight. Now, that wasn’t so likely. Win or
lose didn’t matter just then, though; Danny didn’t have any interest in
fighting. 

Diggs
showed up from around the corner, looking hangdog and tired. Danny had missed
it when he went after Jesup Barnel, but it looked like Diggs got the worst of
it: his nose was swollen and his lip was split, his right eye turning purple.
Still, Danny wished he’d been there to see it.

“Let
him go,” Diggs told Rick.

Rick
turned on him, pissed. “But Mama said—”

“I’ll
smooth things over with Mae,” Diggs said. “Just take it easy, Rick. Why don’t
you go take a breather yourself? It’ll do you some good.”

He
walked off before Rick could make anymore fuss. Danny followed along behind as
Diggs led him out the back door, into the backyard, and out behind the shed
where Danny used to sneak smokes when he was still a kid.

“How’re
you doing?” Diggs asked.

Danny
shook his head. He felt tears start, and it took everything in him to push them
back down. Diggs stepped back a little, looking sad and sorry. He touched
Danny’s shoulder.

“You’re
gonna be okay,” he said. “It sucks right now, but it’ll get better.”

“You
sound like one of them commercials they’re always playing at school. ‘It gets better.’”
He wiped his eyes and let out a long sigh. “Shit. I need a joint.”

Diggs
laughed dryly. “Tell me about it.”

“You
really think it’s okay if I take off awhile?”

“Yeah,”
Diggs nodded. “You’ve put in your time. Go. Don’t do anything stupid: no drinking
and driving; no smoking and driving. I’ll tell your mom I said it was okay. She
can take it out on me if it’s not.”

“I
won’t be late,” Danny promised.

“If
you end up doing too much or you need anything, call me,” Diggs added. “Doesn’t
matter when, I’ll come get you. No questions asked, no explanations needed. Got
it?”

“Got
it.”

He
got moving before Diggs changed his mind, already feeling a little better now
that he was on his own.

Danny’s
pickup was parked at the head of the road, a good two miles’ walk away; Mama
had said they needed to leave space for everybody else to park. He loosened his
tie and took off his suitcoat, wishing he’d thought to change before he left.
Still, he had some stuff in the truck that would be all right for now. It’s not
like he was looking to get in any trouble… All he wanted was some space. Sweats
and a ripe t-shirt would do just fine for that. He picked up his pace to a jog,
grateful for the fresh air and the quiet.

About
a quarter of a mile from the truck, he heard something behind him—like a cough,
maybe, but not a cough. Like somebody clearing their throat. He turned, fast, a
shiver riding straight up his spine. This time, he knew Rick and Ida weren’t
there, because Diggs wouldn’t’ve let them follow. And Casey was working... He
should be alone.

“Hey—anybody
out there?” he called. He spun on his heel, searching the trees for a sign that
someone was there. Not a soul.

He
turned his back and set out for the truck again, but he couldn’t shake that
feeling that he wasn’t alone. It was late afternoon, the shadows reaching far
out from the trees. Everything was still. He rubbed his palms on his pants and
started running again, wanting only to get to his truck and the weed waiting in
his glove box.

By
the time he got there, he was convinced he’d just been hearing things. He got
out his keys, glancing around to make sure nobody saw him.

Stick
to the main roads
, he heard his daddy say.
It was so clear, the old man might as well have been right beside him. Danny
fought the urge to look around for him.
And wait ‘til you get where you’re
goin’ before you spark up
.
Your mama doesn’t need you to get in a wreck
now, of all things.

“I
know that, old man,” he said out loud. He felt like a fool. Or like he’d gone
crazy, standing here in the quiet talking to his daddy—a man he’d seen put in
the ground not two hours ago.

He
paused at the driver’s side door, frowning. His truck was an ’04 Toyota
Tacoma—the single cab, not the double. It was big enough to haul his mower when
he was doing yard work over the summers, and all his band gear the rest of the
time. The truck had been beat to hell before he got it, but since then Danny’d
treated that thing like it was his very own, overgrown, chrome-plated baby.
He’d inventoried every scratch, every bump and dent and ding.

