If Angels Fall (39 page)

Stained-glass octagonal windows filtered dusty beams
of light to a crumpled tarp in a dark corner. The floorboards creaked. Eloise
stopped under an overhead joist bearing a faded “X”.

“The insurance people or police marked the spot where
she tied the rope and stepped from a chair.”

Reed paused. He could have reached the beam if he
wanted.

“And over here”—Eloise pulled back the tarp, stirring
up a dust storm that made Reed sneeze—“is what Edward Keller abandoned. All
this was theirs.”

It was a small warehouse of boxes, crates, and
furniture. Reed opened a trunk. A chill passed through him. It was filled with
children’s toys. He found a valise filled with papers and sifted through them.
Mostly bills and invoices for the house. Eloise went to a small desk, rummaged
through a drawer, and pulled out a thick leather-bound book with yellowing
edges. It smelled musty.

“This was her diary. You’ve never known such abject
sadness.”

Her handwriting was elegant, clear, from a fountain
pen. He flipped the pages. The secrets of her life. It began on her sixteenth
birthday. Her small-town-girl disappointments and dreams. Her exciting first
meeting with Edward Keller. “Deliciously handsome tycoon from San Francisco,”
she wrote. “What a catch he would make!” Reed flipped to their marriage, the
children. Joan’s concerns evolving into frustration and anger at how Edward
never had time for the children, missing birthdays, holidays. The mansion was a
gilded cage. Their marriage was strained. Edward had become intoxicated with success.
She begged him to make time for the children.

They needed more of their father, not more money.

Reed thought of Ann and Zach.

He flipped ahead to the tragedy, and was stunned by
her final entry.

“I can no longer live. The investigators say the
children never had life jackets on, that Edward took them out, despite being
warned of a storm coming. I blame him. I can never forgive him. Never. It
should have been a joy for him, not a chore. He killed them! And he killed me!
I hate myself for not realizing how vile he is, for trusting him with my
children. They were never his! The bastard should have drowned, not them. It
should have been him. Not my children. They are gone. They never found their
tiny bodies. He promises to bring them back. Rescue them. The fool. All his
money cannot bring them back. I can’t live without my children. Pierce. Alisha.
Joshua. I must be with them. I will be with them. I love you my little
darlings!”

Those were her last words. Probably written in the
attic.

Reed closed the book. Stunned. It was Gothic.

They never found their tiny bodies.

He promises to bring them back.

“Is the material helpful, Tom?”

Eloise was sitting in a chair, patting her moist brow,
drinking lemonade. Half in shadow, half in light, she looked like some kind of
soothsayer oracle. Reed had been too engrossed to notice the half hour that had
passed. “Uhm, sorry, yes! Eloise. It’s very helpful. Sorry to take so much of
your time.” He stood.

“Glad this old stuff is of use to someone.”

“May I borrow this diary?”

She cast her hand about the Kellers’ belongings. “Take
whatever you need and just call me if you want to look at anything again.”

In thanking her, Reed gave her another business card.
They laughed. He jotted down her number and left, clutching the book.

Joan Keller’s diary contained a few revelations that
could lead him to Keller. But it wouldn’t be easy and there wasn’t much time to
work on them. The anniversary of the drownings was only days away.

Once out of sight of the mansion, he trotted to his
old Comet.

Keller was
following the path of his exalted mission.

Pursuing the third angel. The conqueror of Satan.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.
Snip. Snip. Snip.

The doubters were closing in. Snip. Snip. And he still
faced many obstacles in his final step to the transfiguration.

He remained calm.

I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.

The time has come to transform himself. Snip. The
doubters had photographed his face and were searching for him. But he did not
worry, trimming his hair, his beard, lathering his face. Soon all would know
him as the enlightened one, the chosen one, anointed to reveal the celestial
promise of reunion with his children.

Along his glorious path, he never challenged the
mysterious ways of deified love. Michael Jason Faraday was the third angel, or
so he thought, until the nine-year-old Oakland boy had moved to London with his
family a few months ago. At first Keller could not understand it. He was
certain Faraday was the third angel. The signs were correct. His age, his birthday.
Keller had studied him, kept a vigil. But before he could make contact, he was
gone.

On the eve of the transfiguration, the third angel
had vanished.

What was the message?

It had to be a divine test of faith.

Keller had remained steadfast. Like Christ in the
desert. He did not succumb to temptation, to doubt. God would light his path to
destiny.

And he did.

A couple of weeks from the transfiguration, the mortal
identity of the true third angel was revealed to him. It took Keller some time
to absorb the holy sigh. It became crystalline a few days ago, during his
morning reading of the Scriptures. He now knew who the third angel was. He had
little time to find him.

Keller finished shaving, then made a few phone calls,
talking politely, jotting down notes. He put on a white shirt, tied, and suit,
checked his old leather briefcase. It was empty except for one business
card—that of Frank Trent, of Golden Bay Mutual Insurance. Trent was the man who
had handled the death claims for his children twenty years ago. Keller tucked
the card in his breast pocket and took the briefcase with him before looking in
on Gabriel and Raphael.

