CHAPTER 16
It felt good to pull on a clean pair of socks. I had coffee grounds between my toes from Shelby to Great Falls, then for four hours in the air with a layover in Salt Lake City, a shuttle to the rental car company, and even when I registered at the historic U.S. Grant Hotel in San Diego. Next time I tracked a dead man in Montana I would be sure to use his garden hose to clean my feet before driving away.
Other than the gritty feeling in my shoes, the trip from Montana to California was uneventful, just the way I like my flights, and the final approach into Lindbergh Field was spectacular. Whenever I fly into San Diego I request a window seat on the port side. Starboard side passengers get a nice view of Balboa Park, but it’s nothing compared to the picturesque panorama of the bay, the strand, and the San Diego bridge.
The bridge is two majestic miles of blue, curved ribbon stretched across mission arches that rise up to two hundred feet above the bay, tall enough for naval ships to pass under, the exception being the humongous aircraft carriers that are docked on the Coronado side of the bay at North Island.
Nothing says San Diego to me like this bird’s-eye view of the bridge set against a deep blue, rippling bay that is splattered with dozens of white sails. To me, it says, “Welcome Home.”
I think we were somewhere over Nevada when I decided that on this trip I was going to treat myself to a classy hotel for winning the Pulitzer Prize. What better way to do that than to stay at a hotel with history?
Originally built in 1910, the U.S. Grant had recently undergone a $52 million renovation. Thirteen presidents had lodged here and the clerk was giddy when he informed me that the fourteenth would soon be arriving and that if I’d be staying that long I might encounter a few minor inconveniences due to heightened security.
“I can imagine,” I replied.
“But it’ll be worth it, don’t you think?” he said, bouncing on his feet. “To be able to tell your grandchildren that you once stayed at the U.S. Grant at the same time as President Douglas?”
I didn’t tell him I’d stayed at the White House and at Camp David with the president. I didn’t tell him I’d slept on Air Force One on the way to Paris with the president. Neither did I tell him that I hoped to do more than just stay in the same hotel with the president.
As I signed the register, I wondered what he’d say if he knew that in my biography I’d threatened to kill the president. This time anonymity worked in my favor.
My plan was simple. Gain an audience with the president. Achieving that goal . . . well, not so simple. The key was Jana.
No longer smelling like a stale cup of coffee, I tried her cell phone. As it rang I thought of places I could take her for dinner. “Jana?”
“Grant! Where are you?”
“San Diego. Listen, I need to see you—”
“You came back for the funeral? Grant, how sweet!”
I wanted to kick myself. I’d forgotten all about Myles Shepherd’s funeral.
“Where are you right now?” Jana asked. “Do you need directions?” She sounded very pleased with me.
“I’m . . . I’m downtown.”
“Downtown? Grant, the funeral’s going to start in ten minutes. Well, get here as soon as you can. The important thing is that you came.”
How do you tell someone you forgot a funeral? How do you tell someone the person in the casket isn’t who they think it is?
“Jana, I just flew in from Montana and I didn’t pack a suit.”
“Montana? What were you . . . ? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Are you saying you’re not coming to the funeral?” Her voice dripped with disappointment.
“I don’t see how I can.”
“I have to go now. The funeral of our friend is about to start.”
“Wait! It’s important that I see you. Can we meet later? Dinner, maybe?”
For a few moments I listened to Jana’s angry breathing. Then she spoke to someone, telling them she’d be right there. “I have to go,” she said.
“Meet me for dinner. Please.”
“I’ll call you after the funeral.” She cut the connection.
Not a second passed before my phone rang. “Hail to the Chief.”
“Christina.”
“Did I wake you?” she asked. “What time did you get in?”
“You didn’t wake me.”
For the moment I offered no further explanation. When Christina learned I was in San Diego, she was going to go ballistic. “I have only a few minutes,” she said. “Was the trip worth it?”
“I interviewed Doc Palmer.”
“He’s alive? Grant, why would they . . . we’ll get into that later . . . what did he say?”
“To say that his version of events bears little resemblance to what I wrote in the book is an understatement.”
“Did you show him the chapters?”
I knew she was referring to the thirteen chapters that contained a coded threat to the president.
“I did.”
“And . . . ?”
“He laughed. But it was a sympathetic laugh. Does that make sense? And he told me . . . Christina, when you were with the president, did he seem . . . did he appear to be . . . you know, sedated?”
“He was sitting on the floor in his pajamas, Grant.”
“What about his speech?”
Christina gave it some thought before answering. “He was . . . lucid . . . maybe a little slow. His eyes looked tired. But then, when he stood up, he seemed to rally. I guess he could have been on medication.”
I digested this. It could mean something. But then again, it could just mean the president was tired.
“Grant, what is this all about?”
“Doc told me some things that were disturbing.”
I wanted to tell her more. To tell her all of it. I was aching to tell someone. I wanted to hear the words come from my own mouth to see if they sounded as crazy as they did in my head.
