Titus grabbed the branches and pulled.
The trapdoor the bush was attached to opened on a hinge similar to one in the counter at CFF. Titus let the bush go and peered down into a hole lit by fluorescent lights. A metal ladder was attached to the wall.
Standing in the middle of the bunker Cole Marshall had helped him build was Royce Lazare. He was holding Lavon in front of him with a knife to his throat with his good hand.
“I was wondering if you’d find it. Toss the gun and come down and join us. Come to Tartarus,” Royce said. He grinned at Titus from the depths of his dungeon, blood streaking across his chest, his face, his shaved head, a manic glint in his eyes, and for a moment Titus thought he did look like an angel. One who had fallen far from grace.
THIRTY
Titus tossed the gun to the ground with a trembling hand. He knew he was running on adrenaline and endorphins, and that was expensive fuel. He had to get down there and save Lavon. No matter what happened to him, he had to save Lavon. He had failed Latrell. He wouldn’t fail his brother.
Titus descended into the bunker rung by rung.
The structure was larger than he had expected. He guessed it was a good twenty-by-forty-foot room. In contrast to the minimalist décor of the farmhouse, the bunker was an exercise in garish excess. There was red and blue LED rope lighting running along the perimeter of the ceiling. A half dozen beanbag chairs were tossed around the room. Lava lamps sat on TV trays next to the bags. A Saint Andrew’s cross leaned against one wall. In the middle of the room an antique embalming table held court.
Then there were the angels. Angels everywhere. Framed paintings on the wall in the style of Caravaggio and Rembrandt and Bacon. Cheap mass-produced prints with manga and comic book angels. A gray granite statue of an angel that Titus thought was probably stolen from a graveyard sat at the foot of the embalming table.
Seraphim and archangels had all borne witness to the most perverse manifestation of free will Titus could imagine.
“You like that table? I usually keep it covered when I have a guest. Guests who are going to leave, I mean,” Royce said. His massive forearm was doing more of the work holding Lavon in place than the bowie knife, but the blade was still too close to the boy’s neck.
“Lavon, it’s going to be okay. I promise,” Titus said.
Royce clucked his tongue. “You shouldn’t make promises unless you can keep them, Sheriff.”
Titus ignored the statement.
“You wear a wig because you don’t like growing your hair out, do you, Gabriel? It kinks up on you. Did the Hillingtons make you hate that part of yourself?” Titus said.
Royce frowned. “The Hillingtons made me realize that we serve a God who is a sociopath. He set us free and lets us do things to each other, terrible things, and he and his angels just watch and laugh like Romans in the fucking Colosseum. And who gets it worse than anyone? Niggers. They are the shit on the shoe of the human race. They live in a world where everything is put in place to fuck them up and fuck them over. I did those kids a favor. What kind of life would they have in America? In a land built on murder and death in the name of ‘Sky Daddy.’ A deadbeat daddy who’s abandoned us all. No angel ever appeared from the ether to stop us. Not one. And I prayed for them to show up. I wanted to see the holy fire just ONCE!” Royce screamed.
“That’s why you killed seven little Black boys and girls, Gabriel? Because you were angry God didn’t rescue you from Henry Hillington?” Titus said. He glanced at Royce’s hand holding the knife. Lavon had slipped farther to the right, closer to the crook of Royce’s elbow.
He was going to have to make his move soon or he was going to pass out.
Royce grinned. “You think there’s only seven?”
Titus kept talking.
“I think you killed Black kids because you were trying to kill that part of yourself. I think that’s why you joined the Sons of the Confederacy, wore trucker hats, and listen to Hank Williams Jr. But you can never kill that part of yourself, Gabriel.”
Royce tightened his grip on Lavon.
“Don’t call me that. That’s not my fucking name,” Royce said.
Titus held his hands up palms out and lowered his voice. “I know what they did to you. Elias, Henry, the Hillingtons. That church. And I know you were afraid. And angry. And you felt hopeless. I know what that’s like. I know how it feels to pray to God for something that you want so bad and feel like he doesn’t care. When I was a little boy, I prayed to God to save my mother, prayed all night sometimes, the same way you prayed for him to save you.”
