by Rick Mofina
“You’ve got a customer,” Florence Schafer said meekly.
Shook quickly filled the bowl for an old sod beforehim and was thanked with a “God bless you.” Shook ignored him.
He looked down at Florence, she was familiar. Runninghis eyes over her miniature frame, he could smell her fear. He was curious. Whyhad she acted so strangely when they sent her to help him on the serving line?Not once had she turned to him. Pious little cunt. Maybe he would give her alesson in humility. It would be memorable. If only she knew of his power, knewwho he really was.
There was only one who knew.
From time to time a knowing moment would flickerbetween Shook and the cold, hard eyes of those released from Q. it was thelook: con to con. But even their icy perception was never total. Only thepriest knew, and could not break the seal of the confessional. He absolvedShook of his sins, but could tell no one of his crimes. He was bound by theoath he swore to God.
Shook reveled in tormenting his confessor, reveled inspitting in the face of his God.
Who possesses the real power? Who could take his pickof San Francisco’s lambs, orchestrate the Sunday school teacher’s suicide,baffle the blue meanies and manipulate everyone?
The priest knew exactly who Shook was and he trembledin his knowledge.
“Hello, Florence. Lovely to see you today.”
Shook’s ears pricked up at the sound of FatherMcCreeny’s voice. Ah, he had arrived as expected. Grazing with the flock.Demonstrating his devotion. Standing head and shoulders above the others,dispensing God bless you’s while piling his plate with food.
McCreeny stood before Shook. Emotion drained from hisface and his troubled eyes feigned kindness. At last he said: “God be with you,my son. Bless you for helping us.”
Shook remained silent, taking his time to scoopchicken soup into McCreeny’s bowl, placing it gently in the priest’s hands in amanner suggesting the reverse of the sacrament of communion.
“And God be with you, Father.” Shook smiled widely,showing McCreeny his hideous teeth.
NINETEEN
Wintergreen Heights was Cleve’s home since his old man had walked three years ago. Helived here with Daphne, his alcoholic, welfare stepmother and half-brother,Joey, a sniveling puke. He was free of Joey today. Daphne was sober and keepingthe sniveler inside because he had the flu.
Cleve kicked up his skateboard and glided to the rearof the project. He loved how the rolling of his wheels resounded off of thefive towers around the courtyard. Time to sweep the neighborhood. The Heightswere his and he was going on patrol to see what he could see.
Wintergreen Heights was one of the city’s notoriouscommunities. Once an island of hope, it had deteriorated into a pit of despair.Every home had been burglarized, every person victimized. Anyone calling 9-1-1could count on waiting ten rings before counting on police. They rarely flewthe colors here, but when they came, they came by the hundreds.
Surfing down sidewalks, passing the crack house, Clevewas on the lookout for a little of this, a little of that, and was deep intothe Heights when he saw that that guy with the boat again. His place lookedlike a shithouse. Paint blistering. Weeds and shrubs were trying to swallow thething. His garage was open. The guy was in there, working on his boat up on thetrailer.
Cleve stopped.
His mind squirmed with questions: what was that guydoing with a boat like that down here? It looked like a classic. Cleve rolledup to the man.
“Nice boat.”
The man looked at him and Cleve saw two distortedversions of himself in the man’s sunglasses.
The man just kept on working. Cleve eyeballed him. Lotof lines on his face, looked wasted in his grease-stained T-shirt and jeans.Needed to shave. A breeze was lifting hi salt-and-pepper hair like a nest ofsnakes. He was inside the boat, working like a surgeon on the motors. Clevesmelled gas and heard the chink of a wrench against metal. He stood ontiptoe and peered into the hull at the boat’s massive engines, twin Mercs.
“Your craft must slash waves big time!”
The man didn’t answer.
Cleve stepped back. “What’s the bank on it?”
The man was silent.
“Is it like, an antique or what? It’s all wood. Ithought boats these days were fiberglass, like my Cruz Missile.”
