If Angels Fall (6 page)

Reimer’s boat was a beauty. His mistress. A Searay Seville. A
twenty-one-footer. She had a cuddy cabin, a rebuilt V-6 170 horsepower
Mercruiser. Glided like a dream as they moved into the California current and
cut across the coastal shipping lanes. It was upwelling season and he kept a
lookout for blooms of plankton. He could just make out the shape of the Farallons
twenty-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 his
three other charter boats waiting back at the marina. Just think of other
things. He watched a trio of Dall’s porpoises leaping along port side. He took
mental 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 the
navy’s submarine playground, which swept southeast of the islands. Reimer knew
the region, her history, her mysteries, and her secrets. He looked at Keller
again. Ed there was a tragic story. Look at him. Sitting stonelike, clutching
that package and staring at nothing. Somebody ought to tell him they are never
coming 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 jade
waters, 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. Like
Keller. The motor grumbling. Pierce gripping his seat with one hand. The other
around his sister, Alisha Keller. Like her mother. Brilliant, beautiful,
unyielding. Alisha. Six. Hugging Joshua. The baby. Three years old. The wooden
boat. An old speedboat. The last rental. Hammering over the choppy water. Going
to spend the day alone looking for whales. Just him and the kids. Joan demanded
it. “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 before
they would get in the boat. Couldn’t wait until they got to the islands to eat
the 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 get
this over with.

Wouldn’t go out too far today, sir, squalls comin’, the kid at the
marina telling him—the pimple-faced grease monkey giving advice to him. Edward
Keller, a self-made millionaire. Keller ignoring him, ramming the throttle
down. Keller didn’t understand the buoys. Where is north? Damn. Couldn’t read
the chart. Hell with it, you could practically see the Farallones. One hundred
fifty 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 eat
their 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. Time
to head back. Maybe they should wait it out on the islands. They were at least
a mile off the southern-most island. It seemed close. Hard to say. Some boats
far off. Thunder. Rain. Head for the islands. The boat rising. Dipping. A
rollercoaster. Something scraping under them, a fantastic thud. A rock?

Then he saw the huge tail and his heart nearly burst from fear.

A whale! Right under them! Cracked the hull!

The children screamed. Water came through his shoes, ice cold.
Alisha screaming. Water rushing in! Josh crying.

“Pierce! Alisha! Life jackets! Get them on! Hurry!”

Water crashing over the side now. Cold. The boat yawing. The water
rising fast over his ankles. Alisha screaming. The jackets. Can’t get them on!
Kill the motor. Standing to help Josh. A wave smashing over the gunwale.
Something hard hitting his face. Airborne. He was flying. Wet. Freezing. Black.
Nothing. Silence.

He was in the water.

Spitting out water. The boat was on its side. The children were in
the water. Pierce. Hanging on to the hull. Josh’s head bobbing near the stern.
Alisha was near the boat.

The life jackets were rolling away. It was so dark.

“Pierce! Get Josh, he’s near you!”

Alisha treading water. Joan enrolled them in swimming classes.
Didn’t she? Think! He didn’t know if his own children could swim.

They have everything but a father
.

Alisha’s hand breaking the surface. Grabbing her hair as she went
under. Alisha coughing. Crying. “Pierce!” Pierce had Josh. “Good boy, son!” All
of them were together. Okay. Think. Keller gasping. Holding Josh to his chest.
Alisha and Pierce next to him. Their breath tight, their teeth chattering. His
too.

Hypothermia. Shock. Josh silent, nearly out cold. He shook him.
Alisha moaned. Stomachache. The burgers and shakes!

The boat gurgling. It’s going down. Stay with the boat. But it’s
sinking! What if there’s an undertow? Spotting a light. Thank God. It’s
something. A buoy? He could make it. He hadn’t eaten. He could make it. He had
to.

“Listen! We’re going to that light! It’s not far! Do what Daddy
says. We’ll be okay! Kick your shoes off! Joshua!” His eyes were closed. Lips
blue. “Joshua! Wake up, goddamn it!” Keller shook him again. He woke. Turning
his back to Joshua. “Put your arms around Daddy’s neck! Now, Joshua!” Cold,
tiny arms slipping limply around his neck. “Tighter, Josh, tighter!” Joshua’s
hold tightened slightly. “Alisha, take my shoulder and hang on!” Trembling
hands clutching his shoulder. Alisha whimpering.

“Pierce, grab hold! Hurry!” Pushing off. “Hang on to Daddy. Let
Daddy be the boat. Kick your feet slowly. Easy. Talk to me. We’re going to make
it. Nice easy strokes.” The water rolling terribly. Breaststrokes. Adrenaline
pumping. Doing fine. Confident. Going to make it.

“That’s it. Kick your feet. Keep warm. Think warm. Kick slowly.
Easy. Help Daddy.

Alisha! Her grip loosening, she was drifting away. Carefully
grabbing her arm. “Alisha! Stay awake! Hang on to Daddy. Easy strokes. Alisha
crying softer.

