[Tom Reed and Walt Sydowski 01.0] If Angels Fall

by Rick Mofina

  Keller nodded.

  “Where you got her docked?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Reimer shrugged, replaced the fuel nozzle on the Shell pump. The clank-clank echoed in the morning stillness. The odor of gas wafted from the gas tanks’ openings as he wiped the caps with a rag.

  “All set,” Reimer said.

  Keller stepped into the boat, clutching his package. Reimer untied the lines, climbed behind the wheel, adjusted his grease-stained ballcap, scratched his stubble, and surveyed the Pacific. Fine morning. Fog was light. Season would begin soon.

  “The usual place?” Reimer said.

  Keller nodded and placed two one-hundred-dollar bills in Reimer’s hand. It wasn’t necessary, Reimer had told him. But why argue? What good would that do? He turned the ignition key. The motor rumbled and he eased the throttle forward, leaving a white foamy wake to lap against the dock.

  San Francisco’s skyline stretched across the starboard side, the spires of the Golden Gate jutting majestically through a blanket of fog as they made their way to the Farallons. Reimer was born in San Francisco. His father had earned a living running a charter to the gulf from Half Moon for whale and bird-watchers long before it was fashionable. Reimer loved the region, the Pacific’s moods and hues, the taste of salt air. He glanced at Keller, his eyes fixed to the horizon. Looking for ghosts. No point in talking to him. Why couldn’t he just say no to the man? Reimer shrugged and gave her a touch more throttle, enjoying the wind in his face.

  Reimer’s boat was a beauty. His mistress. A Searay Seville. A twenty-one-footer. She had a cuddy cabin, a rebuilt V-6 170 horsepower Mercruiser. Glided like a dream as they moved into the California current and cut across the coastal shipping lanes. It was upwelling season and he kept a lookout for blooms of plankton. He could just make out the shape of the Farallons twenty-odd miles away, slicing through the hazy mist like shark fins.

  That’s where it happened. Out there.

  Think of other things, Reimer told himself, like the work on his three other charter boats waiting back at the marina. Just think of other things. He watched a trio of Dall’s porpoises leaping along port side. He took mental stock of the galley--he knew he’d be hungry by the time they arrived. They might make good time, the lack of wind made for a smooth surface over the navy’s submarine playground, which swept southeast of the islands. Reimer knew the region, her history, her mysteries, and her secrets. He looked at Keller again. Ed there was a tragic story. Look at him. Sitting stonelike, clutching that package and staring at nothing. Somebody ought to tell him they are never coming back. Let go, friend, let go. How many years has it been? Let go.

  Keller would never let go.

  Staring at the churning wake, the white foam against the jade waters, he heard them. He saw them.

  Pierce. His eldest. Nine years old. Hair lifting in the wind. Squinting at the horizon, scanning the islands. Pierce. Quiet. Resolute. Like Keller. The motor grumbling. Pierce gripping his seat with one hand. The other around his sister, Alisha Keller. Like her mother. Brilliant, beautiful, unyielding. Alisha. Six. Hugging Joshua. The baby. Three years old. The wooden boat. An old speedboat. The last rental. Hammering over the choppy water. Going to spend the day alone looking for whales. Just him and the kids. Joan demanded it. “They have everything but a father.” He was furious. He’d juggled meetings. This would likely cost him contracts.

  They started late in the afternoon. Had to stop for burgers before they would get in the boat. Couldn’t wait until they got to the islands to eat the lunch Joan had packed. Wouldn’t wear the life jackets. “Babies wear them,” Pierce said. Josh crying when Keller put it on him. To hell with it. Let’s get this over with.

  Wouldn’t go out too far today, sir, squalls comin’, the kid at the marina telling him--a pimple-faced grease monkey giving advice to him, Edward Keller, a self-made millionaire. Keller ignoring him, ramming the throttle down. Keller didn’t understand the buoys. Where is north? Damn. Couldn’t read the chart. Hell with it, you could practically see the Farallons. One hundred fifty dollars. The boat was slow. He hated to waste money.

  Spotting a few gray whales on the way temporarily impressed them.

  We want to go back.

