by J. R. Mabry
After about five minutes, Terry saw the bunched muscles of the angel’s neck relax, and the howl softened into a painful moan. Terry moved closer to the magickian’s body and felt his forehead, now red with exertion. At his touch, the moan relented momentarily. Terry cocked his head and touched him again, this time running his fingers around his face. The eyes blinked open, and the angel worked at the unfamiliar mouth, smacking and swallowing at nothing perceptible. As soon as Terry withdrew his fingers, the moaning increased. Terry kept one hand running around the outlines of Randall’s face and with the other speed dialed Richard on his cell phone. “Hey, Dicky. I’m making progress.”
“Yeah, well, the foundations of the house aren’t rattling anymore—I’d call that an improvement.”
“Listen, can you bring me some things up here? I need to stay in physical contact with him to keep him calm.”
“Okay, what do you need?” Richard said, already climbing the stairs out of the basement library.
In moments, Richard appeared at the doorway, carrying a tray laden with hand towels, a bowl of hot water drawn from the tap, and a glass of orange juice.
Terry cleared the nightstand and motioned for him to set the tray down. “Need me to stay?” Richard asked.
“Probably a good idea, just in case he lashes out.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t think to come up sooner—”
“It’s okay; I didn’t think of it either. But I’m glad you’re here.” He smiled at his superior. “Look, as long as I’m touching his face, he’s calmer. Can you wet one of those hand towels?”
Richard did and handed it to him. Terry laid it like a wreath around the angel’s face. At the touch of the moist, hot fabric, the angel stopped moaning altogether and smacked his lips again.
Gingerly, Terry placed the glass of orange juice to the angel’s lips. At the first taste of the sweet, tart liquid, his eyes opened wide, and his lips extended almost comically toward the rim of the glass. Terry stifled a laugh and helped the angel drain the glass.
Terry handed the glass back to Richard. “Let’s bring the whole bottle up. Looks like he’s thirsty.”
“Or he’s just never experienced the nutritious goodness of California Sunshine-brand orange juice.”
“That, too,” Terry grinned.
Richard sat in awe of what was before him until Terry broke his reverie. “Orange juice, Honey Pie, chop chop!”
“Oh, sorry,” Richard jumped up.
“And grab my laptop while you’re down there!” Terry called after him.
In a minute or so, Richard returned with the jug of orange juice in one hand and the laptop in the other.
“Can you set up and transcribe?” Terry asked.
Richard nodded and planted himself in the room’s only chair, opening the laptop and creating a new file.
Terry continued to bathe the magickian’s face in warm water. The angel smacked his lips and made small whimpering noises.
“Hey, I’d like to talk to you,” Terry said softly to the angel. “Can you understand me?”
The angel smacked his lips but otherwise did not reply. The magickian’s eyes did not focus on him but stared straight ahead.
“It looks like he’s blind,” Richard noted.
Terry nodded and, concentrating, closed his own eyes and made his way into the ball of purple light in his imagination. Summoning it, he led the light to the optic nerves of the magickian’s body. Briefly, Terry told Richard what he was doing. “It’s not like I’m connecting him to the eyes but pointing out a connection that he hadn’t noticed yet.”
“Got it,” said Richard, typing furiously.
Terry knew he had been successful when the angel gasped and his whole body jerked. Terry opened his eyes, and locked them on the magickian’s. There was light in them now, and they were flitting back and forth in a panicked, desperate manner.
“It’s okay,” Terry said soothingly. “You’re safe here. The body you’re in was the one made for Adam. It is a Good Thing. You just have to get used to it.” He smiled at the angel, and his eyes softened with compassion. “You don’t understand a damned thing I’m saying, do you?” The angel’s eyes were wide and frightened.
“Okay, I’m a little rusty, but it’s time to break out the Enochian.” Terry reached for a book on the floor, where he had marked several pages with Post-its.
