If Angels Fall

by Rick Mofina

  “We don’t have a tap up yet! He’s in the city. Tell him to hang up now and dial 9-1-1. An address will flash for the dispatcher.”

  “Daddy, I don’t know what to do.” Zach was whimpering.

  “Zach, son, listen to me carefully--”

  “Tom, do it now!”

  “Dad? He tricked me, Dad, he tricked me so good. He said Mom was hurt and--”

  Reed gulped. “He lied. Listen--”

  “Now, Tom! Tell him to call 9-1-1 now!”

  “Zach, listen to me. Hang up now and--”

  “Hang up! Dad, no! You come and get me!”

  “Son, listen, hang up and dial 9-1-1! We’ll get the address!”

  “Dad, you have to come get me, please!”

  “Zach, listen to me! Do as I say!”

  “Dad, don’t yell at me.”

  Reed covered his face with his free hand.

  If only he could reach through the Pacific Bell cables and pull him to safety. If only he could touch him. He didn’t want to lose him this time, this was his last chance. His only chance.

  Sydowski was talking softly, forcefully, to someone on another line then turned to him. “Goddamnit, Tom, do it now!”

  “Zachary, you do as I tell you! Hang up and dial 9-1-1 now!”

  “Daddy, I’m afraid.”

  “Do it, son, I’m going to hang up!” Reed sniffed.

  “Dad, don’t. Daddy! Don’t, please!”

  “I love you. Call 9-1-1 now!”

  “Dad, he scares me, he’s going to do something to us!”

  Reed squeezed the phone, clinging to the fiber-optic thread connecting him to Zach. The plastic handset cracked under his grip.

  “You call 9-1-1 now, or I’m going to kick your butt. Do it!”

  Reed slammed the phone down, his heart breaking as he buried his face in his hands. The newsroom was silent, except for a camera’s clicking, and Molly Wilson’s tape recorder being switched off. People had gathered around Reed’s desk; men muttering curses, women covering their mouths. The lifeline to Zach had slipped through Reed’s fingers, paying out deeper into an abyss with each second.

  Wait until it happens to you.

  Sydowski remained on his open line to the 911 supervisor. A minute passed, two, five. The newsroom had caller ID, but Zach’s call had come up blocked. Finally, ten full minutes ticked by with no 911 call to the emergency line from Zach. It should have come within thirty seconds.

  Something had happened. Something went wrong. It was in Sydowski’s face.

  “Tom.” Sydowski squeezed his shoulder gently. “Tom, the fact that Zach called is a good sign for many reasons.”

  Reed waited to hear them.

  “He’s alive. He’s thinking. And he got to a phone.”

  “Why didn’t he call 9-1-1?”

  Sydowski shook his head. “It might not have been safe for him to call again.”

  “He could make that call in two seconds. I’ll tell you what happened--Keller caught him on the phone!”

  “You don’t know that and you’re gonna eat yourself up playing the worst case scenarios, so shut it off.”

  “You tell me how.”

  “Go home to your wife.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  “She blames me for this and she’s right.”

  “Tom, don’t beat each other up over this. It won’t help.”

  “I can’t go home without Zach. I promised I’d bring him home.”

  Sydowski’s eyes met Reed’s, acknowledging the unspoken truth. Given what they both knew about Edward Keller, the children had less than twenty-four hours.

  “I’ve got to stay, in case he calls me again. I’ll stay here all night and the next night, if that’s what it takes.”

  “Okay. Just remember, he hasn’t defeated us. We’re not out of this, not by a goddamn long shot.” He patted Reed’s knee, then left him at his desk.

  Molly Wilson approached Reed to console him, but Reed waved her away. After that, no one dared go near him. He sat alone, waiting for his phone to ring.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  “Where’s Michael?” Keller demanded.

  “I think he’s still in the room.” Gabrielle sniffled.

  Keller rushed down the stairs and searched the basement in seconds. Michael was not there. Keller bounded up the stairs.

  “Michael!”

  He searched the main floor. Not a trace. His eyes locked on to the phone in the kitchen. It was off the hook! The cord stretching out of sight!