Which
meant there was no question that what he was seeing now was brand new:

Just
above the door handle, keyed deep into his cherry red paint, was an upside-down
cross.

Get
in the truck,
his daddy said. Except he
didn’t say that, because he was dead. Still, Danny got in the truck.
Lock
the doors.
Danny did.
Now go on back to the house and talk to Diggs.
Show him what they done to the truck.

Danny
sat there in the driver’s seat for a second, torn. He reached for the radio.
Closed his eyes, his hands gripped tight around the steering wheel. His chest
burned. Guns ‘n Roses’ “November Rain” came on. Danny put the truck in gear.

He
pulled out, paused for a second by the long dirt road leading back to the
house, and then shook his head.

He
turned the music up louder, and drove away.

Between
watching Diggs try to hold it together at Wyatt’s funeral, the street brawl
after
the funeral, and then being trapped in the Durham house with two dozen
Christian conservatives for several hours, I’d had it by the time Diggs finally
came to save me at nine o’clock that night. I was in the middle of a debate
over climate change with Buddy Holloway and three other guys whose names I
hadn’t caught when Diggs appeared at my elbow. I was winning that debate, for
the record.

“We
should go,” Diggs said.

“Your
Yankee girlfriend’s tryin’ to school the locals,” Buddy said. However flawed
his opinion of global warming might be, I liked him: he had nice eyes, a strong
laugh, and he had the southern gentleman thing down pat. Which, I’ll admit,
I’ve always been a sucker for.

Diggs
didn’t bother correcting him on our romantic status, for which I was grateful.
Honestly, it was more trouble than it was worth. “Well, if anybody could set
you hillbillies straight, she’d be the one,” he said. “But we need to get
going.”

“Oh,
listen to this boy,” Buddy said, shaking his head. “Hillbilly my eye, you dang
hippie. Where y’all off to, then?”

“Just
taking a ride,” Diggs said.

“Not
out to Miller’s Field, I hope,” Buddy said. He was watching Diggs closely now.
“Not with Reverend Barnel’s tent meetin’ set to go up at ten sharp. Seein’ as
how you already had one run-in with him today, you might oughta steer clear
awhile.”

“I’ll
take that under advisement,” Diggs said.

Buddy
frowned, but he didn’t say anything more until Diggs was already headed out the
door. Then, he pushed his business card into my hand. He nodded toward our
mutual friend, now burning a path toward the car.

“You
call me if he steps in anything, you hear? He’s as much family as Wyatt was,
and he can’t see straight where that preacher’s concerned. I don’t care what
time it is. Just pick up the phone and I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,”
I said sincerely. “I may take you up on that.”

“You
do that, darlin’. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

<><><> 

The
tent meeting was held in a muddy field on the side of a long dirt road. We were
flanked by cows on one side and a dank, muddy pond on the other, which Diggs
told me Barnel baptized people in when the occasion arose. It didn’t look that
sanitary, but I was guessing that wasn’t a priority.

I’d
just assumed Barnel was one of those fringe extremists with a dozen misguided
souls who’d follow him to the ends of the earth, but when we got there the
place was packed. Cars lined both sides of the road all the way in, with more
parked in the field. Old folks and young folks and Bible-toting babies all made
their way up the hillside to Barnel’s giant white tent. I was surprised at the
teen contingent: at least two dozen freshly scrubbed college guys in jackets
and ties, standing off to the side with their feet planted shoulder width
apart, hands clasped behind their backs like career military men instead of
frat boys who couldn’t even buy their own beer.

There
were a few people like Diggs and me, just there to check out the spectacle, but
I got the sense we were in the minority.

Barnel’s
tent was a deluxe—I didn’t even know you could get a tent that big. It was
powered by a generator situated behind the stage. Speakers bigger than Barnel
himself flanked the makeshift platform, and aisle upon aisle of folding metal
chairs filled the space. It was a cold, damp evening, but the masses in the
tent generated enough heat to more than make up for that. There was a table with
refreshments: breads and cakes and cookies, soda and juice, a couple of
industrial-sized tubs of potato salad. Apparently, Barnel was big on carb
loading. I put a dollar in the jar of a little girl with a dress buttoned from
her throat to her ankles, and helped myself to a cup of chocolate pudding and a
spoon.

