Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

“Zach?”

Why didn’t he answer her? Ann Reed pulled herselftogether, taking stock of the woman staring back from her dresser mirror.Tousled hair, tearstained eyes, the lines of her face.

“Zachary?”

She concentrated on hearing a response. Nothing. Giveit time.

What a pathetic sight she was. A grownthirty-three-year-old woman, mother of a nine-year-old son, a universitygraduate with her own business. And where was she? Living in the same roomwhere she played with Barbie dolls, looking into the same mirror she lookedinto when she was a child, dreaming of how perfect her life would be.

How had this happened? How had it all turned to shit?

“Zach, please come in here, we have to talk.”

No answer. Must be angry at her and his father. Couldshe blame him? They had put him through hell. Maybe he was jet lagged afterthis morning’s flight from Chicago and was napping. That was fine. She cravedsleep herself. But she had too much to do. She had to put this mess on a backburner and check her stores. She needed a shower.

Her mother was right, she thought, as the hot watersoothed her. She came down hard on Tom. She had overreacted. He was workinghard. The kidnappings were a big story, out of the ordinary. And the paperputting him on probation didn’t make it any easier for him.

The taps squeaked as she turned off the water.

Tom must be in agony.

Let him stew for awhile. She would call him tonightand they would decide where to go from here. She still loved him and waswilling to attempt a salvage operation. If he was.

“Zachary?”

Ann pulled on a pair of blue jeans, a fresh T-shirt,brushed her hair, then knocked softly on her son’s bedroom door.

No answer. Ann opened the door.

“Zach — ” Ann stopped dead. He was gone. “Where ishe?”

Calling his name, she searched upstairs, thebathrooms, the other bedrooms. Not a trace. Strange. He must’ve slippeddownstairs. “Zachary!” Where the hell could he be?

Ann stomped through the house. “Zachary Michael Reed!”He hated his middle name. She only used it to telegraph anger to him. No Zach.

She went outside, slamming the door behind her. He wasstarting to piss her off. Didn’t she tell him to go upstairs and stay in hisroom? She checked the garage. His bicycle was untouched. The front andbackyards. Nothing. Hands on her hips, she exhaled her irritation. She didn’tneed this. Not now.

Zach wasn’t in the street, or at the corner store withthe pinball machines he loved, or in the small vacant lot where theneighborhood kids played a half-block away. Two boys there, about twelve,clothes streaked with grease, were struggling to replace a chain on anoverturned bike. “Hi fellas.”

They traded glances, then sized her like she was an invader. Parents neverentered this realm looking for kids. Beckoning was done by little siblingmessengers. Reading Ann’s face, defense shields went up. Whoever Zach was, hewas in serious shit. One of the pair moved his foot stealthily, nudging a packof Lucky Strikes under a jacket lying on the ground. Ann pretended she didn’tnotice.

“You sure you haven’t seen him a little while ago,guys? His name is Zach Reed. He’s nine-years-old, blondish hair, wears newsneakers, uh, Vans, and a Giants ball cap, uhmm — ”

“Zach? The little kid from across the Bay living withGranny down the street?” asked the bigger kid. He possessed the aura of abully.

“That’s right! Did you see him?”

“Yesterday, but not today.”

She studied these boys — strangers to her but known toher son, realizing she had opened a secret door to Zach’s life, that she nolonger knew every detail of the child she had brought into this world. Nineyears old and he knew older boys who smoked, boys who were practiced liars. Itscared the hell out of her.

The smaller boy squinted up at her. “Is he in bigtrouble?”

Ann covered her mouth with her hand, eyes watering.

“No. I just want to find him.”

After calling his name and searching a three-blockradius around the house, it enveloped her: the cold fear that Zach was missing.

Ann grabbed the phone and began punching the numbersfor her mother at the library. No. She sniffed and hung up. He didn’t know hisway on campus. But maybe he did? But Mom would call if he suddenlymaterialized. Ann returned to his room. Maybe he was back?

“Zachary?”

His room was empty.

Defeated, she sat on his bed, shaking as she wept. Whereare you? Why are you doing this to me? Zach’s black nylon travel bag yawnedfrom the foot of the bed, opened, but not unpacked. It appeared as if hestarted unpacking, and took a few things out before changing his mind. Shelooked around his room. Where was his portable computer game? His CD player?His little knife? He treasured those things. She went to the dresser and liftedit slightly. His stash of cash, savings from his allowance, was gone. Shelooked around again. So were his jacket and school backpack. He’s run away .

She called Tom’s place, letting the phone ring. Hismachine clicked on. She left a message, urging him to call her immediately. Shehung up and dialed another number. She had an idea.

“San Francisco Star newsroom,” said a hurried voice.

“I’d like to talk to Tom Reed. This is his wife. It’surgent.”

Her request was met with an unusually long silence.

“Hello?” Ann said.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reed. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, uh. Tom was, uh — ” the voice dropped to aconfidential whisper. “He … as of yesterday, he no longer works here. I’msorry.”

She hung up and sat down. That was what he was tryingto tell her. It explained why he missed them at the airport, why he had beendrinking. He was fired. She buried her face in her hands.

Time to get it in gear, Annie. Where was the mostlikely place Zach would go? To his father’s.

Okay. She would drive across the Bay to Tom’s roominghouse. She stood. Wait! What if Zach returns? She should wait here.

She brushed her tears away, grabbed the phone, andpunched Tom’s number in again, letting it ring and ring and ring.

She would keep calling until she broke that freakingmachine.

God was present .

Edward Keller felt the intoxicating heat of His love.It was overpowering — he was swirling in it, as he hurried through Berkeleyfor San Francisco, delighting in the celestial trumpeting that melted into hornhonking, waking him to the fact that his rental van was drifting towardoncoming traffic. Keller shrugged it off.

He had found Michael the Archangel. He had gazed uponhim.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.

The transfiguration was near, brushing against hisfingers. All he had to do was obtain Michael, the last angel.

The Lord would illuminate the way.

For God will send His angels to watch over them.And they shall embrace them and carry them to Heaven.

Waiting for the light to change at an intersectionwest of the campus along Center, Keller feasted obsessively on a thumbnail. Hewas planning his route to the Bay Bridge, when a miracle blazed like aprophet’s comet before his eyes.

“Sweet Jesus!” He couldn’t believe it! It was Michael!

Heaven’s warrior!

Keller managed only a glimpse, a mind-searing glimpseof nine-year-old Zachary Michael Reed, wearing a bulging backpack and crossingCenter. He was walking.

He was alone.

Alone!

Keller drove ahead for a block and tucked his van intoa parking space ahead of a larger cargo truck, out of sight. He adjusted hispassenger-side mirror, catching Michael’s distant reflection.