  The hell we will. He would circle the islands, and they would eat their picnic lunch. He would complete his fatherly duty.

  The skies darkening. Thunder. It came up so fast.

  Lightening and rain. The children huddled. Their wet shiny faces. Time to head back. Maybe they should wait it out on the islands. They were at least a mile off the southern-most island. It seemed close. Hard to say. Some boats far off. Thunder. Rain. Head for the islands. The boat rising. Dipping. A rollercoaster. Something scraping under them, a fantastic thud. A rock?

  Then he saw the huge tail and his heart nearly burst from fear.

  A whale! Right under them! Cracked the hull!

  The children screamed. Water came through his shoes, ice cold. Alisha screaming. Water rushing in! Josh crying.

  “Pierce! Alisha! Life jackets! Get them on! Hurry!”

  Water crashing over the side now. Cold. The boat yawing. The water rising fast over his ankles. Alisha screaming. The jackets. Can’t get them on! Kill the motor. Standing to help Josh. A wave smashing over the gunwale. Something hard hitting his face. Airborne. He was flying. Wet. Freezing. Black. Nothing. Silence.

  He was in the water!

  Spitting out water. The boat was on its side. The children were in the water. Pierce. Hanging on to the hull. Josh’s head bobbing near the stern. Alisha was near the bow.

  The life jackets were rolling away. It was so dark.

  “Pierce! Get Josh, he’s near you!”

  Alisha treading water. Joan enrolled them in swimming classes, didn’t she? Think! He didn’t know if his own children could swim.

  They have everything but a father.

  Alisha’s hand breaking the surface. Grabbing her hair as she went under. Alisha coughing. Crying. “Pierce!” Pierce had Josh. “Good boy, son!” All of them were together. Okay. Think. Keller gasping. Holding Josh to his chest. Alisha and Pierce next to him. Their breath tight, their teeth chattering. His too.

  Hypothermia. Shock. Josh silent, nearly out cold. He shook him. Alisha moaned. Stomachache. The burgers and shakes!

  The boat gurgling. It’s going down. Stay with the boat. But it’s sinking! What if there’s an undertow? Spotting a light. Thank God. It’s something. A buoy? He could make it. He hadn’t eaten. He could make it. He had to.

  “Listen! We’re going to that light! It’s not far! Do what Daddy says. We’ll be okay! Kick your shoes off! Joshua!” His eyes were closed. Lips blue. “Joshua! Wake up, goddamn it!” Keller shook him again. He woke. Turning his back to Joshua. “Put your arms around Daddy’s neck! Now, Joshua!” Cold, tiny arms slipping limply around his neck. “Tighter, Josh, tighter!” Joshua’s hold tightened slightly. “Alisha, take my shoulder and hang on!” Trembling hands clutching his shoulder. Alisha whimpering.

  “Pierce, grab hold! Hurry!” Pushing off. “Hang on to Daddy. Let Daddy be the boat. Kick your feet slowly. Easy. Talk to me. We’re going to make it. Nice easy strokes.” The water rolling terribly. Breaststrokes. Adrenaline pumping. Doing fine. Confident. Going to make it.

  “That’s it. Kick your feet. Keep warm. Think warm. Kick slowly. Easy. Help Daddy.

  Alisha! Her grip loosening, she was drifting away. Carefully grabbing her arm. “Alisha! Stay awake! Hang on to Daddy!” Easy strokes. Alisha’s crying softer.

  Suddenly his neck is cold. Joshua slipping down his back and under. Turning, reaching deep, nothing. Alisha, Joshua shaken off. “Joshua!” Diving deep, arms flailing, seeing nothing, lungs aching, waves rolling. “Pierce! Alisha!” Nothing. “Joshua!” shouting, “Someone help me! Oh, God, please help me.” Waves tossing him, screaming. “Why don’t they help me? My children are drowning.” The darkness. Oh, God, please. The thunder, the waves, white crest, black water now...<
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  ...jade against the churning wake of Reimer’s boat. Silence after Reimer killed the engine. “We’re here.”

  Keller nodded, but didn’t move.

  The wake lapping against the boat. The gulls were crying. Reimer let Keller be, draped a hand over the wheel and looked off at the horizon. He rubbed his neck, scratched his stubble, glanced at his watch, started hitting his thumbnail. Maybe he’d get a sandwich.

