If Angels Fall (tom reed and walt sydowski)

by Rick Mofina

  Joan thought he was intelligent, handsome, unlike anyof the local young men. He was a builder, a dreamer who could sweep her awayfrom dusty old Philo to the lights of San Francisco.

  They courted for a year, then married and moved to abungalow in Oakland. Joan was loving, fulfilling her role as duty-bound wifeand mother, bearing them Pierce, Alisha, and Joshua.

  Keller’s business flourished, becoming one of thestate’s largest church-building firms. They bought a huge Victorian in SanFrancisco with a postcard view of the Golden Gate bridge. There, they livedbehind a deteriorating veneer of happiness. Keller preoccupied himself withmaking money, renegotiating contracts, making most congregations beholden tohim for decades. He was addicted to the power. His passion for his businessovershadowed his love for his family.

  Whenever Joan tried talking to him, he stifled herwith a Biblical proverb. As time passed, she urged him to take one of thechildren with him on business trips. He rejected the idea. They would be in theway. Jeopardize a contract. Their discussions evolved into prolonged,late-night arguments, with Joan insisting he spend more time with the children,or there was no point in maintaining the facade of family. She would leave him.

  Resentfully, Keller acquiesced.

  One at a time, he took the children on business trips,but he was so stern with their conduct that they dreaded going with him. Joanknew he was uncomfortable having the children with him, but she believed shewas rescuing her family from disaster. Clinging to the hope he was a lovingfather imprisoned by his work, she suggested he spend a day alone with thechildren, away from business. Renting a boat to go bird watching and picnickingat the Farallons would be a memorable outing.

  That weekend, he loaded Peirce, Alisha, and Joshuainto the Cadillac and drove down the peninsula to half moon bay.

  Keller rocked in his chair, Bible in his lap, strokinghis beard.

  Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

  That weekend.

  His children. The storm. The whale. Sinking. Darknessswallowing the children. His children.

  Dawn, hugging a rock. Someone lifting him. Warmth. A motordroning. Antiseptic hospital smells. Someone calling him. Joan’s face. Edward!Where are the children? Telling Joan what happened. Her face. Breaking. Herbroken faced seared into his soul.

  My angels! My angels! Edward, where are mychildren, please!

  Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

  Keller set the Bible aside.

  Time to resume his work. He went to the basement.

  “Home. I want my mommy and daddy,” Danny Becker moanedfrom the floor were he was scribbling with crayons in a fat coloring book. Thedog sat dutifully at his side. The room was foul. Danny’s clothes were soiled.He had wet himself. Keller went upstairs, ran a hot bath, pouring Mr. Bubbleinto the water.

  A watery death.

  Keller knelt at the tub. The cocker spaniel paddedinto the room, then Danny appeared, gazing longingly at the water. It was asign. Keller smiled, began removing Danny’s clothes, then hoisted him into thewater. He unwrapped a bar of soap. Danny was docile, enjoying the warm waterand bubbles. Noticing Keller’s silver crucifix, he reached up and held it inhis tiny hand for inspection.

  Jesus said to his disciples: You shall not despiseany one of these little ones, for I say to you that in Heaven their angels seethe face of my Father

  Keller cleared a circle of water in the bubbles,cupped the back of Danny’s neck, and immersed his entire head. Fear leapt ontoDanny’s face. Underwater his eyes widened. His hand shot up, seizing Keller’scrucifix in a pain-stricken grasp and he pulled Keller closed his eyes andsmiled.

  For since by mankind came death, by mankind cametoo the resurrection of the dead.

  “Pull, Raphael! Pull, sweet healing angel! I beseechyou! Will you pull my Josh from the watery purgatory into which I cast him?”The crucifix chain sank deep into Keller’s neck. Danny’s breath escaped in awild underwater scream boiling to the surface. Clutching the crucifix in awhite-knuckled grip, he raised himself from the water, coughing, gasping forair. The dog yelped. Danny rubbed his eyes, his tiny body shaking as he cried.

  It was wondrous, like the sound of a newborn. Kellercovered Danny with a towel, and lifted him from the tub. He had baptized him,readied him, for the transfiguration. “It will be done! It will be done! Ohthank you, Raphael! Thank you!” Keller’s voice trembled. He was tingling withexultation, eyes brimming with tears. He carried Danny to his bedroom andopened the closet. It was crammed with cardboard boxes.

