If Angels Fall (22 page)

Keller cleared a circle of water in the bubbles,
cupped the back of Danny’s neck, and immersed his entire head. Fear leapt onto
Danny’s face. Underwater his eyes widened. His hand shot up, seizing Keller’s
crucifix in a pain-stricken grasp and he pulled Keller closed his eyes and
smiled.

For since by mankind came death, by mankind came
too the resurrection of the dead.

“Pull, Raphael! Pull, sweet healing angel! I beseech
you! Will you pull my Josh from the watery purgatory into which I cast him?”
The crucifix chain sank deep into Keller’s neck. Danny’s breath escaped in a
wild underwater scream boiling to the surface. Clutching the crucifix in a
white-knuckled grip, he raised himself from the water, coughing, gasping for
air. The dog yelped. Danny rubbed his eyes, his tiny body shaking as he cried.

It was wondrous, like the sound of a newborn. Keller
covered Danny with a towel, and lifted him from the tub. He had baptized him,
readied him, for the transfiguration. “It will be done! It will be done! Oh
thank you, Raphael! Thank you!” Keller’s voice trembled. He was tingling with
exultation, eyes brimming with tears. He carried Danny to his bedroom and
opened the closet. It was crammed with cardboard boxes.

“I want my mommy and daddy.” Danny wiped his eyes,
brimming watching Keller slide the box before him.

“Joshua” was written on the box in neat feminine
script. It was jammed with children’s clothing-boy’s summer items, neatly
folded and smelling powerfully of mothballs. Danny coughed. Rummaging, Keller
found a set of pajamas, powder blue, dotted with tiny fire trucks.

“These will be your new clothes.” Keller put the pajamas
on Danny. “And there’s a special set for the transfiguration.”

Danny didn’t understand.

“It’s time for a story,” Keller said.

Back in the living room, Keller selected a blue
blinder from the table. The dog followed them. Keller sat in his rocking chair
with Danny on his lap and sighed.

“Later, can I go home please? Danny said.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

The chair rocked. The binder, marked. “Daniel Raphael
Becker/Joshua,” cracked when Keller opened it.

“This is the story of a little boy named Josh who has
gone away.

Keller turned to the first laminated page. It was a
color portrait of the little boy Danny saw the other night ridding the rocking
horse in the movie on the wall. In the picture, the boy’s eyes danced with
happiness. His hair was parted, the boy’s eyes danced with happiness. His hair
was parted neatly, his hands were clasped together in his lap in a
well-directed studio pose.

“Who’s that?” Danny touched the page.

Keller hesitated.

“My Josh. He’s waiting in a cold dark place for me to
get him. Only you can go there. That’s why you’re here. I sent for you. And
this is how I found you.” He turned the page to a photocopy of a microfilmed
newspaper clipping of a birth announcement. It was placed under the words: IT’S
A BOY! And a graphic of a smiling stork, wings extended, a baby suspended in a
bundle swinging from its beak.

Keller read aloud:

“BECKER Magdalene and Nathan are proud to

announce the birth of their first child,

Daniel Raphael, who arrived March 14,

weighing 8lbs, 7oz.’

Raphael and the month were circled in red. Joshua
Keller had been born in March.

Keller turned to an enlarged shot of Danny chasing the
swans at the pond behind his house, then to a section of a city map with the
Beckers’ street circled. Next, there was a photocopy from the San Francisco
city directory listing Magdalene and Nathan Becker, their Jordan Park address,
and Nathan’s job as an engineer with Nor-Tec, then the Backers’ municipal tax
and land title records. The next pages were printouts of data on the Beckers and
their property taken from municipal, county, state, and federal websites.
Keller then reviewed some pages of the Beckers’ family history that he had
purchased from a genealogy service on the internet. Then he turned to credit
bills, bank statements, a wedding invitation, a doctor’s appointment notice for
Danny, a grocery list, telephone bills, utility bills, and community news
letters. All were stained, creased, and torn. Keller had retrieved them from
Beckers’ garbage. Then there were some snapshots of Danny’s home, taken from
the front, sides, and rear.

“That’s my house!” Danny slapped the pages.

Pictures of Maggie Becker walking with Danny, helping
Danny from the car in their driveway, were on the next page. Then pictures of
Nathan walking with Danny in the neighborhood, in the BMW, Nathan entering
Nor-Tec, then at Candlestick, and walking in Golden Gate Park.

Then came Keller’s notes.

FATHER: Mon to Fri, 6-6:30 a.m. goes downtown and catches CalTrain
for Mountain View. Home by 7-9p.m.

MOTHER: 7 a.m., rises with A. Breakfast. Morning errands. Groceries
on Thursday. Mon-Wed-Fri afternoon paints in studio loft while child is in
local day care.

WEEKENDS: SAT: father takes A on Sat. outing. Eves. parents go out
and sitter watches A at Becker home.

SUN: mother and child attend church in morn. AFT: all three go for
excursion.

The notes were meticulous, his work precise. He had
reaped success.

He had prepared, responded, and prevailed. He followed
the sign and was rewarded.

Poor Nathan Becker. Surely, his heart was broken. But
he had let Danny wander on the train that day, had rested in the devil’s arms,
cloaked in the shadow of a deadly sin: avarice. His failure to be vigilant over
Danny was testament to the value he placed on his worldly pursuits. But that was
not Keller’s concern. His work was his concern. And so much remained.

