If Angels Fall (27 page)

“She got into the truck with the man and he drove
off.”

Nancy’s head spun. The woman caught her, steadying
her.

The man realized he could do something. “I’ve got a
phone. I’ll call 9-1-1! I’ll drive around after the truck, lady, wait here!”

Nancy fell to her knees, seeing nothing, hearing
nothing, feeling nothing, not even the strange older woman who’s arms held her
so tightly they kept her from falling off the earth.

Standing at
the living room window of her stucco bungalow, Eva Blair was curious about the
strange truck that had stopped in front of the Walker place across the street.
Nobody got out of the truck. The engine was idling. Looked like a man and—Eva
could just make out a little head—a child. A bearded man talking, no, arguing,
with a child. It was none of her business. She was being an old busybody.

But something strange was going on.

Eva could just make out part of the truck’s rear
plate. California. “B” or “8” or “E”. It was a battered old pickup. A Ford,
according to the tailgate. The man seemed angry. There was a glint of metal in
the cab. A knife? Did the man have a knife? Goodness! What in the world was he
doing? Now he was tossing something out the window. She should call the police.
The truck was filthy, neglected, a disgrace.

The engine growled and the truck sped away.

An ominous feeling came over Eva and she decided, for
good measure, to jot down what she could remember of the truck. She slipped on
her bifocals, left her house by the front door, and started across the street
toward the spot where the truck had stopped. Something was on the sidewalk.

Eva gasped. A mound. A small, fluffy, heap of...hair.
Human hair, beautiful chestnut hair. She bent over to examine it closely,
gasping before hurrying back to her house to call the police.

The hair was dotted with fresh blood.

God be praised.

Keller had left Golden Gate Park without a hitch.
Gabrielle was as quiet as a lamb, hugging her pathetic mutt.

“You are a radiant Angel.” He could not take his eyes
from her.

“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.”

Keller had been checking his rearview mirror every few
seconds since they left the park. No hint of trouble. Time to shift things into
high gear. “Say, Gabrielle, it’s pretty hot. Want a soda?”

“Yes, please!”

Keller fished through a canvass knapsack behind the
seat, producing a can. “I’ll open it for you.”

“Thank you.” Gabrielle took the can from him, gulped a
huge swallow. It was cold. She let Jackson lick some from her hand. “Bad
doggie.” She wagged a warning finger at him. “Don’t you ever run away from me
again!”

“I bet you believe in God, say your prayers every
night?”

She nodded as the truck jerked over a pothole.

“Goodness. You spilled some on your dress. We’ll have
to stop so I can clean it for you.”

Gabrielle looked at her dress and saw no stain. “I
don’t think I spilled any, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Yes, you did. I’ll get it for you, as soon as I find
a safe place to stop. Up there looks good.”

Keller spotted a house with a FOR SALE sign. It looked
empty. Neighborhood was quiet. He had to do this now, couldn’t wait any longer.
It was still several miles to Wintergreen Heights. He stopped in front of the
house and left the engine running.

“I really didn’t spill any, Mr. Jenkins. Honest. I
looked.”

“You spilled some down your chin.” Keller grunted,
reaching into the knapsack and pulling out a plastic bag with a damp face cloth
inside, reeking of medicine.

Gabrielle touched her chin. It was dry, but before she
could do anything, the stinky wet cloth was over her mouth, forcing her to
breathe through her nose. She struggled, kicked, and tried to scream. Jackson
barked. Gabrielle dropped her Coke. It spilled and hissed on the floor. Keller
held the cloth firmly against her face, staring into her fluttering eyes as she
fell asleep.

Jackson barked fiercely.

“Shut up!” Keller said, removing Gabrielle’s dress and
leotards, stuffing them into the knapsack. Rummaging in the pack, he pulled out
a pair of child’s shorts and a Forty-niners’ T-shirt. In seconds, he had
slipped them on Gabrielle, along with a ball cap.

Then he pulled a pair of scissors from the knapsack,
leaned Gabrielle forward, and began snipping off her chestnut braids.

The dog growled, leaping at Keller, biting at his
hands. Damn! Keller caught his forefinger between the razor-sharp blades, and
most of the hair in his hand went out the window. The wound was deep.

Damn it!

At that instant, Keller saw an old woman watching from
her living room. What did she see?

Keller stomped on the gas, the engine roared, tires
peeled, stones flew in anger. How could he have been so careless! He pounded
the steering wheel, driving his rage like a rocket. Try to relax.

His heart thumped. It was happening. As it had been
prophesied. To the ignorant, the girl was a little boy who’d fallen asleep. But
he knew the truth. The Divine Truth.