Diggs
gave me the hairy eyeball.

“What?
It’s chocolate.”

He
just shook his head at me, like I was a lost cause. Which I may have been, but
I didn’t care. I had chocolate.

By
the time we found a seat, the reverend’s opening act had already started: a kid
named Toby and his parents, playing guitar and singing hymns. I gathered from
the reaction of the crowd that the family was a headliner around these parts,
but they didn’t do a lot for me. Within two minutes of a countrified version of
“Go Tell It On the Mountain,” I was ready to stab little Toby in the eye with
my plastic spoon. All around us, hands went up in the air, people whispering
prayers or shouting “Hallelujah” over the music.

Everyone
got to their feet when Toby and his kin started up with a medley of country
hymns I didn’t recognize from my own church-going days. I set my empty cup
under my chair and stood with Diggs. A wall of bodies closed in on all sides,
the smell of sweat and Avon perfume obliterating the last remnants of my
chocolate high.

I
fought to maintain my good humor. The music faded to white noise; my breath
came harder, locked in my chest as people pushed ever-closer, their energy like
a dentist’s drill tunneling into the base of my spine. I had an unexpected
flashback to the Payson Church—the religious community where I spent the first
ten years of my life. I was sitting in the converted hay barn that served as
the Payson chapel while the preacher gave his sermon. Suddenly, I was right
there, with Isaac Payson in front of me and my father’s hand tight in mine. A
woman was crying.

Past
and present merged. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Another image replaced
the one I’d just seen—this one of my father on his knees in front of the
congregation. He was shirtless, stripes of blood flowing down his back. A woman
was holding me back as I fought to get to him.

“Erin!” Diggs whispered to me. I jolted back to the present, sweat rolling down my forehead.
“We can sit,” he said when he had my attention. Most of the rest of the crowd
were already in their chairs; Diggs and I stood alone. I nodded, shaken, trying
to pull myself back to the present.

As
soon as Barnel took the stage, the energy changed. The crowd fell silent. A
Hellraiser
chill raced up my spine when he raised his hands to the sky.

“The
time has come, my friends. I know you’re here tonight for hope; you’re waitin’
on me to tell you that there’s still time for you to save your kin, to change
your ways, to do all the things you been promisin’ the Lord you’d do all these
years. But tonight I don’t have a message of hope… If you ain’t with us now,
friends, you gotta get with the Lord this second. Now. There’s no more waitin’
on Him to come…”

Barnel
mopped his sweating brow with the back of his arm. His face was flushed. A baby
cried in the back, but otherwise the tent was quiet. Barnel grabbed his mic and
took a couple of steps toward the congregation, leaving his pulpit.

“Jesus
Christ himself spoke to me this week, brothers and sisters. Clear as day. Clear
as I’m talkin’ to you here and now. And he told me that I am the bringer of
light. That’s right—you heard me. He said, ‘Jesup T. Barnel, it’s up to you
now. You gotta get this ball rollin’.’” 

I
looked at Diggs, who just shook his head like the whole scene was beyond nuts.
His composure made me feel marginally better: the rest of the crowd was
freaking the crap out of me.

“The
clock is tickin’, brothers and sisters. Forty-eight hours: that’s all you got.
At midnight this very night—just thirty minutes from right now—a series of
events will start up to bring you to your very knees, right here in Justice. I
don’t know what they’ll be… but I know it’s my job to see us through as best I
can. Which is why after tonight, the Lord has told me it’s time for me to leave
y’all for a little while.” There was a collective gasp from the crowd. A woman
started crying.

“Don’t
y’all worry none, though. We’re gonna be reunited on them golden shores. And my
soldiers are right here. They know their place—I’ve passed the Lord’s message
on to them, and they know what they’ve gotta do. And you know what you’ve gotta
do.”

Based
on the way everyone seemed to be holding their breath at once, I was guessing I
wasn’t the only one who wasn’t totally clear on that, actually.