  The boat swayed gently as Keller stood. Carefully, he unwrapped the package, dropping the paper into the boat. He studied the wreath. Entwined with white roses, it was beautiful. He held it before him for a moment, then lifted his head to hear the boat’s wake reaching a cove along the rocky shoreline. Tranquil here today, like a church after a funeral. Keller placed the wreath tenderly on the surface. It drifted away.

  Reimer saw a great seabird, startled by the boat’s wake, spread its wings and lift off from the cove to fly low directly above them.

  Keller heard a flutter of wings. Angel’s wings.

  He saw something reflected in the water, passing over the wreath.

  Here is where his life ended and where he would resurrect it. His heart now knew. It had been revealed to him.

  Your children are waiting, Edward.

  “Here you go, Logan and Good.” Willie Hampton turned to Keller, stopping alongside the curb. “That’s twelve-fifty.”

  Keller gave him a twenty and collected the sleeping child.

  “Hope your daughter feels better.” Willie fished for change.

  “My what?”

  “Your daughter. Hope she feels better.” Willie held out the change.

  “Yes. Keep it.”

  Keller hoisted the child on his shoulder and walked off.

  Willie Hampton pulled the door shut, then left Logan for Donevers Street, went four or five blocks before he realized it was a dead end. Damn. He cut over another block west near Wintergreen Heights, the large project. As he doubled back, he spotted his fare with the child just as they entered a sorry-lookin’ little house. Don’t know your story, friend, but it must be a sad one. Willie Hampton shook his head and returned to humming his favorite tune from South Pacific. In a few hours he would be on a jet to Hawaii.

  SIX

  Tiny ponies in hearts galloped across Danny’s cotton pajamas, smelling of shampoo. Maggie touched them to her cheek and wept.

  Night had come. If she didn’t get Danny into bed and read him a story now, he would become cranky. Maggie tried to rise, but couldn’t move.

  She must be dreaming. She had to be dreaming.

  Sitting in her darkened studio, looking at the park, the swans in the pond, the water shimmering in the light of the turn-of-the-century street lamps. The distant din of the strangers downstairs. Maggie’s painting was nearly finished. She’d been working on it that morning when Nathan called, his voice small, breaking. She’d never heard him like this before. Was he drunk?

  “Maggie? Maggie. Something bad has happened.”

  “Nathan, what is it?”

  “The police, the FBI, are going to be there soon.”

  “Police? FBI? Nathan! What’s happened? Is Danny hurt?”

  She heard a muffled, coughing sound.

  “Nathan!”

  “He’s gone, Maggie...”

  “Nathan, where is Danny!” Her hand shook. Danny was dead.

  “A man took him--”

  “No! Nathan, no!”

  “I chased him. I stopped the train and ran. But I couldn’t catch him. The police are looking everywhere--I swear I’ll bring him back. I’ll bring him...I’ll be right there, Maggie. I’ll be right there.”

  She sank to the floor, cradling the receiver to her breast. Anyone behind her would have thought she was holding a baby.

  This is how Maggie’s dream started.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  It was Gene Carr, the doctor from down the street. Nathan golfed with him at Harding Park. Gene was with men in suits. Police. Saying their names, showing identification. Please sit down, Mrs. Becker.

  What is it?

  Gene holding her hand.

  This is a dream. She knows what they are going to tell her.

  Danny is dead.

  Do you understand, Mrs. Becker?

  No.

  Your child was abducted by a stranger.

  Shaking her head, wiping her eyes.

  No.

  They were mistaken. This didn’t happen to nice families.

  No.

  Nathan would never allow it. Danny was a special child.

  Everyone exchanging glances. Solemn faces. It was no mistake.

  It was a mistake. It was.

  Punching somebody, shoving the words back down his throat. How dare you tell me this? Get out of my house. Get out now.

  Gene and the police holding her.

  No, you lying bastards! Where is my baby? You bring me my baby!

