Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

And behold the earth shook and God’s angeldescended from the skies. His eyes were like lightening, and any who opposedhim were struck dead.

The boy’s image grew with each step, quickeningKeller’s pulse. He was sweating. What should he do? What if Michael spotted himand became suspicious? He had to remain calm. In control, as he was with theothers.

I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.

The final challenge.

Michael stopped at a store, less than three carlengths away. Had he noticed the van? He couldn’t have. Keller adjusted themirror again. It looked like a hobby store. Michael peered into the window,then went inside. Where were the adults? Was he allowed to go into the storealone? Keller waited. No one else appeared. The boy was alone.

It was a sign.

He must act on it.

Dominus Deus sabaoth.

Keller scurried to the back of the van, watching thestorefront from its tinted rear windows. He quickly changed into a shirt, tie,dress pants, and suit jacket. The same outfit he used for his insurance man. Heknotted the tie, combed his hair neatly, and slid on a pair of dark aviatorglasses.

The van’s side door rolled open.

Anyone watching with a modicum of interest would haveseen a very serious, professional-looking man of authority stepping from hisnew van to attend to an important business matter. If they guessed he was acop, they would be right, Keller would tell them confidently if pressed. For inhis beast pocket he carried the leather-cased laminated photo ID and shield ofRandall Lamont, special investigator for the State of California, a personalityhe had created after sending fifteen bucks to a mail-order house thatadvertised in the back of a detective magazine.

But Keller knew no one was watching, or cared.

Except God.

And He was lighting the way.

“Inspector Turgeon? Inspector Sydowski?”

“Yes,” Turgeon said.

Professor Kate Martin stepped from the door of hercondo, indicating two sofas facing each other over a glass-and-rattan coffeetable, the centerpieces of her living room overlooking the Golden Gate andPacific. A hint of hyacinths lingered.

Although she was barefoot in Levi’s and along-sleeved, ratty flannel shirt, Martin moved with the swanlike elegance of aself-assured woman. But Sydowski’s deeper reading picked up the unease in hereyes. Her hair, pulled back with a navy barrette, was loosening. She corralledthe wild strands slipping in front of her face, revealing bright white flecks onher hands. She folded her arms across her chest. “I was painting a bookcasewhen you called.”

Turgeon and Sydowski saw the file folders stacked onthe coffee table. Martin had obviously stopped painting to scour through them.

“Sit down, please. Be comfortable. I’ve made someraspberry tea. Would you care for some? I have coffee, too, if you like?”

“Tea would be fine,” Turgeon said.

“And Inspector Sy-DOW-ski? I hope I’m pronouncing itcorrectly?”

“You are. No tea for me, thanks.” Then he thought ofsomething as she started for the kitchen. “Dr. Martin?”

She stopped and smiled.

“By chance, would you have any Tums?”

“I’m sorry, no. I do have Alka-Seltzer.”

“That’ll do, thanks.”

The chicken sandwich Sydowski had inhaled during thebriefing was jitterbugging through his system. It nearly burned a hole in hisstomach during the drive over as Turgeon read aloud, for the second time, everyword of the article the Star had recently published on Martin’sbereavement research study.

The Homicide Detail’s secretary had clipped the story,“as per the lieutenant’s instructions”. Leo was a pain that way about the localpapers. Anything with the word “murder” in it activated her scissors. But whatwith the Yellow Ribbon Task Force working a green light, Gonzales never got aroundto reading this one. And Sydowski, a scrupulous reader of crime stories, missedit. When he approached Gonzales immediately after the FBI’s profiler went onabout the bad guy suffering psychological pain involving children, Gonzalesordered the secretary to get the story.

It was written by Tom Reed.

“First he fucks us up on the Donner file — what thehell is it with this guy? Flora, can you make some copies of this please?”

Leo’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened on his unlitcigar as Sydowski told him how Reed had tiptoed up to him after the newsconference on the Nunn abduction, after seeing the fuzzy video and composite.How he hinted about recognizing the bad guy.

“This is a huge goddamn lead, Walt! You and Linda findthe proof and see if anyone in her group fits the FBI’s profile.”

Sunlight probed the prismatic crystal glass of fizzingantacid Martin set before him. When she offered imported Scottish shortbreadcookies, Sydowski had to restrain himself from unloading on her about thegravity of their visit. Lady, this ain’t a fucking tea party.

Martin had priceless information and Sydowski wantedit. With two children missing, and most likely dead, he and their parents had aright to it. He was here to claim it. He swallowed some Alka-Seltzer, grittedhis teeth, and nodded to the files.

“Are you prepared to help us, Doctor?”

Turgeon left her tea untouched and produced hernotepad.

“Yes. After we talked on the phone, I reviewed thefiles of my research subjects and I think, uhmmm, I think … uhm, I think oneman may, uhm — I’m sorry.”

Martin was coming apart. She stared mournfully at thefiles, gripping her knees. Her eyes were glistening when she tried to speakagain. She was stunned with embarrassment. Fear.

“I’m concerned about patient-client confidentiality.”

“But you’re not their doctor?” Turgeon said.

“Yes, but I entered into an agreement with eachsubject for the research. They all volunteered.”

“Doctor, does the profile suggested by the FBI fit oneof your subjects?” Sydowski tapped the files. ‘We can get a warrant.”

Martin looked at Turgeon and Sydowski, her eyesdrowning in the whirlpool that engulfs a person once they learn that a darkforce dwells under the skin of a person they thought they knew. Sydowski hadseen that look break on the faces of a killer’s family as they struggled withshame, remorse.

It was heartbroken, pleading:

Please don’t judge us.

How could we have missed it?

What could we have done?

Their anguish consumed them as if they had helpedplunge the knife, squeeze the trigger, or tighten the ligature. They were yokedwith blame and pain, becoming the murderer and the victim, condemned to die apiece at a time for the rest of their lives.

Eyes downcast, Martin cleared her throat, touched herface with the back of her hand. She grasped the top file, retrospectivelyflipping through the yellow pages of her handwritten notes.

“This is my file on Edward Keller. He participated inmy research. He was a walk-in. His is the most unusual case of prolonged griefreaction I’ve ever experienced, evolving into stages of delusion.”

“Doctor, please,” Sydowski said. “Does the profile fithim?”

Martin swallowed. “Like a tailor-made suit.”

It only took a few minutes for her to recount Keller’scase history and everything she knew about him: his fantasies, his religiousdelusions, how he reacted suspiciously to Tom Reed when he arrived to write onthe bereavement group, how Keller demanded not to be photographed or identifiedbefore ultimately storming out.

Turgeon took notes. Sydowski steepled his fingers andlistened.

“You ever fear he would act out his delusions?”Sydowski said.

Martin shook her head, burying her face in her hands.“I’ve read the papers, watched the TV news on the abductions. I’ve seen thegrainy video of the suspect, the composite sketch. Once, for a second, Ithought there was a resemblance to Edward, but I dismissed it. I never thoughtin those terms. I never thought, I — ”