Suddenly his neck is cold. Joshua slipping down his back and under.
Turning, reaching deep, nothing. Alisha. Joshua shaken off. “Joshua!” Diving
deep, arms flailing, seeing nothing, lungs aching, waves rolling. “Pierce!
Alisha!” Nothing. “Joshua!” shouting. “Someone help me! Oh God, please help
me.” Waves tossing him, screaming. “Why don’t they hear me? My children are
drowning.” The darkness. Oh God, please. The thunder, the waves, white crest,
black water now...

...jade against the churning wake of Reimer’s boat. Silence after
Reimer killed the engine. “We’re here.”

Keller nodded but didn’t move.

The wake lapping against the boat. The gulls were crying. Reimer let
Keller be, draped a hand over the wheel and looked off at the horizon. He
rubbed his neck, scratched his stubble, glanced at his watch, started hitting
his thumbnail. Maybe he’d get a sandwich.

The boat swayed gently as Keller stood. Carefully, he unwrapped the
package, dropping the paper into the boat. He studied the wreath. Entwined with
white roses, it was beautiful. He held it before him for a moment, then lifted
his head to hear the boat’s wake reach a cove along the rocky shoreline. Tranquil
here today, like a church after a funeral. Keller placed the wreath tenderly on
the surface. It drifted away.

Reimer saw a great seabird startled by the boat’s wake spread its
wings and lift off from the cove to fly low directly above them.

Keller heard a flutter of wings. Angel wings.

He saw something reflected in the water, passing over the wreath.

Here is where his life ended and where he would resurrect it. His
heart now knew. It had been revealed to him.

Your children are waiting, Edward
.

“Here you go, Logan and Good.” Willie Hampton turned to Keller,
stopping alongside the curb. “That’s twelve-fifty.”

Keller gave him a twenty and collected the sleeping child.

“Hope your daughter feels better.” Willie fished for changed.

“My what?”

“Your daughter. Hope she feels better.” Willie held out the change.

“Yes. Keep it.”

Keller hoisted the child on his shoulder and walked off.

Willie Hampton pulled the door shut, then left Logan for Donevers
Street, went four or five blocks before he realized it was a dead end. Damn. He
cut over another block west near Wintergreen Heights, the large project. As he
doubled back, he spotted his fare with the child just as they entered a
sorry-lookin’ little house. Don’t know your story, friend, but it must be a sad
one. Willie Hampton shook his head and returned to humming his favorite tune
from
South Pacific
. In a few hours he would be on a jet to Hawaii.

Tiny ponies
in hearts
galloped across Danny’s cotton pajamas, smelling of shampoo. Maggie touched
them to her cheek and wept.

Night had come. If she didn’t get Danny into bed and read him a
story now, he would become cranky. Maggie tried to rise, but couldn’t move.

She must be dreaming. She had to be dreaming.

Sitting in her darkened studio, looking at the park, the swans in
the pond, the water shimmering in the light of the turn-of-the-century street
lamps. The distant din of the strangers downstairs. Maggie’s painting was
nearly finished. She’d been working on it that morning when Nathan called, his
voice small, breaking. She’d never heard him like this before. Was he drunk?

“Maggie? Maggie. Something bad has happened.”

“Nathan, what is it?”

“The police, the FBI, are going to be there soon.”

“Police? FBI? Nathan! What’s happened? Is Danny hurt?”

She heard a muffled, coughing sound.

“Nathan!”

“He’s gone, Maggie...”

“Nathan, where is Danny!” Her hand shook. Danny was dead.

“A man took him—“

“No! Nathan, no!”

“I chased him. I stopped the train and ran. But I couldn’t catch
him. The police are looking everywhere—I swear I’ll bring him back. I’ll bring
him...I’ll be right there, Maggie. I’ll be right there.”

She sank to the floor, cradling the receiver to her breast. Anyone
behind her would have thought she was holding a baby.

This is how Maggie’s dream started.

Then the doorbell rang.

It was Gene Carr, the doctor from down the street. Nathan golfed
with him at Harding Park. Gene was with men in suits. Police. Saying their
names, showing identification. Please sit down, Mrs. Becker.

What is it?

Gene holding her hand.

This is a dream. She knows what they are going to tell her.

Danny is dead.

Do you understand, Mrs. Becker?

No.

Your child was abducted by a stranger.

Shaking her head, wiping her eyes.

No.

They were mistaken. This didn’t happen to nice families.

No.

Nathan would never allow it. Danny was a special child.

Everyone exchanging glances. Solemn faces. It was no mistake.

It was a mistake. It was.

Punching someone, shoving the words back down his throat. How dare
you tell me this? Get out of my house. Get out now.

Gene and the police holding her.

No, you lying bastards! Where is my baby? You bring me my baby!

Maggie waking on the living room couch. Someone holding her hand.
Nathan. Eyes red. Gene standing over them. Gene’s wife, Sharon, nearby, hugging
herself. Sharon was a distant relative of the President. She loved raspberry
tea. Gene asking Maggie to take the two pills he gave her, holding Danny’s
Goofy glass from Disneyland. She took the pills. One of the FBI agents, the
older one with the scarred chin, watching from one end of the sofa. The younger
one was on a phone. Police officers moving her grandmother’s Louis the XVIth
chair, setting up a table right where they stand the Christmas tree. Danny
loved—
loves
–Christmas. A technician quickly installing telephones, a tape
recorder, wires everywhere. Gene telling her the pills would relax her. Where
would she be more comfortable?