The man’s ratchet clicked as he replaced a spark plug.Cleve was in love with the boat. Its dark polished wood gleamed, the sunsparkled on the windshield, the chrome trim fittings, and running lights. Thehuge wheel was white, matching the leather seats, which had a blackdiamond-patterned inlay. Tiny American flags drooped from tilted chrome flagposts fixed aft.
“Seriously, man, what’s the top end?”
The ratchet clicked, another plug was replaced.
“Where do you launch it?”
The man said nothing.
Cleve went to the stern, shook his head at the speedprops, raised his eyebrows after reading what was written above them. Inelegant, gold-reflecting script was the word: Archangel.
“What’s the name mean? Religious or what?”
The ratchet clicked faster, then he tossed it into a toolboxand jumped out of the boat, gathered the tarpaulin, pulling it over the boat.Cleve hurried to the opposite side and helped. The man didn’t object.
“The reason I came over here is because I saw somelocals scoping your craft here a couple of nights ago,” he lied.
A rope whipped around the bow as the man tied it downquickly.
“I told them the man who owns this craft is not a manto be messed with. They said they’d be back and do a number.”
The man tied down ropes at two more points.
“The way I see it is me and my buddy, we could guardit for you for a fee, which you wouldn’t have to pay if anything happened.”
The man stood on the trailer, stretched over the boat,and snapped down the tarp’s fasteners near the windshield.
“What do you think?” Cleve said. What was that?Thought he heard a child’s cry coming from the house. A little kid. Cleve knewa bawling brat when he heard one. He listened for a second cry. Nothing. Weird.Maybe a dog.
The man hopped down, walked around the boat, tyingdown the canvas. It took a couple of minutes.
Cleve was offended. “Hey, mister!”
The man collected his tools, wiping each one.
“The boat’s going to get trashed!” Cleve knocked hardon the bow with his skateboard. Loud enough for the man to stop what he wasdoing. Cleve felt the air tighten, as if someone had just pulled back thehammer of a gun.
The man’s face was serious as a headstone. Clevetightened his grip on his board, seeing himself in the man’s glasses.
He stood over Cleve and said, “A vigil is kept overthis vessel. Nobody has harmed her and nobody will harm her.Understand?”
Cleve nodded coolly.
The man held a finger an inch from Cleve’s face. “Itis not a boat,” he whispered. “It is a divine chariot!”
Cleve nodded.
“You think twice before you try to shake me downagain! Now, get your welfare-sucking ass off my property!”
Cleve stared hard at the man before leaving.
TWENTY
Edward Keller weaved a thirty-pound, forged steel chair through the eyeletsrigged to the doors of the garage beside his house, bolted with three“ burglar-proof” locks then activated the silent alarm.
Archangel was secure,awaiting its mission.
The overgrown grass covering the scrap of yard behindthe house was bordered by a fence and neglected hedge, obliterating theadjacent yards. An old alcoholic couple lived, if you could call it living, tothe left. The abandoned crack house to the right was condemned by cityinspectors. Police rarely showed up here where most people were too scared,stupid, or stoned to be nosy.
It was ideal for his needs.
Using a false name, Keller had bought the property fora pittance after discharging himself from the institute. Shrubs covered thebarred basement windows, junk mail carpeted t
he barely visible front yard.
Keller’s keys jingled as he unlocked the two deadbolts of the metal door to the rear of the house. He shrugged off the littleneighbor kid. The nosy little criminal didn’t know what he’d heard. Kellersmiled. His mission was blessed. His house was his holy fortress predestined touphold the will of God. No one could get in. And no one can get out.
Inside, he found deliverance from the sun in the cooldarkness. He bolted the door, descended the creaking stairs to the basement,the cocker spaniel scampering after him. He unlocked the room. Littered withdirty plates, glasses, fast food bags and wrappers, it smelled of urine. DannyBecker was asleep on the rotting mattress.
Protector of humankind.
Keller studied his face. The dog watched as he kneltbeside the boy, closed his eyes, lifted his head to heaven and gave thanks.
The angel Raphael.
He was cleansed in the light.
Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus.