  Maggie waking on the living room couch. Someone holding her hand. Nathan. Eyes red. Gene standing over them. Gene’s wife, Sharon, nearby, hugging herself. Sharon was a distant relative of the President. She loved raspberry tea. Gene asking Maggie to take the two pills he gave her, holding Danny’s Goofy glass from Disneyland. She took the pills. One of the FBI agents, the older one with the scarred chin, watching from one end of the sofa. The younger one was on a phone. Police officers moving her grandmother’s Louis the XVIth chair, setting up a table right where they stand the Christmas tree. Danny loved -- loves – Christmas. A technician quickly installing telephones, a tape recorder, wires everywhere. Gene telling her the pills would relax her. Where would she be more comfortable?

  Nathan suggested the studio. Gene and a policewoman in jeans helped her upstairs, where she sat staring at the park.

  The FBI agents talked to her several times. Did she know Angela Donner? Franklin Wallace? No. Then the San Francisco detectives. Others came later. Linda Turgeon, the policewoman in jeans, sat with her, silently drinking coffee.

  “It’s after Danny’s bedtime,” Maggie said.

  Turgeon smiled, nodded. She was pretty.

  Maggie watched the swans burrowing their heads under their wings. Funny how dreams could be so real. Strange. But now it was time to wake up. Time to put Danny to bed.

  Someone entered--the big inspector again, the one in the tattered sports jacket who smelled of Old Spice. He had soft gray eyes and seemed understanding. He put his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. Maybe now she would wake.

  “How are you doing, Maggie?” Sydowski asked.

  She said nothing.

  “It’s important we talk some more. Are you up to talking to me, to helping us?” He sat beside her.

  Maggie nodded.

  She liked Sydowski’s reassuring presence.

  “We’re doing everything we can to bring Danny home. Anything you can remember that now you consider odd will help, okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her chin crumbled. “This is real, Inspector. Someone took my baby. I’m not dreaming, am I?”

  “No. You’re not dreaming.”

  She buried her face in Danny’s pajamas. Her body shook as she wept. Turgeon held her. Sydowski waited. He offered to come back in a little while, but Maggie wanted to go on. They had to find Danny.

  He opened his notebook.

  “Does Danny have any serious medical problems, allergies, does he take any special medication?”

  Maggie shook her head. “When he gets frightened, usually at night, he’ll wet the bed. We’re seeing a specialist about it.”

  “What kind of boy is Danny? Describe his personality.”

  “A good little boy. Friendly. He likes helping with chores.”

  “How does he get along with other people? Other children?”

  “He likes to play with other children, likes to share his things.” Maggie nodded with each point. “Gregarious, inquisitive, and he spills his food all the time. You know how children can be.”

  “I do. Would Danny talk to strangers?”<
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  “We’ve taught him never to talk to strangers, but he’s curious. We’re both curious. So I guess he would, but we’d stop him.”

  “Does he know his full name, his address, phone number, area code, does he know how to call home?”

  “He’s only three.”

  Sydowski saw Maggie’s painting of the swans.

  “That’s quite good. How long have you been painting?”

  “Oh,” – Maggie touched her nose -- “as long as I can remember.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Sell many pieces?”

  “About three dozen a year.”

  “I’d like to have the names of each person who’s bought one of your works over the last three years as soon as possible. Do you have a favorite artist supply store that you shop at?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you take Danny with you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What are the names of the stores?”

  “The Rainbow Gallery and Meuller’s Arts and Crafts.”

  Sydowski wrote it down. “Do you take Danny to any groups, clubs, classes, or local organizations?”

  “I’m a member of the Community Association. I go to meetings once a week and usually take Danny with me to the community hall. There’s a playroom there and he plays with the other children while one of the parents supervises. We all know each other.”

  “Have you noticed any strangers hanging around your house in the last little while? Anybody asking for directions?”

  “No.”

  “Have you received any strange calls, maybe somebody getting the wrong number quite a few times?”

  “No more than the usual.”

  “Do you employ anyone, housekeeper, gardener...?”

  “A neighborhood boy, Randy Anderson, does landscaping for us.”

  “Who baby-sits for you?”

  “Vicky Harris and Melanie Lyle. They’re teenage daughters of friends. We seldom go out. Usually it’s the three of us at home.”

  “Have you ever spanked Danny?”