[Tom Reed and Walt Sydowski 01.0] If Angels Fall

by Rick Mofina

  He pursued death for a living: tracked it, waded into it, bagged its aftermath, and arrested the guilty. Professionally and mentally, he was prepared for every case, but nothing, not the course work, not the street time, not the scenes, prepared him for Basha. Death had turned on him and raked its claw across the web of his existence, leaving it in tatters. He could not reconnect. He had fallen into a black hole and feared he would never find his way out. Maybe he was dead, too? Maybe this was his hell? Death haunting him with the memory of his wife in the faces of corpses. The murders he could not clear. Tanita Donner. The slash across her little neck. The flies. The maggots. Her eyes. Her tiny, lifeless eyes. Open. Staring at him. Pleading. What had she seen in the last moments of her life?

  Enough of this.

  Get past it. He was alive. Among the living. And he was hungry. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out some egg bread, sweet butter, onion, and fresh kielbasa he bought at the Polack deli in the mission. He’d pay dearly with heartburn later, he told himself, biting into his sandwich and sifting through the Chronicle’s sports section. The Giants were doing well, sitting atop the division with a .651. Outperforming the A’s. He’d tease the old man.

  He’d never understand Johnny Sydowski’s Polish stubbornness. Eighty-seven-years old, living alone by the sea in Pacifica. Why did he refuse to move in with him here? It would be easier to get to the ball games and the Polish Hall. They could share a beer and enjoy each other’s company. The old man liked it where he was, so what the hell? Sydowski folded the paper, finished his sandwich, and his cocoa, put the empty plate and mug in the sink before leaving to check on his birds.

  His love for breeding and showing canaries blossomed after a friend gave Basha a singing finch as a gift twenty years ago. He liked its song. It made him tranquil. He bought more birds. His collection thrived. He joined bird fanciers’ societies, entered competitions, and built an aviary under the oak tree in his backyard. Basha made curtains for the windows and it looked like a tiny cottage from a fairytale. Inside, the paneled walls were adorned with ribbons, trophies, and mementos. Would he make the Seattle show next month? He pleasantly anticipated the drive up the coast. It depended. If they found Tanita Marie Donner’s killer. Or Danny Becker’s body.

  The velvety cooing of sixty canaries soothed as he inspected their seed and water supply. Tenderly, he picked up a nest of four fledglings, fife fancies. Seven days old and looking good. No bigger than a toddler’s finger. Delicately, Sydowski placed one in his hand, caressing it with his pinky knuckle while its wee beak yawned for food. He felt its warmth, its microscopic heart quivering and he thought of Tanita Marie Donner and her murderer.

  Did he feel the warmth of her delicate neck, her heart pulsating?

  Sydowski was exhausted, could barely keep his eyes open. He returned the fledglings, locked up the aviary, returned to the house, trudged upstairs, and went to bed, hoping to fall into a sound sleep before his heartburn started.

  EIGHTEEN

  A cobra with its hood flared and fangs bared, coiled around Virgil Shook’s left forearm, while a broken heart engulfed in flames burned on his right. Terror and torment.

  The twin forces of Shook’s life were manifested in the tattoos conjured up by a killer in exchange for sex years ago in a Canadian prison. The cobra’s head swayed gently, ripe to strike as Shook ladled chicken soup for the destitute shambling along the food line at the shelter of Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church on upper Market. Whispers and blessings mingled with clinking cutlery and the tap of hot food dispensed on donated plates.

  If these broken, rotting burdens only knew who they were blessing. If they only knew who he really was. It was sweet. Shook inhaled the aroma of his power with that of roasted meat as one by one they came before him extending their plates, bowing their heads.

  Like them, Shook haunted the city’s streets and came to the kitchen often. Today he was upping the ante in his game with the priest. Today was Shook’s first as a volunteer. Oh, how he loved it. Here he received sanctuary, blessings, and absolution.