  “I want my mommy and daddy.” Danny wiped his eyes,brimming watching Keller slide the box before him.

  “Joshua” was written on the box in neat femininescript. It was jammed with children’s clothing-boy’s summer items, neatlyfolded and smelling powerfully of mothballs. Danny coughed. Rummaging, Kellerfound a set of pajamas, powder blue, dotted with tiny fire trucks.

  “These will be your new clothes.” Keller put the pajamason Danny. “And there’s a special set for the transfiguration.”

  Danny didn’t understand.

  “It’s time for a story,” Keller said.

  Back in the living room, Keller selected a blueblinder from the table. The dog followed them. Keller sat in his rocking chairwith Danny on his lap and sighed.

  “Later, can I go home please? Danny said.

  Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

  The chair rocked. The binder, marked. “Daniel RaphaelBecker/Joshua,” cracked when Keller opened it.

  “This is the story of a little boy named Josh who hasgone away.

  Keller turned to the first laminated page. It was acolor portrait of the little boy Danny saw the other night ridding the rockinghorse in the movie on the wall. In the picture, the boy’s eyes danced withhappiness. His hair was parted, the boy’s eyes danced with happiness. His hairwas parted neatly, his hands were clasped together in his lap in awell-directed studio pose.

  “Who’s that?” Danny touched the page.

  Keller hesitated.

  “My Josh. He’s waiting in a cold dark place for me toget him. Only you can go there. That’s why you’re here. I sent for you. Andthis is how I found you.” He turned the page to a photocopy of a microfilmednewspaper clipping of a birth announcement. It was placed under the words: IT’SA BOY! And a graphic of a smiling stork, wings extended, a baby suspended in abundle swinging from its beak.

  Keller read aloud:

  “BECKER Magdalene and Nathan are proud to

  announce the birth of their first child,

  Daniel Raphael, who arrived March 14,

  weighing 8lbs, 7oz.’

  Raphael and the month were circled in red. JoshuaKeller had been born in March.

  Keller turned to an enlarged shot of Danny chasing theswans at the pond behind his house, then to a section of a city map with theBeckers’ street circled. Next, there was a photocopy from the San Franciscocity directory listing Magdalene and Nathan Becker, their Jordan Park address,and Nathan’s job as an engineer with Nor-Tec, then the Backers’ municipal taxand land title records. The next pages were printouts of data on the Beckers andtheir property taken from municipal, county, state, and federal websites.Keller then reviewed some pages of the Beckers’ family history that he hadpurchased from a genealogy service on the internet. Then he turned to creditbills, bank statements, a wedding invitation, a doctor’s appointment notice forDanny, a grocery list, telephone bills, utility bills, and community newsletters. All were stained, creased, and torn. Keller had retrieved them fromBeckers’ garbage. Then there were some snapshots of Danny’s home, taken fromthe front, sides, and rear.

  “That’s my house!” Danny slapped the pages.

  Pictures of Maggie Becker walking with Danny, helpingDanny from the car in their driveway, were on the next page. Then pictures ofNathan walking with Danny in the neighborhood, in the BMW, Nathan enteringNor-Tec, then at Candlestick, and walking in Golden Gate Park.

  Then came Keller’s notes.

  FATHER: Mon to Fri, 6–6:30 a.m. goes downtown and c
atches CalTrainfor Mountain View. Home by 7-9p.m.

  MOTHER: 7 a.m., rises with A. Breakfast. Morning errands. Grocerieson Thursday. Mon-Wed-Fri afternoon paints in studio loft while child is inlocal day care.

  WEEKENDS: SAT: father takes A on Sat. outing. Eves. parents go outand sitter watches A at Becker home.

  SUN: mother and child attend church in morn. AFT: all three go forexcursion.

  The notes were meticulous, his work precise. He hadreaped success.

  He had prepared, responded, and prevailed. He followedthe sign and was rewarded.

  Poor Nathan Becker. Surely, his heart was broken. Buthe had let Danny wander on the train that day, had rested in the devil’s arms,cloaked in the shadow of a deadly sin: avarice. His failure to be vigilant overDanny was testament to the value he placed on his worldly pursuits. But that wasnot Keller’s concern. His work was his concern. And so much remained.