  He was on the phone!

  Keller smashed it from the wall, then grabbed Zach, who was cowering in the closet.

  “Please, mister. Don’t hurt me. Please.”

  “Who did you call?”

  “No one, I--”

  “Who did you call!”

  “I--I. Hospitals, my mom. I have to know if she is--”

  “Liar!”

  “I swear, I was asking the number for hospitals. I...I...”

  “You are lying to me!”

  Rage darkened Keller’s face. “Satan is near. The Fallen angel is among us, the Father of Lies! King of Whores!”

  Keller hoisted Zach over his shoulder and hurried to the bathroom. Gabrielle and Danny screamed and scattered. Zach’s struggling was futile. Keller laid him in the tub, and opened the faucets.

  “Let me go, you sick freak!”

  “I will not drink from the cup of devils! You cannot thwart that which is preordained!”

  “Let me go!”

  “The Lord is my sword and my shield.” Keller seethed. It was bad enough that the dog somehow got away last night. Now this. A phone call. Keller realized he was being challenged by powerful forces. But God was his shield.

  “It is time,” he said. “Time to come to Him and receive His light!”

  Zach writhed, kicked, and pounded the tub, still clutching his father’s card, aware of his knife hidden in his underwear as water gushed from the tap, dampening, soaking his clothes. Keller’s crucifix raked across Zach’s face as Keller’s large, powerful hands seized Zach’s head in a viselike grip.

  “Reborn of water and the Holy Spirit in the sacred font…”

  He pulled Zach’s head under the running water.

  “By the mystery of your death and resurrection, cleanse this child in Your celestial light! Make his life anew!”

  D-dad, help me, Dad, he-help--”

  Keller closed his eyes. Above the water’s rush, the thunder, the storm, Pierce was calling from the darkness.

  Daddy!

  Holding Zach’s head under the flowing water, Keller lifted his own face to heaven.

  “This is life’s eternal font,

  water made sacred by the death of Christ,

  cleansing all the earth.

  You who are bathed in this water

  are received in Heaven’s kingdom.

  Suddenly it was over.

  Zach sat up in the tub, coughing and gasping after Keller released him, shut off the water, and fetched him a large dry towel.

  “Come with me.”

  Zach followed Keller into Keller’s bedroom, watching him pull out a big cardboard box marked “Pierce,” filled with boys’ clothes that looked about his size.

  “Find some dry clothes right away.”

  Zach sniffed, but didn’t move, dripping water with the towel cloaked around him.

  “Do as I say! We’re leaving!”

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Reed spent the night in the Star’s newsroom, praying for Zach to call. Every half hour, he phoned Ann’s mother’s house in Berkeley, on the safe phone the FBI had installed, to see if Zach called there.

  “Still nothing, sir,” the agent assigned to the line told him.

  “May I speak with my wife, or her mother?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. They’re still sleeping. The doctor says the sedative should wear off by mid-morning.”

  Reed said nothing.

  “Mr. Ree
d, we fully understand your concerns and we will get you the instant we have something at this end.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “But sir, please check with us as often as you wish.”

  “I will.”

  Reed did not keep his vigil alone. Molly Wilson was among the newsroom staffers who waited with him, comforting him, assuring him Zach would be found safe with the other children, although she dozed off a few times. She was sleeping with her head on her folded arms on the desk next to Reed, when Myron Benson appeared, briefcase in one hand, jacket draped over his arm.

  “Tom”--he nearly looked him in the eye--“I know you won’t believe this coming from me, but I apologize and hope with all my heart it works out well for you.”

  Reed suspected Tellwood had put him up to this, but said nothing.

  “I never liked you, Tom. I knew you resented me for lacking talent and I resented you for having an abundance of it. I was wrong. Anyway, you have more important things to deal with here. Good luck.”

  Benson extended his hand. Reed contemplated it for a moment before deciding to accept it.

  “What did the old man have to say to you, Myron?”

  “He fired me.”

  Reed was speechless.

  Benson managed a weak smile before leaving.