Keller left, keeping the door open. The sleeping pillshe had ground into Danny’s pop would wear off soon. He had work to do. Climbingthe basement stairs, he heard a noise and froze. The dog growled. What wasthat? A scratching coming from a darkened corner. Could it be that little punk.No. Something lurking in the dark. Something with claws. He switched on alight-suddenly the thing came out of the corner at him. A rat. A large rat,it’s mangy fur scraping along the wall before it disappeared into a crack inthe wall.
It fascinated him. He squatted and whispered into thecrack.
“Vermin, if you contaminate my temple with your foulpresence again, I will taste your blood.”
Keller blocked the crack with a wooden milk crate.
Upstairs, he checked the front and rear doors. Eachrequired two keys from the inside to open. Satisfied they were sealed, he wentto the bathroom and showered. In his stark bedroom, he put on Levi’s and asweatshirt. From his night table he lovingly withdrew the silver crucifixchain, staring at the suffering Christ.
His will be done.”
Keller kissed the crucifix and slipped the chain overhis neck. He went to the kitchen and made a tomato sandwich and black coffee.He gave the dog a cookie. In the living room, a bookcase stood in one cornerjammed with the works of Conrad, Blake, Eliot, the Huxleys, texts onphilosophy, theology, death, resurrection, and angels.
When he first held Danny Becker in his arms, Kellerfelt the flutter of angels’ wings.
He selected the obscure work by Oberam Augustine Reingaertler,titled Struggle for the Light: The Truth About Angels and Devils, thensat wearily in the rocking chair. He read a passage, said to be centuries old,from a poem by a blind monk for a bereaved mother:
His angels first appeared as disease, despair anddeath
Yet when Heaven commands
Each to remove their dark disguise
Lo, we behold, the Seraphim,
Cleansed by the light of one million suns.
The glory of knowing the Face of God
Keller flipped through the book, studying theseraphim, God’s highest ranking angels. Isaiah had been blessed for he hadlooked upon their beauty, each with six wings, surrounded by flames. Sanctus.Sanctus. Sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth. Keller stopped at a passage he’dread a thousand times: angels can be summoned for almost any imaginableemergency and for any task…
He loved his books. They confirmed the Truth. Angelscome at times of desperation. Celestial fixers. It was revealed to him onenight in the institute where he had sought help. The answer came in a vision: your children are waiting. The angels will help you, if you find them. But theywere disguised. Wearing masks. Do not be deceived by their false identities.They belong to no one until you find them. And you will find them.
If you believed. It was a test of his faith. Kellersmiled and rocked. He had found the first. Danny Raphael Becker. Raphaelof the powers. Healed by God. He had still to find the others. Only thenwould God assist him in the transfiguration. Keller rocked in thought.
Prolonged severe grief reaction, the doctor at theinstitute had called it. What a fool. He could not comprehend that Keller’slife had been preordained. He did not know the glory of God. So many didn’t. Somany had been bereft of His infinite love. If only those in anguish knew thedivine truth as he did. It had been revealed to him.
If only he had spent more time with his children.
No, he had been chosen. He was the enlightened one whowould demonstrate God’s wonder. That was why he joined the university group.Not to obtain help, but to bestow it upon those in pain.
Keller rocked.
Maps, charts, diagrams, enlarged photographs,calendars, news clippings, and notes covered the living room walls from floorto ceiling. More papers, charts, maps, journals, and binders overflowing withnotes were piled on the large computer table near the far wall.
He focused on one picture-the fading snapshot of histhree dead children: Pierce, Alisha, and Joshua. Laughing, wearing colorfulcone-shaped hats, a half-eaten chocolate cake before them. It was Alisha’s sixbirthday. Three weeks before they drowned.
They never found the bodies.
Do not be deceived by their false identities.
Remember the will of the Creator.
***
The Will of the Creator.
It shone in Reverend Theodore Keller’s eyes the nighthe watched his rural California church burn to the ground.
“It is the will of the Creator, Edward,” his fathersaid to him as the wood crackled and the flames devoured the cross atop thesteeple. Edward was ten-years-old and took pleasure in his father’s tears. Noone would ever know that it was Edward who set the fire by igniting Bibles inthe pulpit, an act inspired by the whippings he endured at the hands of hisfather in the name of God.