  He was savoring the irony of it, seeking his confessor among the crowd when he glimpsed a little treasure. A tiny temptress. Shook gauged the object of his attention. Four years fresh from the womb, he figured. She arrived before him, holding her bowl. He swam in her pure blue eyes, plunged his ladle deep into the urn. His lips stretched into a predatory grin awakening the scars on his cheeks and revealing a jagged row of prong-like teeth.

  “What’s your name, sunshine?”

  “Daisy.”

  “Daisy? My, I love to pick daisies.”

  The little flower giggled. Accepting her bowl, her fingers brushed his. A butterfly’s caress that thawed his blood. Best not flirt, short eyes. So tender. He knew what she craved. So tender. Best fly away.

  Shook bit down on his lip. His migraines were hitting again.

  A brain-rattler had knocked him on his ass last week. The need to love again was overwhelming. It had been nearly a year since the last time. Since Tanita. Now, Danny Becker’s kidnapping made it dangerous to go hunting. How much longer could he take this? He was tiring of his game with the priest. He needed to hunt, to prove the city belonged to him. Scanning the shelter, he located Daisy among the far flung tables and indulged in a bold, ravenous stare, assessing the possibilities until he was nudged by the volunteer beside him.

  “You’ve got a customer,” Florence Schafer said meekly.

  Shook quickly filled the bowl for an old sod before him and was thanked with a “God bless you.” Shook ignored him.

  He looked down at Florence, she was familiar. Running his eyes over her miniature frame, he could smell her fear. He was curious. Why had 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 a lesson in humility. It would be memorable. If only she knew of his power, knew who he really was.

  There was only one who knew.

  From time to time a knowing moment would flicker between Shook and the cold, hard eyes of those released from Q. It was the look: con to con. But even their icy perception was never total. Only the priest knew, and could not break the seal of the confessional. He absolved Shook of his sins, but could tell no one of his crimes. He was bound by the oath he swore to God.

  Shook reveled in tormenting his confessor, reveled in spitting in the face of his God.

  Who possesses the real power? Who could take his pick of 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 trembled in his knowledge.

  “Hello, Florence. Lovely to see you could make it today.”

  Shook’s ears pricked up at the sound of Father McCreeny’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 his face 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 scoop chicken soup into McCreeny’s bowl, placing it gently in the priest’s hands in a manner 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. He lived here with Daphne, his alcoholic, welfare stepmother and half-brother, Joey, a sniveling puke. He was free of Joey today. Daphne was sober and keeping the sniveler inside because he had the flu.

  Cleve kicked up his skateboard and glided to the rear of the project. He loved how the rolling of his wheels resounded off of the five towers around the courtyard. Time to sweep the neighborhood. The Heights were his and he was going on patrol
to see what he could see.

  Wintergreen Heights was one of the city’s notorious communities. Once an island of hope, it had deteriorated into a pit of despair. Every home had been burglarized, every person victimized. Anyone calling 9-1-1 could count on waiting ten rings before counting on police. They rarely flew the colors here, but when they came, they came by the hundreds.

  Surfing down sidewalks, passing the crack houses, Cleve was on the lookout for a little of this, a little of that, and was deep into the Heights when he saw that guy with the boat again. His place looked like one of the crack houses. Paint blistering. Weeds and shrubs were trying to swallow the thing. His garage was open. The guy was in there, working on his boat up on the trailer.

  Cleve stopped.

  His mind squirmed with questions: what was that guy doing with a boat like that down here? It looked like a classic. Cleve rolled up to the man.

  “Nice boat.”

  The man looked at him and Cleve saw two distorted versions of himself in the man’s sunglasses.

  The man just kept on working. Cleve eyeballed him. Lot of lines on his face, looked wasted in his grease-stained T-shirt and jeans. Needed to shave. A breeze was lifting his salt-and-pepper hair like a nest of snakes. He was inside the boat, working like a surgeon on the motors. Cleve smelled gas and heard the chink of a wrench against metal. He stood on tiptoe 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. I thought 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 sun sparkled on the windshield, the chrome trim fittings, and running lights. The huge wheel was white, matching the leather seats, which had a black diamond-patterned inlay. Tiny American flags drooped from tilted chrome flag posts 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 speed props, raised his eyebrows after reading what was written above them. In elegant, 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 toolbox and 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 some locals scoping your craft here a couple of nights ago,” he lied.