  An hour after sunrise, Reed was at the Hall of Justice, fear twisting his stomach.

  Was Zach dead?

  He never made another call.

  The task force had nothing, nothing at all at Half Moon Bay. The Coast Guard had nothing at the islands, nothing in the water. No boat, no trailer on the coast, no van. Nothing!

  Reed was alone at an empty desk in Room 400, the SFPD Homicide Detail, watching Sydowski, Rust, Turgeon, Ditmire, and the others studying material on Keller. Rust and Bob Hill, the FBI’s profiler from Quantico, were poring over Keller’s psychiatric records, preparing for the eight a.m. news conference at the hall. Reed had not slept and, between adrenaline rushes, was nearly drunk with exhaustion. Sitting there as the ringing phones and voices faded, something triggered his memory, and the fragrance of baby powder, the feel of terry cloth, and the tenderness of Zach’s skin when he was six months old washed over him. Reed was holding him, watching him as he sucked down a warm bottle of milk, gazing upon him during the commercial breaks of Monday Night Football with the sound off, knowing he possessed one of the earth’s treasures.

  And there was Zach, a lamb tied to the stake, staring at Reed now from the morning newspapers scattered around the Homicide room. Zach’s picture, Keller’s, those of Danny Becker, Gabrielle Nunn, and himself, all tormenting him with the truth.

  Zach was gone. Gone.

  And the headline haunting him.

  THIRD CHILD ABDUCTED IS SON OF REPORTER

  WHO INVESTIGATED KIDNAPPER

  “Dammit! These press calls are supposed to be screened!” Ditmire hung up angrily. “That was the fourth TV network asking if they can land their helicopter on the roof!”

  Overnight the task force tip line lit up with calls as the story grew. Word leaked from the White House that the President and First Lady were following it. The national press were hitting it hard. So were the tabloid TV shows. More news outlets in London, Paris, Stockholm, Sydney, Tokyo, and Toronto were flying in reporters. Network breakfast shows insisted on an interview with Reed and Ann, promising exposure. Reed held off.

  “Look outside,” Turgeon said. A dozen news trucks were lined up along Bryant, deploying satellite dishes.

  “This is nuts.” Ditmire shook his head.

  “The attention could help us, Lonnie,” Rust said.

  Sydowski finished a call to Ann’s mother’s house in Berkeley and somberly went to Reed.

  “Ann’s awake now, Tom. I just spoke with her.”

  “How is she?”

  “Holding up.” Sydowski’s gold crowns glinted as he put his hand on Reed’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but she did not want to talk to you.”

  Reed understood.

  “Tom, she insisted on being here for the news conference. We’ve got people driving her across the Bay.”

  Reed nodded. He was starting to get the shakes from too much caffeine, no food, no sleep. He craved the taste, the sensation of Jack Daniel’s on his tongue, rolling down his throat, warming him.

  “If either of you get second thoughts about making a public appeal, just say the word.”

  “No, no. We have to do it. We have to.”

  Sydowski ran his gaze over him, thinking. “We got a couple of rooms around here with sofas. Want to grab some rest? You’ve got nearly two hours until the press conference.”

  No. Reed could not be alone with his fear. Was Zach dead? He forced his thoughts away from children’s corpses, caskets, and cemeteries. He could not be alone, he told Sydowski.

  “Okay, well, I’ve got an electric razor, cologne, and stuff if you want to spruce up a bit.”

  “Thank you, but I’d just like to wait here for Ann.”

  “Sure, Tom.” He stood to leave.

  “Walt?” Reed’s eyes were brimming. “Is my son dead?”

  Sydowski looked at him for a long, hard moment, searching for the right words, deciding on the truth. “We just don’t know, Tom. You must prepare for the worst, but never give up hope.”

  “But today’s the anniversary of the drownings. And you said if Keller’s going to do anything, he’ll do it today.”

  “Yes and we are doing everything we can, we’re chasing down every lead. You’ve got to hang on.”

  “What does your gut tell you, huh? He’s beaten you guys three times now.”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “He’s either very lucky, very smart, or both.”