Mid-afternoon. They were sufficiently sedated. He
locked the basement door, then the house, and walked into the brilliant
sunlight, a well-dressed, respectable-looking businessman on a Holy Mission.
After twelve blocks, he hailed a cab.

Veronica Tilley yearned for her family and friends in
Tulsa.

“I am a fish out of water here. A stranger in a
strange land,” she would tell her husband, Lester.

His face would crease into a smile. “Now, now, Ronnie.
Just make an effort to experience the city, gather some memories. It’s only for
two years. Hang on.”

“Of course, I’ll hang on, Lester. What choice do I
have? I am just telling you I miss Oklahoma. It doesn’t shake like California.”

Lester’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll be home soon.”

Veronica had agreed to Lester’s two-year transfer to
San Francisco because she realized he had to satisfy some deep-seated manly
need. He’d devoted twenty-three years to his company, all of them in Tulsa. The
boys had gone off to college, and the middle-age jitters were getting to him.
Younger managers did well by taking out-of-state postings. Lester had to prove
he could run with the young bloods.

But Veronica was lonely in San Francisco. She missed
her position as secretary-treasurer of Tulsa’s Historical Society. She longed
for their house in Mapleridge, hated that they had to lease it and rent in San
Francisco. For her, coming here was like going to outer space. Earthquakes.
Weirdos. The other day on the Mission Street cable car, a man wearing a print
dress, pearls, and rouge on his cheeks, sat beside her.

Gawd. And now this. She puffed her cheeks and exhaled.

Veronica was miffed. The couple who owned the house
they were renting had just informed them that they were going to move back
after ninety days. Ninety days! People didn’t do things like in Tulsa. After
just settling in, she and Lester had to find another house to rent. And in this
market! Here she was running around, checking with agencies, newspapers,
searching for a suitable place. Oh, she was glad the young couple had
reconciled. There was a little boy involved. But Veronica was also ticked. She
told Lester they should talk to a lawyer, but he insisted it would be best if
they found another place and let the young couple get on with their lives.

Veronica circled one of her choices in the
classifieds: “Furnished. Alamo Sq. Restored 12rm Vict. Hot tub. View antiques,
3 frplcs.” Must be heavenly because it sure was expensive. $3900.

The doorbell rang.

Veronica peeked through the curtain. A salesman of
some sort was standing on her doorstep. He seemed harmless. She opened the
door.

“Good afternoon. I’m Frank Trent from Golden Bay
Mutual.”

“Yes...?”

“I’m here for Mrs. Ann Reed.”

“Ann Reed? Boy they don’t waste any time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Talking to myself. Sorry, they haven’t moved back
yet.”

“I’m confused. This is the address for Ann Reed?”
Keller knew the family had moved. And he knew the Lord would help locate the third
angel. “The policies for her and her son, Zachary, have lapsed.”

“Life insurance?”

“I’m a new agent. I’ve yet to meet her and it’s
imperative I get her signature today on clause changes.” He tapped his
briefcase.

“We’re only renting their house. They’re moving back
in ninety days. Why don’t I take your card and have her call you?”

“That’s kind of you, but I will be out of town on
business for three weeks by this afternoon and I fear I may miss her. It’s
vital that I get her signature today.”

Veronica studied the stranger. He seemed okay.

“Do you have a card?”

Keller reached into his breast pocket and handed her
Frank Trent’s card. Veronica held it thoughtfully.

“Come in.”

She went to the telephone table in the hall, flipped
through her address book, punched in a number. The line rang and rang,
unanswered.

“Nobody’s home,” she said.

“Well I just don’t know what I’m going to do.” Keller
frowned.

Veronica didn’t really want to give out Ann Reed’s
address in Berkeley, but she didn’t exactly feel beholden to her either. What
the hell? She copied Ann Reed’s address and number from her book.

“There you go. Maybe you can reach her yourself, Mr.
Trent.”

Keller accepted the piece of paper and looked at it
for the longest time. Strange, Veronica thought, the way he just stared at it,
like it was a winning lottery ticket. Finally, he looked her in the eye and
smiles with disturbing intensity.

“God bless you,” he said. “God bless you.”

Florence Schafer
sat alone at the kitchen table, reading the morning papers. Her
face turned ashen.

The families, friends, and supporters of Danny Becker
and Gabrielle Nunn displayed yellow ribbons across the city on doors, car
antennas, in shop windows, on trees, billboards, and in schools. Volunteers who
answered phone tips and went door to door with MISSING-REWARD flyers wore them
as arm bands. When they came to her house. Florence agreed to hang one from her
mailbox. A group of mountain climbers affixed a giant yellow bow on the south
spire of the Golden Gate. It was the manifestation of collective anguish and
hope the children would come home alive. Consequently, the San Francisco press
called the investigation “The Yellow Ribbon Task Force.”