“Listen, Grant . . . I gotta go. I stepped outside to make this call. Let’s get together for dinner. You can tell me all about it then. DeLugo’s at eight. Gotta go. Bye.”
She hung up before I could tell her I wasn’t in Washington. I speed dialed her number. A familiar mechanical voice told me her cell phone had been turned off. Smart girl. If Ingraham pulled his Gestapo act again, there wouldn’t be any messages to listen to.
But tonight she’s going to think I stood her up.
The phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“How long will you be in San Diego?”
The sound of Sue Ling’s voice brought a smile to my face. Jana must have called her.
“Word gets around fast in this town,” I said.
“The professor wants to talk to you.”
“At the moment, I don’t know for sure what my schedule is. I’m in the process of working it out.”
“Work out a time to meet the professor. It’s important.”
“I don’t know if I can promise anything. You of all people know what I’m up against. You’re the one that found the coded message.”
“The confession.”
“It’s not a confession!” I protested. “It’s a setup and I still don’t know who’s behind it, and until I do I’m vulnerable. The Secret Service could shut me away for a long time.”
“Talk to the professor. He can help you.”
I doubted that the professor’s fixation on angels would serve any useful purpose, but I hesitated saying anything to Sue. She wasn’t objective when it came to the professor. “Look, Sue . . . the professor’s a good man, and I know he means well, but not everything is an angel conspiracy.”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “But this is.”
“Tell you what . . . let me see how my schedule works out. Give me a number where you can be reached and I’ll—”
“Meet me.”
I found myself smiling. It was the first friendly thing she’d ever said to me.
“When?”
She was going to try to talk me into meeting with the professor, that much was clear. It was a risk going. I’m not very good at saying no to attractive women.
Sensing my hesitation, she said, “Meet with me now and Jana will join us after the funeral.”
“You can guarantee that?”
“I can.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
Abdiel paced as he dictated. He moved back and forth in front of the professor’s desk. It was a tight space, barely enough room for him to turn around with his broad shoulders. Every so often he would knock a hat from the hat rack in the corner, or brush against the professor’s collection of knickknacks that lined his book shelves. Three paces was all it took for him to cover the distance. Each day when they began, it took several turns for him to adjust to the limited space, but once he got into the telling, he no longer seemed to be bothered by it.
Other teachers’ offices, though this same size, didn’t have this problem. It was an old building and the rooms didn’t conform to modern codes of handicap accessibility. The professor made do.
Perched behind his laptop, head down, brow furrowed, the professor listened with two index fingers racing from key to key, recording every word Abdiel spoke. Every so often the professor smiled or shook his head or grunted with astonishment at what he was hearing.
Abdiel paused in his dictation to offer commentary. “The invasion caught Lucifer and his forces completely by surprise,” he said. “The brilliance of the plan was its audacity, that the Son of God would lower himself to such a state, that he would clothe himself with the very material that formed the basis of Lucifer’s complaint. However, once the shock of the invasion wore off, Lucifer spied his chance to turn it to his advantage.”
He pivoted, took a breath, and prepared to continue his narration. The professor sat back, signaling he needed to take a break.
“Why do you type with only two fingers when God has given you ten?” Abdiel asked “This would go much faster if you used all your fingers.”
The professor held up his two index fingers like they were smoking guns. “I’ll have you know these babies got me through college and postgraduate school. The way I see it, if ever they break down, I have eight fresh fingers standing in the wings ready to take their place.”
Abdiel wasn’t amused. He rarely laughed at human humor.
The professor’s eyes fell back onto the laptop screen. “You make the Nativity sound like D-day,” he said.
“Very good,” Abdiel replied. “The comparison is accurate. The birth of the Christ was an invasion of Lucifer’s territory. Everything that followed was a direct contest between Lucifer and the Son, culminating in the battle of the cross. That the two would meet in head-to-head combat had become inevitable.”
With a yawn, the professor stretched.
“I see that you are tired,” Abdiel said. “I will come back tomorrow.”
Rubbing his eyes, the professor agreed. Then, when they focused again, he was surprised to see Abdiel still standing there. He appeared to have something on his mind.
“She is delivering the narrative?” Abdiel said.
The angel’s interest intrigued the professor. He never showed much concern over what humans did.
“As we speak. The first chapter only.”
Abdiel nodded. He stared at the floor with a sour expression.
“You should meet him,” the professor said. “Talk to him. It may ease your concern.”
“Or compound it.”
“Once you get to know him . . .”
“No.”
“He may surprise you.”
“Not likely.”
“Why? Why won’t you meet him?”
Abdiel took to pacing again. “The memory of the Watchers is too painful for us.”
From an earlier dictation the professor knew he was referring to preflood angels who had mingled with the human population in the pretense of guiding them spiritually. Semyaza, Azazel, and others had mated with the human women and produced offspring who, when they were killed in the flood, became nomad demons wandering the earth in torment.
