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“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.