  The Angel would help him.

  It was preordained. Raphael was his name.

  Keller closed the binder and looked upon the Angel,shifting drowsily on his lap. He had arrived the same month Josh was born andwas the same age as Josh when he was lost. Keller had recognized the signs. TheTruth was revealed to him. His children were not dead. They were waiting to bereborn n celestial light.

  Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

  Only God’s Angels could rescue them, transfigure them.

  Raphael was the first. One of the Powers. Chief of theguardian angels. Guardian of mankind. Protector of children.

  Kelly reached for a second binder, a thick pink onebearing the title “Gabrielle Michelle Nunn/Alisha.” He turned to a portrait ofa six-year-old girl. Her shimmering chestnut hair was a halo in French braids.Her radiant eyes. Her emerald velvet dress, delicate lace trip… “Alisha. Mybeautiful Alisha.” Keller caressed the picture, sniffed, and turned to anotherbirth announcement:

  NUNN Paul and Nancy are thrilled to welcome their second bundle ofjoy, a little sister for Alexander. Gabrielle Michelle was born 4:12 p.m.,April 12, weighing 6lbs, 9oz. Thanks to Dr. Cook and the nurses at MetroHospital.

  Gabrielle and the month were circled in red.

  Gabrielle. Gabriel.

  Gabriel. God’s ambassador to the world. The Angel whoheralded Christ’s birth.

  He had found Gabriel. He turned the page to a recentcolor photograph of Gabriel Nunn smiling. Soaring on a park swing near herhome. He smiled back, then flipped to a picture of Gabrielle hugging her dog,Jackson. Opposite, was Jackson’s missing-reward poster. Keller reached down toJackson sitting at his feet, patted his head, and sighed ad he flipped throughpages of documents, detailed information, notes, and photographs of the Nunnsand Gabrielle. She was going to turn six very soon. Alisha was six. Born inJune.

  It was time. It was time.

  Keller closed the binder

  Long into the night he rocked with Danner Beckersleeping on his lap. Drifting to sleep himself, he recalled the lines of DorisWhite’s long-forgotten poem, “My Angel.” “Their coffins were opened and allwere set free, behold my Angel with the jeweled key.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Sunrise.Fog shrouded the city.

  Inspector Linda Turgeon came out of her neat house onupper Market and deposited herself into Sydowski’s unmarked Caprice Classic.

  “Good morning.” She yawned, accepting the steaming7-Eleven coffee cup he handed her. “Thanks.”

  “Sleep well?”

  “Not a wink.” She placed her copy of Perry WilliamKindhart’s file with his on the seat between them.

  Traffic was light on Market, which would take themdirectly to SoMa, Kindhart’s most recent address.

  “What’s your take on Kindhart?” Sydowski said.

  “He’s our best potential connection to Donner. Amolester who did time with Wallace in Virginia. We know Wallace did not actalone and that Kindhart was in San Francisco during the time of Donner’sabduction and death.

  “But in the picture, the hooded guy holding Donner hasa tattoo. Kindhart doesn’t.”

  “Mr. Tattoo is the only guy we know of, right now.Maybe others are involved. Maybe Kindhart has nothing to do with it, but he mayknow something. Like who the tattoo is. I think we’d be remiss if we didn’tgive Kindhart a good shake to see what falls out.”

  Sydowski nodded approvingly.

  Turgeon was pleased. They were on the same frequency.Partners.

  The fog was lifting when they glided into downtown. Atthe edge of the Tenderlion, the streets were strewn with used condoms andhypodermic needles. A few hookers were still working. One hiked her shirt,squatted, then urinated on the sidewalk at Market and Larkin.

  “Will you look at that.” Sydowski shook his head.“Somebody otta call a cop.”

  Turgeon burst out laughing. “So you do have a sense ofhumor,” she said.

  “Damn right. I’m a fun guy. Ask anybody.”

  “I did.”

  “Did a little background checking, did you?”

  “Mm-mmm.”

  “What’d you come up with?”

  “You live alone in Parkside. You raise birds. You’vecleared more files than anyone else in the detail’s history. You’ve refusedpromotions because the job’s in your blood. The Donner case haunts you and youprobably won’t retire until you close it.”