“Ulcinin aaoim Enoy Heripsol,” he said in passable Enochian. “Greetings, Lord of Heaven.”
The angel jerked his head at the words. Apparently, he had found the nerves to his ears on his own. “Quiin zirdo?”
“He wants to know where he is,” Terry said. “Caosg,” he told him, “On the Earth.”
The angel looked around him, a little puzzled. He spoke a few words quietly in Enochian. Terry laughed.
“What did he say?” asked Richard.
“He said that Earth is small.” Terry pointed to the window above the angel’s head, where a strip of gray sky was visible. The magickian’s mouth gaped in the angel’s wonder. The angel spoke again.
“He says he never thought he’d see it—the Earth, I think he means.”
The angel then began speaking a long, fast string of words.
“Ge mel-f,” Terry laughed. “I’m telling him to slow it down—I can’t translate that fast. Besides, I have to look up a lot of words.”
The angel spoke more deliberately, using fewer words and shorter sentences.
“He’s asking why he’s here,” Terry’s mouth tightened, not sure how to answer him.
“Just tell him,” said Richard. “Anything he can tell us can help.”
“Okay, here goes.” In halting Enochian, Terry related their adventure thus far—what they had discovered about the demon magick Randall Webber had been involved in, the switching of their bodies, and the magickian’s sojourn in Heaven, culminating in the sudden disappearance of the world’s avocados.
The magickian’s eyes widened as the angel registered what had happened to him, and the minor but significant evil perpetrated on the world.
Terry couldn’t think of a time when he had witnessed such acute sorrow. For not knowing how to work the body of flesh, the angel was proving to be a fast learner.
The angel spoke again, in a voice so sad, Terry had to pause to appreciate the pathos. “He wants to know if he is our prisoner.” Terry met Richard’s eyes, which were wet with emotion.
“No, Honey. Ag. Ag. Rit nonca. Gil zacam noncf, aala eoan ofekufa Peripsol.” Terry sighed. “I told him we saved him, and we want to help him get home, and back into his own body, back to Heaven.”
“Can you ask him if he can help?” asked Richard.
“How?”
“Well, is he trapped in the body, or can he extricate himself from it and, you know, roam around?”
Terry’s brow furrowed, but he put the question to the angel in halting Enochian. The answer, when it came, was long and full of digressions.
“Well, I’m not going to translate all of that, but the upshot is ‘no.’ All creatures, even spiritual creatures, need a body as a vehicle for consciousness. He would need his angelic body to move around unseen on this plane. He’s stuck, I’m afraid.”
Richard nodded. “Is he in pain?”
Terry asked the question. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he said, grimacing. “But it’s better. I think it’s just a matter of adjustment.”
“Does he have access to Randall’s memories?”
Terry’s eyebrows shot up, but he asked just the same. “He doesn’t know,” he answered after the two had conversed for a while in Enochian, “but he’s going to root around and see if he can find them. Personally, I think they’re there, he just has to figure out how to open the filing cabinets in the old cabeza.”
“Will he want to see Kat?”
“Why would he want to see Kat? He’s never met Kat.”
Richard nodded. Of course he hadn’t. “But would Kat want to see him?”
“Okay, but let�
��s make it a short visit. I think he ought to rest soon.”
Richard nodded and headed downstairs. In a couple of minutes, he had both Kat and Susan in tow.
Kat was barely holding back tears. When she saw the angel sitting up in her brother’s body, saw the light in her brother’s eyes, heard the voice from his mouth, she cried out with relief. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she fell upon the bed and pressed her breast to her brother’s.
The angel started and gasped. Terry touched her shoulder and gently pushed her back. “Honey, it’s your brother’s body but not his spirit. The consciousness behind the machine doesn’t know you. He’s friendly, but he’s not your brother.”
Kat blinked back tears and sniffed. “I know that. I know that. I’m just…He’s alive.”
“Yes, he’s fine,” Terry said.
“Oh, Terry, thank you!” she said, hugging him across the bed.