“And you see how that turned out? He could have done it, but he didn’t. Do you know what hell is? It’s not lakes of fire. It’s being ignored by God. I was in hell, and he never once reached his hand down into perdition to pull me up. I WAS A CHILD! I was a child,” Royce said. His eyes were wide and brilliant like emeralds.
“Maybe this is that moment. Maybe he’s giving you his hand now. Let me help you … Royce. Let Lavon go and let me help you,” Titus said. He held out his hand.
Royce closed his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, Titus saw the devil that lived in him.
“I tell you what. Why don’t you pray that I don’t cut this little boy’s throat, and then let’s see if Michael strikes me down with his sword.”
Royce gripped the handle of the bowie knife.
* * *
Titus braced himself.
He noticed Lavon’s little brown hand moving. He watched as he pulled something small and silver from his front pocket.
Titus flicked his eyes up at Royce.
Royce grinned at him as he began to move the knife across Lavon’s neck.
Titus leaped forward just as Lavon jammed the paring knife into Royce’s forearm up to the hilt. Royce screamed, a high-pitched sound incongruous with his huge frame. Lavon dropped to his knees and scrambled out of the way as Titus slammed into Royce.
Titus grabbed the blade with his right hand while he rammed his left hand into the soft flesh of Royce’s nose and cheek. Royce brought his right arm over in a clubbing motion and smashed his forearm against the side of Titus’s head. It felt like someone was hitting him with a bag full of cement.
Royce pulled the knife from Titus’s grip, flaying open his hand in the process. He brought the blade up in a slashing motion and Titus felt the skin of his cheek part like the Red Sea. He jumped back as Royce tried to stab him in the gut. He grabbed the blade again with his right hand, but this time he twisted it and felt it come free.
It clattered to the floor as Titus struck Royce with his right hand. Royce roared, not like a man but like some evolutionary throwback, and gripped Titus around the throat with his left hand. Still howling, he pushed Titus back against a wall, shattering two framed angel paintings that fell to the floor.
Titus felt himself fading. Royce’s hand around his throat was like a bear trap. He shoved his left thumb into Royce’s eye, but Royce just tightened his grip. Small black dots began to dance in front of Titus’s eyes. Royce bared his teeth at him like a wolf.
Titus pawed at his belt buckle.
He felt it click and unlatch.
He touched a lever on the back.
Four inches of razor-sharp metal shot out of the rectangular brass buckle.
Titus shoved all four inches into Royce’s neck under his chin. Then he pulled the blade hard to the left. Blood exploded from the wound. Royce let go of Titus and staggered back, grabbing at his throat. He fell against the embalming table, then slid to the floor, blood still pouring out of the wound in his neck like a river made of claret.
Titus glided down the wall until he felt the carpeted floor of the bunker under him. He laid his head back and tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn’t seem to fill his lungs.
Lavon approached him slowly.
“Is he dead?” Lavon asked.
“Yeah,” Titus said.
“Good. He wouldn’t let me off the school bus. I was going home cuz I didn’t want to go to the festival. He said real bad things about my brother.”
“Don’t … don’t listen to him. Your brother loved you,” Titus said. He felt like he was floating.
“Hey, I need you to … go in my pocket. Get my phone. Call 911. Tell them where we are. They’re not gonna know, and I need help,” Titus said.
Lavon came to him and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed 911. “Yeah, we are…” Lavon stopped.
“At 2274 Tall Chief Lane. In the backyard, in a bunker,” Titus said.
Lavon repeated the message.
“They say they almost here,” Lavon said.
Titus closed his eyes.
“That’s good.”
Lavon sat on the floor next to him.
“You gonna be all right,” Lavon said.
Titus couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement.
“I miss my brother. Mama says he was sick. But I still miss him,” Lavon said.
“I bet he misses you too,” Titus said.
Then there was only the endless night.
* * *