Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

Danny pointed at the chain. “What’s that?”

The teenager ceased chewing his bubble gum, left his mouth open, andgiggled as if he had just been tickled. His girlfriend giggled, too. Althoughher hair was fuchsia and her chains smaller, her appearance mirrored herboyfriend’s right down to the gum chewing. They were holding hands. The teenleaned toward Danny, turned his ear to him, and shook the chain.

“This is my lucky charm.” He grinned. “You should get one.”

The girl playfully grabbed her boyfriend’s groin, pouting and askingDanny, “And what’s this?”

It was called a PEE-nus . Danny knew because his motheranswered the same question for him one night when he was in the tub. He’dforgotten the word, but he clearly recalled the function.

“Do you have to pee?” Danny asked, triggering the couple’s laughteras they stood to leave.

The train was slowing. Danny was bumped from behind, nearly knockedoff his feet. He was trapped in a forest of legs. The automated public addressbarked the station’s name. Danny tried to return to his dad, but was blocked bya skateboard, shopping bags, a briefcase, a knapsack. People crushed together,inching him closer to the doors. He panicked, clenched his tiny hands intofists, and pounded on arms and legs, but couldn’t break free. The trainstopped. The doors whooshed open. Danny was pushed out of the car with thecrowd, crying out for his father as he tripped, falling hard onto the cold,grimy, concrete platform. People swirled around him, drowning him. A ghettoblaster throbbed with a menacing beat. No one could hear Danny crying. Frantic,he struggled to get to his feet. A cigarette butt stuck to his hand. Hepinballed from one grownup to the next. Disoriented, his only thought was toget back on the train. He heard the warning chime.

Get back on the train! Get back on the train! Get back!

Danny felt a pair of large, strong hands lift him.

Nathan heard the chime, lowered the newspaper, and turned to Dannybeside him. Gone. Damn that little- He threw the paper down, threading his wayfrom one end of the car to the next looking between seats for Danny. What thehell-? He can’t be gone.

He can’t be gone!

The driver’s whistle bleated again. Nathan’s pulse quickened. He ranto the end of the car again, pushing people from his path, searching underneathevery seat.

“Hey, asshole!”

“Christ, pal-“

“M-my son, Danny…I’m looking for my little boy, he’s …”

The doors closed and the train jerked forward.

“No! Wait!” Nathan yelled for the train to halt.

The train gained momentum.

Where’s my son?

Bile rushed up the back of his throat. Gooseflesh rose on his skin.Through the window, on the platform, he saw Danny in the arms of a strangerdisappearing into the crowd.

Nathan knocked an old woman out of his way and lunged for thetrain’s emergency brake.

“ No! Please! No, No!”

Tanita Marie Donner stared down at Danny’s father.

A skeleton crew was onduty in the newsroom of The San Francisco Star when Danny Becker waskidnapped.

Tom Reed, a crime writer, was finishing a short hit on a seventy-twoyear old rummy stabbed with a nail file by a fifty-two-year-old whore. Somedive in the Tenderloin. The whore was watching the A’s game on the tube abovethe bar. The rummy wanted her to work her break. She was feeling bitchy, andwanted to finish her beer and her nails. His fingers went where they shouldn’thave and he bled to death at her table. Nobody noticed for half an inning.Turns out the guy had helped build the Golden Gate. He was the seventiethhomicide of the year. Reed summed up his life in two tight graphs, then puncheda command on his computer terminal, sending the story to Al Booth, theassistant metro editor working in the bullpen.

Reed downed the remainder of his tepid coffee. Three hours into hisshift. Could he stick it out today? Hungover. Again. Rubbing his temples,surveying the crap pinned to the half wall of his cubicle: Police numbers, ayellowing article on his winning his second national award four years ago forinvestigative reporting, a photograph of his wife, Ann, and Zach, theirnine-year-old son who wants to be a report. Like my dad.

Here was his life, or the illusion of it. Reed’s sources rarelytalked to him these days. His award-winning work was forgotten. It was comingup on six months since Ann took Zach and moved to her mother’s. His life wasdisintegrating, and like an animal gnawing at a wound that refused to heal, hereturned to the clipping file and the story that initiated his disgrace. Thecase of Tanita Marie Donner.

Reed had led the Star’s coverage of her abduction and murder,right up until the suicide, the lawsuit, and his suspension. It was nearly ayear since he last wrote about Donner and the man he believed had killed her.The case was unsolved and the paper, stinging from the scandal andembarrassment, was now content with superficial coverage of it. But Reedcouldn’t leave it alone, exposing himself to the headlines he had virtuallymemorized.

POLICE SEARCH FOR ABDUCTED BABY … SCHOOL GIRLS FINDTANITA: MURDERED … FEW LEADS IN MYSTERY SLAYING …

Then he came to the grainy news pictures of Franklin Wallace. Thebeginning of the fuckup, and it all came back to him. Hard.

He had rushed to Wallace’s home and rung the doorbell. He waschasing San Francisco’s biggest story. He had found Tanita’s killer.

The door was opened by a pudgy little man with a candle white face,thinning blond hair, a wispy mustache. Mid-thirties. Five-six.

“Franklin Wallace?” Reed said.

“Yes?” his voice had a southern lilt.

Damn the tip was true, Reed thought.

“Mr. Wallace, I am Tom Reed. I am a report with the Star -“

“Reporter?” Wallace’s expression darkened subtly.

“Did you know Tanita Donner? She lived a few blocks away.”

Wallace’s lips did not move. He was measuring Reed, remainingsilent, frozen. Reed repeated the question.

“Yes, I knew Tanita.”

“I understand she attended your Sunday school day care?”

“Once or twice. She was not a regular. What is this about?”

“Mr. Wallace, may I come in? I have some questions, importantquestions, I would like to ask you.”

Reed caught it. A twitch in Wallace’s eyelid, an unconsciousreaction so slight he almost missed it.

“What questions?”

“May I come inside?”

“What questions? What is this about?”

Wallace’s hand tightened his grip on the door frame. Reed was losinghim; this might be his only chance. “Mr. Wallace, do you have a record forchild molestation in Virginia?”

“What? A record?”

“I have it confirmed, sir.”

Wallace swallowed, licking his lips. ‘You have it confirmed?”

“Yes, just now. I would like to talk to you about some otherinformation I have. It is very serious.”

“Why? No. Please. That was long ago. Please, I have a family, a job.You must not print anything. Please, I don’t know what you’re driving at cominghere with this.”

“I’ve been told your fingerprints have been found on items linked toTanita’s murder.”

“What? I can’t believe that!”

What little color Wallace had melted from his face. He was wan, hiseyes, revealing the truth. He was guilty. Guilty of something. Reed knew it. Hewas standing inches from a child killer.

Wasn’t he?

At that moment, Wallace’s daughter appeared, clinging to herfather’s leg, a tiny “Leave my-daddy-alone scowl aimed at Reed. Red jam wassmeared on her chin, reminding Reed of blood.

“I had nothing to do with what you’re suggesting.”

Wallace slammed the door.