“Spare the rod and spoil the child!” the Reverendthundered after Edward committed sins as heinous as spilling his milk at thesupper table, or failing to wash away a trace of dirt from his hands beforeinspection. “Edward, fetch the rod.” His father would command him to get theviperlike leather strap hanging from a nail inside the study near the paintingof Golgotha. Edward would tremble. He had long ago forsaken pleading for mercy.Begging was a sign of weakness, a failing to be expunged with more lashes.“Honor they father and thy mother!” his father would yell and Edward woulddutifully drop his pants, exposing his buttocks. The Reverend would twist himover his knee, raise the strap high over his head, bringing it down so swiftlyit hummed slicing through the air before thwacking across Edward’sscarred and tender flesh. The Reverend would grunt savagely, spittle flyingfrom his mouth as he delivered each blow. Edward would bite down on a spoon tokeep from screaming. His mother would hurry to another room and pray. It alwaysended with his father dropping a Bible on Edward’s bleeding rear end, orderinghim to memorize another chapter by morning. Some days, he literally limped toschool, his ears ringing with the thwack! Thwack! of the strap.
“You are but a lamb,” the Reverend bellowed the nightbefore the fire. He was beating Edward for a crease he had found in his freshlymade bed. “You are a burnt offering, a sacrifice I will not withhold from myGod! I will not refuse to place you on the altar!”
That night in bed, Edward writhed with fear and pain,reading the Bible. He was jolted with the realization that his father’s lovefor his church superseded everything. Even his son’s life. The crack of thestrap and the Reverend’s words echoed in Edward’s mind. I will not refuse toplace you on the altar!
That’s when God first spoke to Edward. Cleanse yourfather of his piety. Save him with the fire of purification. The cracking ofthe strap. The cracking of the fire. Punishment for the son. Punishment for thefather.
“Whoever committed this desecration shall be damnedall the days of his life.” Keller’s father fell to his knees, sobbing as hischurch burned, brightly, gloriously.
Deliver us from evil. Edward grinned, flames paintinghis face.
Keller rocked and remembered his children.
He could hear them. Crying.
Keller rocked. Sque
ak-creak. Squeak-creak. Wasthere time to see it again? Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.
Keller left the chair and lifted an ancient Kodakmovie projector from the closet, settling it on the big table. He returned tothe closet for a cardboard box of aluminum film canisters, rummaging through ituntil finding one marked: “Josh at Three.” He threaded the film, aimed theprojector and started the movie. The dog watched, tilting his head.
An intense white square burned on the wall, darkeningand streaking as the leader flowed over the lens. A little boy’s face appears,slightly out of focus. The camera pulls back. The boy is sitting on the floorof an elegant home. The Golden Gate bridge is visible through a bay window. Theboy is handsome, dressed in a white shirt, vest, bow tie, and dark pants. Hisface is fervent with expectation. Two older children, a boy and a girl, arenext to him, smiling. The little boy sits before a large gift-wrapped package.The camera tightens on a card that reads “To Josh, Love, Daddy. P.S. Sorry Icouldn’t be home. I’ll make it next time, PROMISE!” The camera retreats. Awoman’s hand comes in to view, motioning to the boy. He stands and excitedlytears away the paper to get at the treasure it holds. A flowing white maneemerges. Then a saddle. The boy’s eyes widen. It’s a white rocking horse. Heleaps upon it and begins rocking. The other children touch it. Tears stingKeller’s eyes.
That day in his home office. Josh toddled in whileKeller was on the phone, closing some long-forgotten deal. Josh, arms open,Daddy, Daddy, I love my daddy. Grabbing at Keller while he was in the middle ofcrucial negotiations. Josh’s arms struggling to hug him. Not now, damn it. I ambusy. Get the hell out of here. Josh’s arms struggling to hold him. Joshcrying, his arms cold from the water. Hang on to Daddy. Josh slipping from hisneck, vanishing into the black water. Get the hell out. You never gaveyourself to them. They only wanted you. And it would have cost you nothing.