  A rope whipped around the bow as the man tied it down quickly.

  “I told them the man who owns this craft is not a man to 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 guard it 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 knew a 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, tying down 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 hard on the bow with his skateboard. Loud enough for the man to stop what he was doing. Cleve felt the air tighten, as if someone had just pulled back the hammer of a gun.

  The man’s face was serious as a headstone. Cleve tightened his grip on his board, seeing himself in the man’s glasses.

  He stood over Cleve and said, “A vigil is kept over this 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. “It is not a boat,” he whispered. “It is a divine chariot!”

  Cleve nodded.

  “You think twice before you try to shake me down again! 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 eyelets rigged 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 behind the house was bordered by a fence and neglected hedge, obliterating the adjacent yards. An old alcoholic couple lived, if you could call it living, to the left. The abandoned crack house to the right was condemned by city inspectors. 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 for a pittance after discharging himself from the institute. Shrubs covered the barred basement windows, junk mail carpeted the barely visible front yard.

  Keller’s keys jingled as he unlocked the two dead bolts of the metal door to the rear of the house. He shrugged off the neighbor’s kid. The nosy little criminal didn’t know what he’d heard. Keller smiled. His mission was blessed. His house was his holy fortress predestined to uphold the will of God. No one could get in. And no one could get out.

  Inside, he found deliverance from the sun in the cool darkness. He bolted the door, descended the creaking stairs to the basement, the cocker spaniel scampering after him. He unlocked the room. Littered with dirty plates, glasses, fast food bags and wrappers, it smelled of urine. Danny Becker was asleep on the rotting mattress.

  Protector of humankind.

  Keller studied his face. The dog watched as he knelt beside 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 pills he had ground into Danny’s pop would wear off soon. He had work to do. Climbing the basement stairs, he heard a noise and froze. The dog growled. What was that? 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 a light--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 in the wall.

  It fascinated him. He squatted and whispered into the crack.

  “Vermin, if you contaminate my temple with your foul presence again, I will taste your blood.”

  Keller blocked the crack with a wooden milk crate.

  Upstairs, he checked the front and rear doors. Each required two keys from the inside to open. Satisfied they were sealed, he went to the bathroom and showered. In his stark bedroom, he put on Levi’s and a sweatshirt. From his night table he lovingly withdrew the silver crucifix chain, staring at the suffering Christ.

  His will be done.

  Keller kissed the crucifix and slipped the chain over his 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 corner jammed with the works of Conrad, Blake, Eliot, the Huxleys, texts on philosophy, theology, death, resurrection, and angels.

  When he first held Danny Becker in his arms, Keller felt the flutter of angels’ wings.

  He selected the obscure work by Oberam Augustine Reingaertler, titled Struggl
e for the Light: The Truth About Angels and Devils, then sat 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 and death

  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 the seraphim, God’s highest ranking angels. Isaiah had been blessed for he had looked upon their beauty, each with six wings, surrounded by flames. Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth. Keller stopped at a passage he’d read a thousand times: angels can be summoned for almost any imaginable emergency and for any task...

  He loved his books. They confirmed the Truth. Angels come at times of desperation. Celestial fixers. It was revealed to him one night 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 they were 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. Keller smiled and rocked. He had found the first. Danny Raphael Becker. Raphael of the powers. Healed by God. He had still to find the others. Only then would God assist him in the transfiguration. Keller rocked in thought.

  Prolonged severe grief reaction, the doctor at the institute had called it. What a fool. He could not comprehend that Keller’s life had been preordained. He did not know the glory of God. So many didn’t. So many had been bereft of His infinite love. If only those in anguish knew the divine truth as he did. It had been revealed to him.