“Are you really that deluded?” I blurt. “When you sent Ellis to Cleveland—”
“Ellis was always the enemy—always on a tight leash—tell me you don’t see that. But Ellis was on his mission whether I was there or not. At least this way . . . I was keeping him under control.”
“There was no control! He killed the Johnsels! Those deaths are on your hands!”
“I told Ellis to stay out of the house. I was fighting for you there, Cal. Trying so hard to keep you safe. I was. I fought him to stay out of there.”
“But he didn’t. He tried to kill us, Roosevelt. You tried to kill us!”
The problem is, no preacher likes to hear his own flaws named. Refusing to face me, Roosevelt stays locked on my father.
“You’re a sinner, Lloyd. All you had to do was hand over the comic book. Instead, you ran to Cleveland, hoping to steal God’s treasure for yourself. But here’s your chance. I have your penance. Hand it back now, and you’ll get everything I promised.”
Without a word, my father turns back to the animal horn, slamming it again with the spine of the book. It connects with a loud duumm. Even he freezes. This is still a prison. The librarian’s out cold, but we don’t have much time.
“Now you’re offering deals?” I ask as my father again guillotines with the book, unleashing another loud duumm. Roosevelt doesn’t even look up.
“You have any idea how I got in here?” Roosevelt challenges. “All I had to do was say we were together. So simple, right? If you’ve learned nothing else, can you even comprehend the power of God’s will?”
It’s a perfect bluff. And as he slides his hand into his jacket pocket, I tell myself there’s no way they’d let him bring in a weapon. But I also see that smug twinkle in his eyes. I used to call it southern charm. I was wrong. He’s no different from Ellis. Just another zealot who’d give everything to get his old life back.
“I know that look, Cal. You’re judging me,” he says as he fidgets with whatever’s in his pocket. No way it’s a gun. No way. He circles sideways, toward my dad, with the prowl of a mountain cat. But all he’s really doing is trying to keep the reference desk between us. The last thing he needs is to give me a clear path. “You wanted it, too, Cal. You chased it as hard as I did. There’s nothing wrong with wanting forgiveness from the past.”
“Oh, so that’s your big grand plan? Go back to the church and offer the weapon in exchange for a brand-new pulpit? Or are you dreaming the big dreams now?” For once, Roosevelt doesn’t answer. “That’s it, isn’t it? Now that you’ve seen the prize, you can save far more than just your old parish, can’t you?”
“Didn’t you listen at all when we spoke? Cain created murder with this weapon. Ellis and his Nazis—Lord knows what they were trying to create with it. But now—as a Book of Truth— ‘What you intended for evil, God intended for good’! Don’t you see, Cal? That’s why you were chosen—and why I kept helping you. You took us further than anyone’s ever gotten,” he says, still making it sound like we’re a team. “B-B-But this isn’t just about you or me or any one person,” he insists, his eyes dancing wildly.
I search his face, looking for my friend. But somewhere—this deep in his fervor—he’s long gone. As he bounces on his heels, Roosevelt’s voice flies faster than ever. “And this isn’t about them kicking me out, or my old little church, either. Can you see the bigger theological picture? All the naysayers of God—all the doubters and smug skeptics who love looking down at us—this ends the argument, Cal. Forget relying on faith—this is proof God didn’t punish Cain. Real proof. Do you understand the power in that? Everyone . . . everyone . . . everyone thinks we need monsters, but we don’t. We need forgiveness. And understanding. Just like we give every day in the van. Just like you were searching for when you first came to me. When Cain repented, God rewarded him. He granted that forgiveness. That’s the religion the world needs to see—that we can make sure they see. How can you and your father not want to share that with everyone else?”
A swell of rage rises like mercury through my body. I circle around to his side of the reference desk. From above, there’s another duumm from my dad. “The only reason I wanted this thing was to prove I didn’t kill Timothy!” I shout.
“C’mon, Cal—chasing ancient artifacts . . . coming here—it doesn’t prove your innocence. It never did,” Roosevelt says. “Don’t you see? Even if all the guards in the building come running, no one will ever believe the disgraced agent and his pathetic murderer father. It’s over,” he insists. “It’s always been over. You lost.”
I shake my head, tensing to jump. “Not if I give them . . . you.”
I fly at him like a bullet. He goes for whatever’s in his pocket. Maybe it is a gun. I don’t care.
77
I slam my shoulder into his chest, and Roosevelt flies backward toward the bookcase. On impact, I hear the air forced from his lungs. The way his head snaps back, one of the shelves clipped him in the back of the neck.
But he laughs, fighting to stand up straight.
“Really, Cal—the two of us—two brothers fighting? Isn’t that a bit on the nose?”
I’ve got two decades of pent-up fury. My fists are made of thunder.
“You’re not . . . my brother!” I shout, burying a punch in his face. The bookcase again catches him from behind. But at his age and size, he’s already starting to wobble.
“Okay, your teacher, then. I did teach you everything,” he says almost proudly, his left eye already swelling shut.
I shake my head and hit him again. And again. The skin on my knuckles cracks open as his nose pops.
“You didn’t teach me how to fight,” I growl.
“Sure . . . ptthh . . .” He spits a wad of blood to the floor, tottering sideways. He’s holding on to the edge of the reference desk just to stay on his feet. “Sure I did. You just didn’t like fighting dirty.”
There’s a noise from above, a loud crack, like a snapped bone. A few shelves down, my father pulls the animal horn free from the wall.
“I got it!” he calls out.
I look away for barely a second. That’s all Roosevelt needs.
From the edge of the reference desk, he grabs a stapler, flips it open like a butterfly knife, and swings straight at my face.
I try my best to turn away. I’m not nearly fast enough.
Cunk.
The staple sinks its teeth into my cheek, biting hard as my jaw lurches sideways.
“Naaaahhhh!” I scream through clenched teeth.
Already stumbling backward, I’m completely off balance as Roosevelt plows toward me. He’s big like a truck and knows how to use it to his advantage.
Winding up with the stapler, he swings at my face again. And again. And again. I raise my arm—still sore from Benoni—to block each shot, but all it does is send the staples into my forearm, which burns from each metal bee sting.
But it’s not until I spot him glancing over my shoulder that I see what he’s really aiming for: the empty mop bucket that sits next to the sink—and is now right behind me.
The backs of my legs hit it at full speed. I’ve already got too much momentum. Like an overloaded lever, I tumble backward, my head hitting the hard green industrial tile with a brutal thud. For a moment, the world goes black with bright, burning stars.