“Sure.”
“Where’s Lila? She leave a key for me? I have moneyfor her.”
“Gone to visit a nephew in Tahoe. No key. Sorry, pal.”
Reed walked back, got his supper, sat in his car infront of Lila’s Edwardian rooming house, overlooking the Marina District, theGolden Gate, and the Pacific. It was night. He thought of bunking with theother tenants, or driving to a motel. He was exhausted. Maybe he would callsome of the guys at the paper, ask for a couch. He took a hard hit from thebottle. Staring at San Francisco’s blinking lights, he searched for the answerto one question: “How the hell did he get here?”
He was seething. It kept him awake, made him thirsty.What had happened? He was a professional, married to an exceptional woman,blessed with a fine son. They had a good life. They were fighting to save it.They owned a good house in a good neighborhood. He had never intended to hurtanyone in the world. He worked hard. He worked honestly. Didn’t that count foranything? Didn’t it? It had to. If it counted for something then why the fuckwas he in the street, swilling whiskey in the back seat of his 1977 Comet,watching the thread holding his job and sanity slowly unravel?
Wallowing in alcoholic self-pity, he looked at hissituation for what it was: circumstances. Benson had thrown a fit, Reed forgotto pay his rent, and was too drunk now to go somewhere for the night. No onewas to blame. He chose the car. Quit sucking on the bottle. Call it a bad dayand go to sleep. Deal with it in the morning.
An engine revved rudely.
The sun pried Reed’s eyes open.
It took a moment before he realized where he was andwhy.
His head was shooting with lightning strikes of painand the stench in his mouth was overpowering. The bottle was half gone, theother untouched. He saw the greasy, half-eaten bag of potato chips, and nearlypuked. He had to piss.
He needed a shower, a shave, a new life.
Reed spotted a kid walking by, delivering the Examiner.
“Bobby, can you spare a paper?”
The lanky teen stopped, taken aback by someone inReed’s shape crawling out of a car in Sea Park.
“I have exactly enough for my route.”
Reed fumbled with his wallet.
“Here’s five bucks, just give me one, and buy anotherone.”
The kid eyed the bill, then gave him a crisply foldedcopy.
Reed sat on the hood of his car, letting the sun warmhim, and unfolded the paper. His mind reeled, the headline screamed:
KIDNAPPING SUSPECT SHOT BY COPS IN CHURCH.
It stretched six columns over a huge color photo of aman bleeding on a stretcher. There was an inset mug of him, file photos ofTanita Donner, Danny Becker, and Gabrielle Nunn. The guy was shot in a hostagetaking yesterday at a soup kitchen in an Upper Market church. He was pegged asthe man behind Tanita’s murder and the two abductions.
Virgil Shook? Who the hell was Virgil Shook?
Reed devoured the story and the sidebars. Never heardof Virgil Shook. The Examiner had nothing on Edward Keller. They gotthis guy in a church in the Upper Market? Didn’t he get a call from a womanconnected to a church there, a woman claiming she heard the killer confess?Yes, and he had written her off as a nut.
Reed went inside, upstairs to the bathroom down thehall from his locked room. He remembered old Jake on the third floor subscribedto the Star. Reed flushed, then took the stairs two at a time, andbanged on the door until Jake said, “Go away.”
“Jake, it’s Tom, Tom Reed from downstairs. It’simportant.”
Jake didn’t answer.
“Jake did you get The San Francisco Star today?I just want to look at it, please! It’s important!”
Reed heard shuffling, the locks turned. Jake waswearing over-sized boxers, a T-shirt dotted with coffee stains, and a frown. Hepractically threw a wrinkled copy of The Star at Reed.
“Have it! Criminals are ruining this great lady of acity.”
Reed hurried to his room with Jake calling after him”“Why don’t you guys accentuate the positive of San Francisco!”
Out of habit, Reed had his key in the door to his roombefore remembering it wouldn’t work. Damn. His phone rang. Once, twice, threetimes. The machine clicked on.
“Reed, this is Benson. Your employment with The SanFrancisco Star is terminated today. You disobeyed my instructions.Yesterday’s hostage taking proved that your story about Edward Keller waserroneous. It was a virtual fabrication that would have left us open to alawsuit. Personnel will mail your severance papers and payment. No letter ofrecommendation will be provided.”
Reed slammed his back to the door, slid to the floor,burying his face in his hands.
He couldn’t think. He was free falling. He was fired!Terminated! Blown away.
His phone rang again, but the caller hung up.
What was happening to him?
The other bottle was in the car. Untouched. Reed wipedhis mouth with the back of his hand, feeling his stubble, realizing he stillhad The Star in his hand. He read the articles about the hostage takingwith Virgil Shook, the pedophile ex-con from Canada. Molly wrote most of them.Zero about Edward Keller.
The phone rang three times. The machine clicked.
“Where the hell are you?” Molly said. “I need yourhelp here, Reed. Haven’t you heard, all hell’s broken loose. It’s not EdwardKeller, it’s some pervert from Canada. Call me! They’ve started looking for thebodies! Get your ass in here!”
Yeah, right.
Reed sat there, his eyes closed. He was drowning.Floundering in the awful truth.
He heard his phone ringing again. The machine got it.
“Tom, what happened?” His wife was angry. “We waitedat the airport for an hour.”
Airport? He was supposed to pick up Ann and Zack thismorning.
“We’re at Mom’s. Call me.” The temperature of hervoice dropped. “If you have the time.”
FIFTY-SIX
The new white minivan parked in the shade of a eucalyptus grove on Fulton inBerkeley near the university was a rental from San Jose. For two days now ithad been an innocuous fixture across the street, three doors down from DorisCrane’s home. Her two-story house was framed perfectly in the van’s rearviewand driver’s side mirrors.
Edward Keller watched it with the vigilance of astatue.
Occasionally he would study his reflection. He hardlyrecognized himself-clean shaven, his pale skin was tanning. The dye he hadselected worked well, darkening his short, neat hair. He no longer saw himself.He had been transformed. He had been ordained, enlightened to show the worldthe wonder of God’s Love.
I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.
After his divine work in obtaining the address fromthe hillbilly living in the Angel’s house in San Francisco, Keller went to thepublic library, and scoured the directories and other registries, learning muchabout Doris Crane in a short time.
She was widowed in 1966 and lived alone in the house,working part-time as a secretary in Berkeley’s law department. Doris had onedaughter, Ann, who had one son. He was nine years old.
Pierce Keller was nine years old.
Ann owned three children’s clothing stores in the BayArea. Keller suspected her marriage was troubled, because she and the Angelwere renting their home and living with Doris Crane. A blessing that had kepther loathsome, arrogant husband out of the way.
Keller had already met him.
Thomas the doubter.
The oaf could not grasp the meaning of his mission: helping the bereaved through the valley of the dark sun. At first, Keller didnot know Reed’s role, believing he was sent to destroy his work.
But the truth was revealed.
It was destined that they should meet.
Reed was the signpost to the third Angel. It wasrevealed to him in Zach Reed’s birth announcement. Keller found it in thepublic library’s newspaper archives, Zachary Michael Reed.