Slow down to the limit before you attract more
attention, he told himself. Come on. The old woman saw nothing. What was there
to see from her angle across the wide street? Nothing. She saw nothing: a man
stopping to look at a house that was for sale. Nothing.

But the hair? What if she called the police?

Was he doubting his mission? His revelation?

He was cleansed in the light of the Lord. He must
never cease believing he was blessed. That’s right. He had put more than a
dozen blocks behind him now and was beginning to relax, focusing on his route
to Wintergreen. The angel was sleeping. Good. Keller looked at the dog. The
mutt could lead the police to him. He could sacrifice it with the scissors. He
could it right now. He could pull into a back alley. It would take three
seconds, then he—

Traffic had come to a dead halt. The rear bumper of
the Honda in front of Keller rushed at him. He hit the brakes in time to avoid
crashing. The two lanes ahead were merging into one. Cars inching along. What was
happening? He saw a flash of red emergency lights.

Police! A roadblock?

Keller’s tongue swelled. He began sweating. The
rearview mirror reflected a clogged river of vehicles, a virtual parking lot.
He could try escaping by driving along the sidewalk. No, that would guarantee a
pursuit.

He was trapped. Keller squeezed the wheel. No. Not
this way.

You promised to help me. Do not forsake me.

The Angel was sleeping.

“Got the number two song in the Bay Area coming up,
but this just in from the newsroom.” The radio in the convertible VW Golf
creeping alongside Keller was cranked to distortion. The young redhead alone
behind the wheel was oblivious as she puffed on her cigarette. “A five-year-old
girl was reportedly abducted less than thirty minutes ago from the children’s
playground at Golden Gate Park. Her name is Gabrielle Nunn. She has brown,
braided hair and is wearing a flowered dress. Police say she may have been
taken by a man.” The radio faded away.

No. Not this way. Stay calm. He reached under the seat
between his legs for the Smith & Wesson, purchased last year from a crack
dealer in the Mission.

Numbers filed. Untraceable, like the wind, my man. Two
C’s.

Keller slipped the gun casually under his left leg. He
thought of the phony license he got on the street, along with fake birth
certificates, credit cards, library cards. When he required it, he could be
anybody he wanted. God will provide, his father would say.

Ahead, a charter bus belched black smoke, its big
diesel rattled as it crawled, clearing a line of sight. Keller first saw an
SFPD black-and-white blocking one lane, then another. Then the ambulance and a
mangled car flipped on its roof. He saw the firefighters with the jaws-of-life
clattering like a ravenous metal-eater to get at the bloodied person trapped
inside. An accident. Okay. Keller sighed.

Suddenly a cop stood before him on the road, directing
traffic.

“You!” The officer pointed at him. His motorcycle was
nearby. A Harley Davidson. Impossible to outrun. He was an imposing traffic
bull in dark aviator glasses, leather jacket, leather boots, and a leather
utility belt with a holstered gun.

“Hold it right there!”

Keller eyed the officer as he approached.

Not this way. He refused to let it end here. He felt
the hard barrel of the gun under his leg, and kept both hands on the wheel. The
copy made leathery squeaks as he walked. His stern face telegraphed a clear
message: Do not fuck with me, sir.

The dog barked and Gabrielle stirred. Her eyelids
flickered. Do not forsake me. A droplet of sweat rolled down Keller’s back
between his shoulder blades.

“What’s the problem, officer?”

“Sir, are you aware your left front tire is
underinflated?”

“No, I wasn’t aware.”

Just then the officer’s portable radio crackled with
something unclear. He snatched it, and requested a repeat of the transmission.
Keller slid his hand under his left leg, fingering the gun.

I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.

Again, the officer could not make out the radio
message.

“Been crapping out like this all day,” he complained,
cursing city bureaucrats. “Sorry, sir. Get that tire pumped.”

“No trouble, officer.”

The cop gave Keller a polite salute and waved him
through.

It went according to his prayers. According to the
prophesy. Thank God! Praise Him! He gazed upon the sleeping Angel. Behold the
Seraph. Behold Gabriel. God’s messenger now belonged to him.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.

The highway
curled breathtakingly close to the cliff edges above the Pacific, its cresting
cobalt waves pummeling the rocks while embracing the beaches below.

The view soothed Sydowski whenever he drove to
Pacifica and today he needed soothing. His visit with his old man left him with
souvenirs. He flipped down the visor mirror again. The cuts on his freshly
shaved face had coagulated. He winced, pulling at the bits of tissue paper. The
things a son will do to make his old man happy.