“You’ve
gotta repent,” Barnel finally clarified. “You’ve gotta hole up, protect your
loved ones, and get down on your knees and pray to almighty God. Those standin’
with me know what’s what: they know who’s not worthy. Orders have been given
from on high, and there will be those in this town—those among you this very
night—who will be taken. And forty-eight hours from now, the final cleansing
will be done. And those still standin’ will be taken to the Kingdom of the
Lord, to live with Him for all eternity. Let me hear you say, ‘Amen.’”

A
chorus of ‘amen’s rose up around us. Diggs looked at me, then back at the man
behind the pulpit. Barnel raised his hands, and they fell silent once more.

“Are
you on the right side, brothers and sisters? When He passes judgment, will you
be found wantin’… Or will you set at his right hand?”

People
were starting to freak out around us—It’s all well and good to know that
Armageddon’s headed your way at some unappointed date in the near or distant future.
It’s something else entirely when a crazy old preacher with a branding iron
tells you the end times are kicking off at midnight, so you best be ready.

“I
think we should get out of here,” Diggs whispered to me. “I’m not getting a
great vibe.”

Didn’t
have to tell me twice. The “amen”s and “hallelujah”s reached a crescendo as
Diggs and I made for the exit, doing our best not to attract undue attention.
As it was, we were almost home free when Barnel called after us.

“You
run, Daniel Diggins—you know which side you done landed on. You run as far as
you can, but you can’t outrun the Lord. He’s comin’ for you.”

Diggs
turned back around to face the preacher. Their eyes held, and I wondered for
the eighteenth time since arriving in Kentucky just exactly what in hell had
happened between them. An old woman in an ankle-length green dress started
singing “I’ll Fly Away.” Others joined in.

Diggs
took a step toward Barnel.

Before
he could get any farther, a sound like the cracking of a whip shattered the
night. Someone screamed. Barnel’s eyes widened. A starburst of blood blossomed
on his left shoulder as he fell to his knees. The big guy who’d been guarding
him earlier—Brother Jimmy—dove in front of him just as a second shot rang out,
hitting the younger man squarely in the chest.

There
was more screaming, even as the old woman who’d first begun resumed her song.
People fled in all directions, their screams echoing through the night. Still,
the old woman sang. Another woman joined in. Diggs grabbed my arm and pulled me
out of the way before we were both trampled. My heart slammed against my
ribcage.

Once
we were outside, I saw a red pickup that had been parked behind the tent tear
across the field, spitting mud from under the tires as the driver raced for the
open road. The rain was coming down in sheets. A couple of teenage girls in the
requisite neck-to-ankle dresses ran past us. Diggs called after them.

“Did
you see who did it?” he asked.

They
were both crying, eyes wide, when they turned to answer. “No way to tell—crowd
was too big, and everybody up and panicked soon as the reverend went down. The
devil hisself could’ve been in there, you wouldn’t see him.”

<><><> 

Within
half an hour of the shooting, the cops descended—flashing lights, screaming
sirens. A cold rain continued to fall, the sound of the faithful few still
singing hymns clear in the distance. I could tell Diggs was torn as to whether
we should stay or go, but ultimately I think curiosity won out. We walked back
up to the tent as Sheriff Jennings himself arrived with Deputy Buddy on his
heels.

A
pudgy guy in glasses knelt by Brother Jimmy’s lifeless body—the coroner, I
assumed. A paramedic tended to Barnel’s shoulder while he prayed with a slew of
his followers. Buddy Holloway strung up crime scene tape and pushed
everyone—including Reverend Barnel—back to the other side of the tent with the
order that we were all to stay put until we’d left our names and contact
numbers. Diggs and I chose a couple of folding chairs in the back, and waited.

Before
the sheriff could begin questioning anyone, Barnel called him over. They had a
whispered confab, and then I watched as the reverend shuffled off into the
night with the rest of his entourage, without so much as a backward glance.

I
thought of Barnel’s proclamation earlier about not being around for awhile. It
seemed to me that, if we really were facing the end times, it might be a good
idea to keep tabs on him more closely than the sheriff seemed inclined.

With
Reverend Barnel now out of the way, Sheriff Jennings turned his attention to
the crowd.