“Shucks, ma’am, all in a day’s work.” He winked at Susan and Richard.
Then, unexpectedly, the angel’s eyes began flitting back and forth. He spoke excitedly in Enochian.
“Wait up, gang. It seems that seeing Kat has triggered something. He thinks it’s Randall’s memories. This is a really good sign!” Terry listened for a while and turned to Kat, smiling.
“He says he remembers a time when you were fighting. There was snow on the ground. You were being mean to him. He wants to know if you remember how he got revenge.”
“Damn straight,” Kat, said, overjoyed. “He peed all over my stuffed animals!” She laughed aloud, both at the memory and with heartfelt relief.
Terry noted that even the angel was smiling. The angel said something else and smacked his lips. “He says that peeing is going to be strange if Randall’s memories of it are any indication. But he’s figuring he’ll need to soon because he wants more orange juice.” Richard poured him another glass and handed it to Terry, who held it to Webber’s lips to the angel’s obvious delight.
“Did you ask him why he did it?” asked Kat. “Did you ask him why Randall made the avocados disappear?”
“He didn’t have access to his memories before he saw you, but we can ask him now.” He did.
The angel thought for a few minutes, and then his face screwed up into a defiant scowl. His answer was angry, filled with short, staccato syllables.
“Holy shit,” Terry said, the blood draining from his face as he listened.
“What is it? What is he saying?” asked Richard.
“Well, as we found out from the lodge, the avocado was just a test. There’s something bigger afoot.”
“And that is?” Susan prompted.
Terry gulped. “The overthrow of Heaven.”
38
The morning synod meeting was duller than Bishop Tom had feared. The last discussion before the break for lunch concerned educational requirements, the exceptions to those requirements, and who got to say who would be accepted and why. Tom was powerfully tempted to remove his socks and, using them as puppets, perform parodies of the seemingly endless and inane discussions.
Eventually, Bishop Mellert threw in the towel and rose, offering a prayer for their meal, and the bishops scattered as if fleeing a sinking vessel.
Very quickly after eating, Tom felt the inevitable tug of afternoon gravity, measurably two or three times as strong as other times of the day. He glanced at his watch and estimated he could get in a thirty-minute power nap before the afternoon session commenced.
He set out immediately for his room, taking the stairs in great, loping strides, two at a time.
He was halfway up when a voice called to him from below. “Oh, Tom!”
Tom groaned inwardly. He could tell by the voice that it was Bishop Demitrio, an oily Greek suffragan bishop from Idaho, unemployed and living in his mother’s basement. He was at synod sitting in for Bishop Maggie Tills, who was, God willing, giving birth to healthy twins any moment.
The problem with Bishop Demitrio wasn’t the viscosity of his hair, however, but the glacial pace with which his conversations inevitably unfolded. “Demi, hey, can this wait?”
Bishop Demitrio seemed flustered, and he glanced at the top of the stairs nervously. “Not really, no,” he said.
Tom groaned and resentfully descended the stairs, one at a time. “What’s so important it can’t wait a half hour?”
“Well, as you know—as I’m sure you do, most of us do, although it is interesting—I was talking to Van Patton and she didn’t know, which surprised me, because you know, she always seems so…on top of everything, you know what I mean? Maybe you don’t. Well, there was that time in Springfield when she was absolutely clueless. All of the rest of us knew what was going on. That was the first gay vote, I believe, in 1999. You weren’t there, I don’t think, or were you? I can’t recall. Anyway, Van Patton—”
Tom’s head was spinning already, trying against all odds to hold on to the original topic of Demitrio’s monologue. “Wait! Demitrio, wait! Listen to me. I have to take one powerful shit, and if you don’t get to your point pronto, I’m going to deposit my offering at your feet. You have thirty seconds. Go.”
“Oh,” the little man seemed genuinely lost. He looked toward Heaven, and, seemingly seeing written in the air his original point, began little hopping motions as he spoke in staccato syllables. “Mellert’s term is up at our next synod, and we ought to get him something nice.”