  “In Danny Becker’s case, he left us with nothing. In Gabrielle Nunn’s case, we got his blood, got him on a piece of video, then a fingerprint and a name. In Zach’s case we have more video and, thanks to you, his motive.”

  “So, what does that mean?”

  “We’re gaining on him.”

  Ninety minutes later, a female FBI agent arrived at the Homicide Detail with Ann Reed, who was dressed in a white blouse, a dark blazer, and slacks. No makeup. Reddened eyes, taut jaw, betrayed a heart that had stopped beating. When Reed moved to embrace her, she was unresponsive. The doctor had given her two Valium before she left Berkeley. She looked as though she was going to a funeral.

  No one moved until Rust said, “Let’s get going.” He and Sydowski escorted Reed, while the others took Ann to the elevator, all of them riding together to the press conference. In the elevator car, Ann apologized for being late.

  “Not a problem,” Rust said respectfully.

  “I was trying to decide what to wear.”

  No one spoke as the elevator hummed.

  “What do I wear to plead for my son’s life?”

  It seemed to take forever to arrive in the basement where the Hall of Justice cafeteria had again been transformed into a pressroom. Some two hundred newspeople were waiting there.

  Reed and Ann were isolated, each alone with their pain. He was at the bottom of a well, blurry faces peering into it. Microphones and camera lights made the packed room hot, but he was shivering, his stomach seething. Copies of The San Francisco Star were everywhere. Faces staring at him. Reed was the man who allowed his son to be kidnapped, and pushed an innocent man to suicide. Reed was on trial.

  The FBI agent in charge of the San Francisco office, flanked by San Francisco’s police chief, stood before a half-podium placed on a cafeteria table. He led off with a summary of the abductions, promising to take questions after Zach’s parents spoke. He turned to the Reeds. Ann went first, her voice no more than a murmur.

  “At the podium, please, Mrs. Reed!” Reporters urged her.

  Reed helped her here, standing behind her as she clutched a folded note bearing her elegant handwriting on her store’s stationery.

  Ann began: “Edward Keller, I am Zachary Michael Reed�
��s mother. He is my only child.” Her monotone voice was alien to Reed. It was as if he was hearing a Jaycees address. “I want my son back and I am begging you to return him. I have spoken with the families of Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn. Please, let the children go safely.”

  Camera flashes rained on her.

  “We’ve done nothing to hurt you and understand you must be suffering terribly, as we are suffering now. Our hearts are linked in our pain. Only you can end it safely. The children are innocents. Zach, Danny, and Gabrielle have done nothing to you. Please, please, I beg you to find it in your heart to let the children go.”

  Ann finished, declining to answer questions as she left the cafeteria with the help of two FBI agents. Cameras trailed her as Reed stood alone, unprepared, gripping the edges of the podium. The attention turned to him. He cleared his throat.

  “Edward, if you are watching us, I’m sure you remember me, Tom Reed. Our understanding is that no one has harmed the children. I know you are a good man, Edward. Please release the children. The city, the entire country, now knows your tragedy, knows your pain. Do not extend it to others who have never harmed you. Release Zach, Danny, and Gabrielle, anywhere safely. By doing that, you will prove to everyone that you are the good man I know you are, Edward. You are a smart man, who means no harm to anyone. You have already proven so much, now is the time to let--” Reed stopped, ran a hand over his face. “Please, let the children go. Please.”

  The reporters opened fire.

  “Tom, do you think Keller took your son because you were getting close to learning he had kidnapped the other children?”

  “I don’t know, it’s possible. I--”

  “What kind of man is Edward Keller, Tom?”

  “I--Well, I only met him briefly, so it’s hard to describe--”

  “Today being a tragic anniversary for Keller, do you think he is going to reenact some fantasy with the children?”

  “I fear that might happen, but I hope not.”

  “What about Franklin Wallace and Virgil Shook, Tom?”

  “What about them?

  “Both are dead. You reported last year that Wallace killed Tanita Donner. You still think so, or do you feel he died innocently?”

  “I don’t see what this has got to do with--”