“Zachary?”
His room was empty.
Defeated, she sat on his bed, shaking as she wept. Whereare you? Why are you doing this to me? Zach’s black nylon travel bag yawnedfrom the foot of the bed, opened, but not unpacked. It appeared as if hestarted unpacking, and took a few things out before changing his mind. Shelooked around his room. