A Hideous Beauty

by Jack Cavanaugh

  She said, “Even now with the children safely aboard the USS Ronald Reagan, despite intense pressure from the Secret Service, the president insists on being the last man to leave the bridge and that means that, since we have just reached maximum occupancy, he will wait for the next transport.”

  As helicopter one lifted off the bridge, President R. Lloyd Douglas turned to the handful of Secret Service agents that were left behind and gave them high fives.

  Next to me, Semyaza was unimpressed. He said, “Act Three. Final curtain. Cue the actors.”

  On cue, Danny Noonan’s FA-18 Hornet dropped out of the dark cloud of Lucifer’s army. Once again he had the bridge in his sights. His plane trailed smoke like blood from a wound. Apparently the pursuit planes had gotten in a few licks while they were away.

  “I don’t believe it!” the cameraman cried.

  He was the first to spot Noonan in the background while shooting Jana on the helicopter. He zoomed onto the swiftly approaching FA-18. The jittery picture on the monitor made the threat appear even more ominous.

  The pursuit planes were close behind. They riddled Noonan’s aircraft with machine-gun fire.

  Noonan had run out of time. Rebel angels swooped down on both sides of the Hornet, shielding it from the fire of the pursuit planes. At the same time more rebel angels buffeted the pursuit planes, throwing off their aim.

  On the bridge the Secret Service agents saw the incoming fighter. They hustled the president into his limousine, determined to protect him to the end.

  “God in heaven, he’s coming back!” Jana reported from the helicopter.

  “Use your missiles!” the tech shouted to the pursuit planes. “Use your missiles! Blow him outta the air!”

  Looking as though they heard him, both pursuit planes fired their missiles at the same instant that Danny Noonan fired his at the bridge.

  Noonan’s rockets slammed into the bridge mid-span just as one of the pursuit rockets hit his wing. Limousines and the school bus lifted off the bridge in a fiery ballet as Danny Noonan’s wing exploded, spinning his aircraft into the heart of the disintegrating bridge, where an instant later a second, larger ball of fire erupted with such force it shattered windows over a mile away.

  I watched in horror as the blast knocked Jana’s helicopter sideways. I lost sight of it behind billowing clouds of smoke.

  The pursuit planes knifed through the smoke and climbed into a cloudless sky, having succeeded in shooting down their commander, but not before he assassinated their commander in chief.

  Rubble from the bridge rained like fireworks into the bay, with chunks of concrete and metal debris with smoky tails. A thick cloud covered the bridge as though history had declared it a sight too horrible to be seen.

  It was Dallas, November 22, 1963, all over again. The world was stunned, afraid to take a breath for fear that doing so would be an admission that life would go on.

  “Did you get that?” the tech said, hushed at first, but growing animated. “Did you get that? Man! We are going to be famous! This has Pulitzer Prize written all over it!”

  “Do you think so?” the tie said, sharing the tech’s excitement.

  “Shut up, Craig,” the cameraman said soberly.

  Like me, his attention was in the direction Jana’s helicopter had last been seen. The smoke was thinning.

  I heard it before I saw it. Rotors beating the air, sounding like a heartbeat. The helicopter emerged through the haze and steadily plodded toward the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan with the last load of survivors.

  I began to breathe again.

  The tidal winds began to clear the area surrounding the bridge and for the first time I saw the view that tomorrow would be plastered on every newspaper in the world and printed in every history textbook. The gem of San Diego appeared twisted and broken, its center arches thrusting upward out of the water like tombstones on a foggy night.

  Coast Guard boats plied the waters, venturing into the area in search of survivors—of which we knew there were none—and bodies.

  “Roll the credits,” Semyaza said.

  I looked to the sky. It was over. The heavens of both universes were clear. Lucifer’s army had dispersed.

  Across the bay where the farewell rally had been scheduled, the land’s edge was lined with people wanting to get a look and a picture of history. Clusters of people stood on the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan, among them Christina and Jana, safe, though I couldn’t see them.

  Jana was no longer on the monitor. I recognized the evening news anchor. Apparently he had been on Coronado to cover the farewell rally that never happened.

  It was over. The roller-coaster ride I’d been on since returning to California to speak at my high school alma mater was finally over. The suddenness with which history had turned the page was unnerving. The Douglas administration was no more. Christina was out of a job. After today, Jana would most surely be recruited by the networks. According to the clock, only an hour or so had passed. But the clock was wrong. It was a new day.

  Turning my back on what had once been my favorite San Diego landmark, I walked away.

  Semyaza fell in beside me. “Quite a production, no?” he said. “If we really were rolling credits, do you know what they’d say? Produced and directed by Azazel.”

  I stopped and stared at him.

  “That’s right. Your grandfather put this little production together. As you can see, he learned a thing or two during his dalliance in Hollywood.”

  I shook my head and continued walking.

  “We’re not finished,” Semyaza said.

  “Yes we are.”

  I started walking again. This time he didn’t follow me.

  “All of this?” Semyaza said to my back. “You think it was to control history. That isn’t our prime objective here.”

  I was tired of listening to him. I kept walking.

  And then I couldn’t.

  My feet stopped and—just like in Myles Shepherd’s office—I hadn’t stopped them.

  It angered me that he could do that.

  In no hurry, Semyaza strolled casually until he faced me.

  “Today isn’t about your nation’s history, Grant. That was just a bonus. Today is about you. This entire production was staged for your benefit.”

  I didn’t believe him. How could I? He was speaking in hyperbole, overstatement for effect, it had to be. FA-18s screaming across the sky . . . a bridge blown up . . . a president assassinated . . . lives lost . . . millions of dollars in damage . . . to think that it all happened because of me was . . . was . . . unthinkable. Events of this magnitude do not hinge on historians and writers, but men with names like Charlemagne, Napoleon, Churchill, and Lincoln.

  “This never was about Douglas,” Semyaza pressed. “Do you think we care who sits in the Oval Office? One man, not even a president, has the power to change the course of history. It takes a movement, not a man, to effect significant change. Do you really think we care how history remembers R. Lloyd Douglas? Who do you think we are? The Make-A-Wish Foundation for deluded politicians?”

  “Then why?”

  “I told you. Today is about you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  If eyes were ever deadly serious, his were when he said, “Then tell me why Lucifer’s second in command would clothe himself in vile human flesh for years? If we don’t concern ourselves with presidents, why would we concern ourselves with a high school student in some mediocre California town?”

  I didn’t have an answer for him.

  “You had come of age,” he said. “We couldn’t take the risk that Abdiel would attempt to recruit you or sway you to the other side. So I babysat you. Prodded you. Goaded you. I did whatever it took to get you to this place.”

  “My book. The White House. The Pulitzer.”

  “All of it to prepare you for today.”

  At the high school Semyaza had boasted that he was responsible for my book winning the Pulitzer. I thought it wa
s sour grapes. For all the lies, why did that part have to be the truth?

  “Do I scare you that much?” I asked.

  “You present a threat we can’t ignore. Your father made it easy for us. He was weak, unable to accept the reality of who he was. He neutralized himself with alcohol. He didn’t even tell your mother who he really was until after you were born. We didn’t have to concern ourselves with him. He was an embarrassment, never a threat. And then he killed himself.”

  I needed to walk. To think. But when I tried, my feet remained Super Glued to the deck.

  “Is this necessary?” I asked, pointing to my feet.

  Semyaza didn’t answer me, neither did he release me.

  “All right . . . ,” I said. “So . . . you’re saying that all of this . . .” I waved an expansive hand at the ruined bridge and bay littered with debris. “To what end? To impress me? To win me over to your side?”

  “To convince you that you cannot win,” he said. “Do you know why Abdiel and the others loathe you so much? You’re a bastard offspring. A freak. Not fully angel, not fully human. An embarrassment.”

  “While you, on the other hand, have exhibited nothing but warm feelings toward me.”

  “You’re a mistake, Grant. Eons ago we mated with human females by design. It was thought that by uniting the two races we would unite their destinies. The Father’s response was to kill our human wives and offspring by genocide, literally wiping them off the face of the earth, and to condemn their spirits to an eternity of torment. As a result, Lucifer forbade any further cohabitation with human females. However, some among us had developed an attraction to female flesh. You are the result of Azazel’s lust.”

  That made me feel warm and fuzzy all over. “Not exactly a Hallmark moment, is it?” I said.

  “A number of us have argued that the wisest course of action is to kill you outright. As a demon you are easier to control.”

  “I think we both know your position in that argument.”

  “There are others who feel you may be of some use to us.”

  I didn’t ask. My head was spinning. How often does a guy learn that he is some rogue angel’s love child, that his existence is the topic of debate at Satan’s table, and that angels in the heavenlies are ashamed he exists? Of course, this after learning that a president was assassinated and a city nearly destroyed to impress him.

  “What do you want from me?” I asked.

  “A statement of allegiance to Lucifer.”

  “To what end?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, you are in the midst of a war. In time of war sides are chosen, allegiances are made known. A person’s allegiance with one side or the other becomes a matter of life and death.”

  “And if I declare allegiance to Lucifer?”

  “You write your own success story for the remainder of your earthly life. As long as you do nothing to oppose Lucifer, you will not be harmed.”

  “What happens at the end of my natural life?”

  “That is out of our hands. Your fate has been fixed by the Father.”

  I knew the answer to the next question, but I had to ask. “And if I refuse to pledge allegiance to Lucifer?”

  “We kill you. If we cannot gain your cooperation voluntarily, we will reduce you to a demon so that we can control you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the broken bridge.

  “Take a good look at it, Grant. The choice is simple. You’re overmatched. Haven’t you learned that lesson yet? I’ve been beating you at every turn since the day we first met as freshmen in high school.”

  “How much time do I have to think about it?”

  My question angered him. “If you have to think about it, there’s no hope for you. I’m ready to kill you now.”

  “Here? With nobody to see it? No one to cheer your final victory over me? Give me until midnight tonight. You can make a spectacle of it.”

  Semyaza grinned. He liked that idea.

  “Midnight, then,” he said. “Atop the Emerald Plaza tower where you contemplated ending your life the other day. Yes, I was there. I must say you put me in a quandary. Had you decided to throw yourself over the ledge I wouldn’t have known whether to save you or not.”

  Then he was gone.

  There’s something unsettling about people disappearing suddenly like that. But I was glad he was gone. I needed time to think.

  I started to leave the Midway, but my feet were still glued to the deck.

  “Not funny, Semyaza,” I said.

  The news crew had packed up and were heading toward the exit. As they walked by me, the cameraman said, “Can we give you a lift?”

  When my feet still wouldn’t move, I folded my arms casually and smiled. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just hang around here for a while.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Oh . . . and guys,” I said. “The Pulitzer. It’s not that big a deal.”

  The tech snorted. “A lot you know,” he said.

  A steady stream of onlookers began finding their way onto the deck to see in person what so many of them had watched on television. Dallas had its grassy knoll. Now the Midway had one more reason to attract tourists.

  As they passed by me on both sides, I nodded and greeted them. I think some of them thought I was a member of the museum staff.

  Whenever I was alone enough not to be overheard, I pleaded with Semyaza, “Come on, let me go. You’re not going to keep me here until midnight, are you?”

  CHAPTER 30

  It was dark when I left the bay, having finally regained control of my feet. I wanted to escape the crush of the curious as they swamped the wharf. But I found I didn’t want to be alone either.

  I considered calling Christina or Jana, but then I realized the news crew hadn’t returned my cell phone. Just as well. If the girls knew what awaited me, they would try to talk me out of going, or insist on going with me, and I couldn’t allow that. I’d already jeopardized them enough for one day.

  I felt the same about Sue and the professor. I would have liked to have been able to say goodbye, but at what price? It would only bring needless anxiety into their lives. I had to face the fact that I was alone in this.

  After ten or fifteen minutes of walking I found myself in the Gaslamp Quarter, the entertainment district comprised of several downtown blocks of restaurants, galleries, and boutiques set among charming, Victorian-style buildings. It was billed as San Diego’s liveliest neighborhood. That’s what I needed right now, a neighborhood.

  I found comfort being surrounded by people, listening to the sound of voices and loud music, while at the same time remaining anonymous. Here I could be part of the human race without anybody feeling sorry for me or asking me for a decision.

  As expected, there was a single topic of conversation in the Gaslamp Quarter—the assassination of President Douglas. Everyone felt a need to tell someone where they were when they heard the news.

  There was also a fair amount of speculation as to the identity and motive of the pilot of the FA-18. I heard one guy—honest, he was serious—say that the pilot was Fidel Castro. He explained that Castro was behind Kennedy’s assassination and wanted to kill one more American president before he died, and what better way to do it than by going out in a blaze of glory?

  At a sports bar I ordered a soft drink and watched as Vice President Alessandro Rossi was sworn in as the next president of the United States. According to the newscaster, the vice president heard about the assassination while flying to New York. The Secret Service wanted him to return immediately to Washington, but since they were already on approach to the airport, Rossi insisted on taking the oath of office in New York, just as George Washington had done.

  The impromptu ceremony took place at his brother’s restaurant in Brooklyn. According to the press secretary the restaurant was selected to honor the president’s immigrant roots. The newscaster questioned the appropriateness of a president taking the oath of office in a Mafia neighborhood, st
ating that while George Washington may have taken the oath in New York, the red-and-white checkered tablecloths of an Italian eatery were a far cry from the balcony of Federal Hall.

  I remained at the sports bar long enough to see a live report from the Coast Guard station at the foot of Laurel Street at Harbor Drive as the recovered body of President Douglas was loaded into a hearse. According to the reporter on the scene, Adrian Barbour—I knew him as the tie—President Douglas had left meticulous orders regarding the handling of his remains should such a tragedy occur, including his choice of medical examiner. However, the president’s medical examiner had been delayed at LAX—something about an automobile accident—and a local examiner, Ted Dickson, an ex-marine, was being called in to identify the remains and perform the autopsy.

  “Everything’s playing out just as Semyaza said it would,” I muttered.

  You can’t win, Grant. You’re overmatched.

  It was time I started making my way to Broadway Avenue.

  Leaving the sports bar, I turned north on Fourth Street. As I was walking past a restaurant with outdoor seating, I was startled by a hand shooting over the wrought-iron railing and grabbing my wrist. “Hey, aren’t you . . .” He started to release my arm, but before he did, he said, “Stand right there. Just for a second, OK?”

  He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. There were three other people at the table, a couple sitting across from him and a good-looking redhead seated next to him. They seemed as shocked and perplexed by their friend’s actions as I was.

  Fishing for something under his chair, he retrieved a yellow plastic bag from a Barnes and Noble bookstore. Inside the bag was a copy of my book. He turned it over to the photo on the back and compared the likeness to me. “That’s you, isn’t it?” he said.

  He showed the publicity photo to the other couple and his date. They looked at the photo, at me, then at the photo again.

  “It is him!” the redhead squealed.

  “You’re . . .” He had to turn the book over and read my name from the cover. “. . . Grant Austin! You’re Grant Austin, aren’t you?”

  “Bummer! Today must have been a wild one for you, what with the president getting whacked and all,” the other male at the table said.