  “Anything else.”

  “People tell me you’re an arrogant Polack hard-ass.”

  “I should put that on a T-shirt.”

  “They also say that after Brooks, you’re the finestHomicide dick at Golden State’s ever seen.”

  “I should put that on a T-shirt, to remind Leo.”

  “But there’s a disturbing side to you I am curiousabout.”

  “I may take the Fifth, here.”

  “Is it true you killed a guy, shot him?”

  Sydowski grew pensive. “It was during the war. I was akid.”

  “What happened?”

  He gazed out the driver’s window. “I’ll tell youanother time?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about you? I don’t see a ring-you married?”

  Turgeon peered into her coffee cup. “Came close.”

  “Yeah”

  “An architect.”

  “An architect?”

  “Met him after his house in Marina was burglarized.”

  “Thank God for criminals.”

  “We lived together for a year, talked about kids, thefuture. Everything was rosy. We set a date. You know the tune.”

  “This were the violins come in?”

  “Wanted me to leave the job. It was too dangerous forhim. He wanted me to quit the force, stay at home, look after the cats. He wasasking too much. To quit would be denying what I am.”

  “And what’s that, Linda?”

  She looked at him. “A cop. I’m a cop like you,Walter.”

  “Like your old man. You mean.”

  “Yeah. I mean, my biological clock is ticking down andI still want to get married, have kids. But it’s just that when my dad wasmurdered, I vowed to be a cop and now I am one. I can’t give it up.”

  They left it at that as they rolled into SoMa, Southof Market.

  “They used to call this ‘south of the slot’ for thecable car line that ran through here.” Sydowski said.

  “You’re betraying your age, Walt.”

  “Used to be a helluva neighborhood.”

  SoMa was now the realm of machine shops, warehouses,Vietnamese restaurants, and gay bars. Latinos who fled Central America’sbloodbaths made their home here in decaying tenement houses, which were thequarry of visionary developers who bitched over cell phones about SanFrancisco’s sunshine codes and zoning laws. Red tape kept SoMa on life support.They wanted to pronounce last rites.

  Kindhart’s building had risen from the rubble of the1906 quake and fire, a small hotel that evolved into a bordello, a shootinggallery, then a fleabag apartment complex. All it offered now was a view of theJames Lick Skyway, Interstate 80, the Bay Bridge, and Oakland.


  Sydowski and Turgeon climbed the creaking stairs tothe creaking stairs to the third floor and pounded on Kindhart’s door. It was5:45 a.m. No answer. Sydowski pounded again, harder.

  “Mr. Kindhart?” he called loudly.

  Sydowski continued pounding. Down the hall a dooropened, and a one-armed man stepped from his apartment.

  “Knock off that shit,” he growled.

  Sydowski flashed his shield. “Mind your own business.”

  “Fucking pigs.” The man’s door slammed.

  Sydowski resumed pounding.

  “Who the fuck is it?” a deep voice snarled fromKindhart’s unit.

  “Police, Mr. Kindhart, we’d like to talk to you.”

  “Fuck off. I won’t talk to you.”

  “We’re investigating a case. Won’t look good if yourefuse to cooperate, Mr. Kindhart.”

  There came a string of unintelligible cursing, amattress squeaked, empty bottles clinked, then more cursing, locks wererattled, and the door opened. Shirtless, unshaven, torn Levi’s yielding to hispot belly. He held the door defensively, reeking of alcohol, assessingSydowski, then Turgeon.

  “May we come in?” Sydowski said. “We’d like to talk toyou.”

  “What about?” One of Kindhart’s lower front teeth wasmissing, the survivors were rotting.

  “Franklin Wallace,” Turgeon said.

  “Franklin Wallace?” Kindhart scratch his whiskers.“Franklin Wallace?”

  “Prison. Virginia. Think hard,” Sydowski said.

  Lying was futile. Kinhart surrendered his door, wentto the kitchen of his studio apartment, put on a kettle for coffee, sat at histiny kitchen table, and lit a Lucky Strike.

  “Hurry it up, I gotta go to work.” He exhaled, rubbinghis eyes.

  Turgeon looked around. Sydowski joined Kindhart at thetable.

  “What kind of job you have, Perry?”

  “You know the fucking answer to that. So why are youhere?”