The Angel would help him.

It was preordained. Raphael was his name.

Keller closed the binder and looked upon the Angel,
shifting drowsily on his lap. He had arrived the same month Josh was born and
was the same age as Josh when he was lost. Keller had recognized the signs. The
Truth was revealed to him. His children were not dead. They were waiting to be
reborn n celestial light.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak
.

Only God’s Angels could rescue them, transfigure them.

Raphael was the first. One of the Powers. Chief of the
guardian angels. Guardian of mankind. Protector of children.

Kelly reached for a second binder, a thick pink one
bearing the title “Gabrielle Michelle Nunn/Alisha.” He turned to a portrait of
a six-year-old girl. Her shimmering chestnut hair was a halo in French braids.
Her radiant eyes. Her emerald velvet dress, delicate lace trip... “Alisha. My
beautiful Alisha.” Keller caressed the picture, sniffed, and turned to another
birth announcement:

NUNN Paul and Nancy are thrilled to welcome their second bundle of
joy, a little sister for Alexander. Gabrielle Michelle was born 4:12 p.m.,
April 12, weighing 6lbs, 9oz. Thanks to Dr. Cook and the nurses at Metro
Hospital.

Gabrielle and the month were circled in red.

Gabrielle. Gabriel.

Gabriel. God’s ambassador to the world. The Angel who
heralded Christ’s birth.

He had found Gabriel. He turned the page to a recent
color photograph of Gabriel Nunn smiling. Soaring on a park swing near her
home. He smiled back, then flipped to a picture of Gabrielle hugging her dog,
Jackson. Opposite, was Jackson’s missing-reward poster. Keller reached down to
Jackson sitting at his feet, patted his head, and sighed ad he flipped through
pages of documents, detailed information, notes, and photographs of the Nunns
and Gabrielle. She was going to turn six very soon. Alisha was six. Born in
June.

It was time. It was time.

Keller closed the binder

Long into the night he rocked with Danner Becker
sleeping on his lap. Drifting to sleep himself, he recalled the lines of Doris
White’s long-forgotten poem, “My Angel.” “Their coffins were opened and all
were set free, behold my Angel with the jeweled key.”

Sunrise.
Fog shrouded the city.

Inspector Linda Turgeon came out of her neat house on
upper Market and deposited herself into Sydowski’s unmarked Caprice Classic.

“Good morning.” She yawned, accepting the steaming
7-Eleven coffee cup he handed her. “Thanks.”

“Sleep well?”

“Not a wink.” She placed her copy of Perry William
Kindhart’s file with his on the seat between them.

Traffic was light on Market, which would take them
directly to SoMa, Kindhart’s most recent address.

“What’s your take on Kindhart?” Sydowski said.

“He’s our best potential connection to Donner. A
molester who did time with Wallace in Virginia. We know Wallace did not act
alone and that Kindhart was in San Francisco during the time of Donner’s
abduction and death.

“But in the picture, the hooded guy holding Donner has
a tattoo. Kindhart doesn’t.”

“Mr. Tattoo is the only guy we know of, right now.
Maybe others are involved. Maybe Kindhart has nothing to do with it, but he may
know something. Like who the tattoo is. I think we’d be remiss if we didn’t
give Kindhart a good shake to see what falls out.”

Sydowski nodded approvingly.

Turgeon was pleased. They were on the same frequency.
Partners.

The fog was lifting when they glided into downtown. At
the edge of the Tenderlion, the streets were strewn with used condoms and
hypodermic needles. A few hookers were still working. One hiked her shirt,
squatted, then urinated on the sidewalk at Market and Larkin.

“Will you look at that.” Sydowski shook his head.
“Somebody otta call a cop.”

Turgeon burst out laughing. “So you do have a sense of
humor,” she said.

“Damn right. I’m a fun guy. Ask anybody.”

“I did.”

“Did a little background checking, did you?”

“Mm-mmm.”

“What’d you come up with?”

“You live alone in Parkside. You raise birds. You’ve
cleared more files than anyone else in the detail’s history. You’ve refused
promotions because the job’s in your blood. The Donner case haunts you and you
probably won’t retire until you close it.”

“Anything else.”

“People tell me you’re an arrogant Polack hard-ass.”

“I should put that on a T-shirt.”

“They also say that after Brooks, you’re the finest
Homicide dick at Golden State’s ever seen.”

“I should put that on a T-shirt, to remind Leo.”

“But there’s a disturbing side to you I am curious
about.”

“I may take the Fifth, here.”

“Is it true you killed a guy, shot him?”

Sydowski grew pensive. “It was during the war. I was a
kid.”

“What happened?”

He gazed out the driver’s window. “I’ll tell you
another time?”

“Sure.”

“What about you? I don’t see a ring-you married?”

Turgeon peered into her coffee cup. “Came close.”

“Yeah”

“An architect.”

“An architect?”

“Met him after his house in Marina was burglarized.”

“Thank God for criminals.”

“We lived together for a year, talked about kids, the
future. Everything was rosy. We set a date. You know the tune.”

“This were the violins come in?”

“Wanted me to leave the job. It was too dangerous for
him. He wanted me to quit the force, stay at home, look after the cats. He was
asking too much. To quit would be denying what I am.”

“And what’s that, Linda?”

She looked at him. “A cop. I’m a cop like you,
Walter.”