Southern Cross

by Jen Blood

  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?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  DIGGS

  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 mouthin
g 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.”