Tom’s eyes darkened. “Isn’t this something that could be handled by email?”
Demitrio looked at his pigeon-toed feet. “Yes, it could. But Mother turned off my DSL.”
“Put me down for fifty dollars, whatever you decide get him,” Tom said, heading to the stairs. “And now I’m going to take my nap.”
“I thought you were going to take a shit,” Demitrio called after him. “Uh, Tom…”
“You could use a loudspeaker next time,” Tom called over his shoulder, ignoring his further entreaty. In mere moments, he had gained the second floor and was headed toward his room.
He stopped a few feet shy of his door. It was slightly ajar. Cautiously he advanced, and as he got closer, he could see that the wood around the lock was splintered. He pushed the door open and gasped. His suitcase was thrown into a corner, and his clothes were scattered across the floor. His papers, once piled neatly on the desk, seemed tossed to the wind, and covered every surface of the room.
Panic swelled in his chest, and his heart beat so hard it hurt. Frantically, he began sorting through the papers. He looked under everything that wasn’t bolted to the floor, to no avail. The FedEx package was gone.
39
Brian and Dylan returned from their shopping shortly after noon, and Brian quickly had sandwiches made, and lemonade on the table.
Richard filled them in on the progress Terry had made with the angel, and despite the sense of gloom they had all felt since Mikael’s abduction, a light and hopeful mood permeated the kitchen. The sun had finally burned through the morning fog, and light poured from the window above the wide double sink.
Dylan sat at the table with a loud “oaf” of relief. Terry joined them momentarily, and Brian whistled for the women to join them. Susan and Kat emerged from the office with Cheshire catlike grins on their faces. Kat was still elated and relieved about the well-being of her brother’s physical body, but it was clear something else was up.
After a quick blessing over the food, Dylan, knowing his wife well, nudged her. “Okay, li’l lamb, spill it.”
“Did you find something?” asked Terry, reaching for mustard and slathering his sandwich with it.
Brian watched him with disdain. “You’re not going to taste anything but fucking mustard!” he complained.
“I like fucking mustard!” Terry winked at him. “That’ll be my new nickname for you.”
“We found it,” said Kat.
“Found what?” asked Richard.
“We found a money trail,” Kat elaborated.
“Well, we actually found a
couple of them,” Susan added. “And you’re not going to believe where they’re coming from.”
“Try me,” said Richard.
“First, we looked for a lodge account. No dice, not with any of the major banks, anyway.”
“Was…this all legal?” asked Dylan.
Susan ignored him. “So then we started looking at private accounts. Those guys are either working under assumed names, or they are as poor as church mice.”
“You mean Satanic temple mice,” Terry corrected.
“They’re not Satanists,” Richard said with a slight note of exasperation.
“Do Satanic temples even have mice?” Dylan asked Terry, ignoring Richard.
“Bats. I think they’d have bats.”
“Go on…” Richard encouraged Susan.
“So, I went back to the flash drive. I found a spreadsheet that very conveniently listed an account number. We traced it to a free business account from Providence Savings and Loan. That account just had a major influx of cash that posted at 10 a.m. this morning, to the tune of $100,000.”
“Holy Christ,” Richard whistled. “That’s a small fortune for guys like that.”
“That’d be a small fortune for us,” Dylan added.
“We are guys like that,” Terry admitted.
“Okay, so our suspicion was right,” Richard thought out loud. “This isn’t entirely the Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent’s doing—they have a confederate. The question that strikes me is whether what the client is after is the same as what the lodge is after.”
“Do yah mean we maybe should just step back and wait for them to duke it out among themselves?” asked Dylan.
“No, their purposes would have to be congruent up to a point. Susan, who is it? Who is their funder?”
“Well, the deposit was made from Cougar Properties in El Cerrito, which is owned by—are you ready for this?”
