Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

Willie pulled over.

“Logan and Good.”

That’s Wintergreen. The man didn’t look like a rez of that war zone.He had dark glasses, was stone faced. The kid was sleeping, long blond hair.Balloon still tied to her hand. Must’ve come from the park. Okay, it was on hisway.

“Hop in.” Willie reached back, popped a rear door. The man placedthe kid down to sleep, her head in his lap. “Too much fun for your princesstoday?” Willie said to his rearview mirror.

“Yes.”

Half a dozen blocks later, two SFPD black-and-whites, with lightswig-wagging, screamers yelping, roared by Willie in the opposite direction. Hestifled his usual comment on San Francisco’s criminal vermin. His fare haddropped his head onto the rear dash.

Aww, let ‘em sleep.

Edward Keller was not sleeping. He was praying. Thanking God for Hisradiant protection in helping him secure the Angel. All of his devotion,watching, planning-the chloroform, the wig, balloon-it had worked. Gloriously.

Keller floated with his thoughts back, months back, even though timewas meaningless to him. His mind was floating … to … a watery death .

He repeated it to himself as if it were an incantation.

It was April. April, death’s chosen month .

Standing at the edge of the pier, gazing upon the Pacific. All thathe was, all that he had been, looked back from the still water.

Eyes that haunt my dreams .

Prolonged severe grief reaction, the doctor had called it.

Keller remembered the doctor staring at him, twisting a rubber band.“Accept that you cannot change reality, Edward. And understand that at thisinstitute, those self-admitted take a lower priority. Move on with your life.Find solace where you can.

Keller had found it.

In his visions.

And out there among the fog-shrouded Farrallon Islands, where hislife ended, and where he would resurrect it. His heart now knew his destiny. Ithad been revealed to him.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth .

Filling the tanks of the boat, Reimer studied him standing there atthe dock’s edge, clutching the big paper-wrapped package.

Edward.

That was the guy’s name. Reimer couldn’t recall his last name. Theguy looked-what? Late forties, early fifties? Slim? No. Gaunt, really. Aboutsix foot. Could use a haircut and lose that shaggy beard. If Reimer had to behonest, old Ed there looked bad. Seemed to get worse every year. A shame. Oneof the smartest people Reimer had met. Talked about religion, philosophy,business-when he talked. Sounded like some sort of professor.

But he wasn’t.

Reimer knew what he was. Yes, sir. It was a damn shame about him,something the old-timers at Half Moon Bay, those that knew, rarely talkedabout. Not to Ed’s face anyway. What good does talk do? What’s done is done.Reimer only wished to hell the guy wouldn’t come to him every time he wanted togo out there.

“How you making out with that twenty-eight-footer I put you on to?”Reimer tried not to sound obvious. “She was in pretty good shape when you boughther. Lapstrake with twin Mercs, wasn’t it?”

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 untiedthe 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’shand. It wasn’t necessary, Reimer had told him. But why argue? What good wouldit do? He turned the ignition key. The motor rumbled and he eased the throttleforward, leaving a white foamy wake to lap against the dock.

San Francisco’s skyline stretched across the starboard side, thespires of the Golden Gate jutting majestically through a blanket of fog as theymade their way to the Farallons. Reimer was born in San Francisco. His fatherhad earned a living running a charter to the gulf from Half Moon for whale andbird-watchers long before it was fashionable. Reimer loved the region, thePacific’s moods and hues, the taste of salt air. He glanced at Keller, his eyesfixed to the horizon. Looking for ghosts. No point in talking to him. Whycouldn’t he just say no to the man? Reimer shrugged and gave her a touch morethrottle, enjoying the wind in his face.

Reimer’s boat was a beauty. His mistress. A Searay Seville. Atwenty-one-footer. She had a cuddy cabin, a rebuilt V-6 170 horsepowerMercruiser. Glided like a dream as they moved into the California current andcut across the coastal shipping lanes. It was upwelling season and he kept alookout for blooms of plankton. He could just make out the shape of the Farallonstwenty-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 histhree other charter boats waiting back at the marina. Just think of otherthings. He watched a trio of Dall’s porpoises leaping along port side. He tookmental stock of the gallery-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 thenavy’s submarine playground, which swept southeast of the islands. Reimer knewthe region, her history, her mysteries, and her secrets. He looked at Kelleragain. Ed there was a tragic story. Look at him. Sitting stonelike, clutchingthat package and staring at nothing. Somebody ought to tell him they are nevercoming 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 jadewaters, 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. LikeKeller. The motor grumbling. Pierce gripping his seat with one hand. The otheraround his sister, Alisha Keller. Like her mother. Brilliant, beautiful,unyielding. Alisha. Six. Hugging Joshua. The baby. Three years old. The woodenboat. An old speedboat. The last rental. Hammering over the choppy water. Goingto spend the day alone looking for whales. Just him and the kids. Joan demandedit. “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 beforethey would get in the boat. Couldn’t wait until they got to the islands to eatthe 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 getthis over with.

Wouldn’t go out too far today, sir, squalls comin’, the kid at themarina telling him-the pimple-faced grease monkey giving advice to him. EdwardKeller, a self-made millionaire. Keller ignoring him, ramming the throttledown. Keller didn’t understand the buoys. Where is north? Damn. Couldn’t readthe chart. Hell with it, you could practically see the Farallones. One hundredfifty goddamn 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 eattheir 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. Timeto head back. Maybe they should wait it out on the islands. They were at leasta mile off the southern-most island. It seemed close. Hard to say. Some boatsfar off. Thunder. Rain. Head for the islands. The boat rising. Dipping. Arollercoaster. Something scraping under them, a fantastic thud. A rock?