Abdiel said, “The fate of the offspring . . . troubles us. Does that surprise you? You have to understand, angels were once a united community. Those in rebellion were once our friends. To see their offspring subjected to . . .” He didn’t finish. “The fact that they brought it upon themselves,” he added, “doesn’t lessen our pain.”
“Neither did Grant bring this upon himself,” the professor said.
The comment stopped Abdiel in his tracks. He didn’t like it, but made no reply.
“Just talk with him.”
“I said no.”
“Are all angels as stubborn as you?”
“Insulting me will not make me change my mind.”
“What will change your mind? There are larger issues here, surely you of all beings can see that. Talk to him. You owe him that much.”
“I SAID NO!”
Abdiel’s shout shook the walls. A mounted picture behind the professor fell, shattering the pane of glass. He leaned over in his chair to pick it up. When he turned back, Abdiel was gone.
“Fine, be like that,” the professor said to the empty room.
CHAPTER 17
Howard’s Bakery on Broadway in El Cajon anchored the eastern corner of a typical California strip mall featuring everything from art supplies to an exercise studio to flowers and a ninety-nine-cent store, with the majority of the property consisting of parking lot.
When I pulled into a parking space I could see Sue Ling waiting for me at a table on the other side of a panel window. She was dressed in a simple black-and-white leaf-pattern dress that accentuated her slight figure, and my initial thought was that she looked natural in a store window. With her sitting there, the male clientele would increase significantly.
She sat with her elbows on the table and hands folded. Her legs were crossed at the ankles. A small, black portfolio-style carrying case rested against the leg of her chair next to her feet.
Her smile was cordial when she saw me.
“Can I get you something?” I offered once inside.
She gave me her order and I returned moments later with two coffees, a lemon bar for her, and an éclair for me. When I sat down, I winced. The chair reminded me of my injury.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
I grinned sheepishly. “Just a minor disagreement between me and some White House guard dogs.”
A comment like that begged the story. I told it briefly and with humor, downplaying the seriousness of it all.
“Why do you do that?” she asked. “Downplay everything with humor?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Defense mechanism, I guess. If the seriousness of this whole ordeal ever catches up with me, I’ll probably end up on a remote farm in Montana with NO TRESPASSING signs posted all over the place.”
“So that’s why you came back,” Sue said. “You’re here because the president is coming to San Diego. And you think Jana can help you get close to him.”
“Very good,” I said, impressed.
“She won’t help you.”
I smiled rakishly. “I can be rather persuasive when I want to be.”
She smirked. “You’re not as charming as you think you are.”
For several moments we concentrated on our pastries and coffee.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she said.
Since I knew her agenda, I decided a preemptive denial was the best approach. “My schedule is up in the air,” I said. “I can’t promise to meet with the professor.”
Sue Ling smiled sweetly, sipped her coffee, and stared out the window. She took my statement as a challenge.
I changed the subject. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
She set down her coffee, folded her hands, and looked directly into my eyes, awaiting my question. Her brown eyes so mesmerized me, I almost forgot what
I was going to ask her.
“You’re a student of physics,” I said. “How is it that you’ve hooked up with a professor of theology? The disciplines are so far apart.”
“Not as distant as you might think,” she said. “I went to Heritage College after high school. I was a Bible studies major and the professor was one of my teachers. I eventually became his teaching fellow.
“Actually, it was Professor Forsythe who encouraged me to pursue physics. My senior year I was having a hard time finding a suitable subject for a term paper and he suggested I do a study of the spiritual side of the cosmos.”
“I’ve always thought the spiritual and the physical were opposites, irreconcilable, in tension with each other.”
“That’s what most people think. You’re wrong.”
I laughed. “Simple as that.”
“Simple as that.”
“Unless I completely missed the boat in my college physics classes, I could probably find a few hundred noted scientists who would take my side.”
“You could introduce me to a million scientists. It wouldn’t make any difference. They’re all wrong.”
I admired her confidence, even though she was academically misguided. “It always comes back to the supernatural with you and the professor, doesn’t it? Not everything is about angels.”
“More so than you think.”
I sipped my coffee. “Don’t get me wrong. I deal with intangibles all the time. Speech. Ideas. But the difference between us is that my intangibles are verifiable. I deal with facts that can be checked and corroborated, facts so powerful they can change the world. I don’t have time for fairy tales and myths.”
“Then maybe it’s time you double-checked your so-called facts. Real? You don’t know what real is. I’ll take what you so ignorantly refer to as fairy tales and myths over your biased collection of interpreted history any day, and over your political forces that you naïvely claim shape the world. All this . . .” She patted the table. Lifted her coffee cup. Crumpled her napkin.
I got the message. All matter.
“This is the stuff of the cosmos . . . to you it’s real, only it’s temporary. And the supernatural, the stuff of the spirit? It existed before the cosmos was created and will continue to exist after the cosmos is burned up and gone. It’s eternal. And let me tell you something else . . .”
A Hideous Beauty Page 16
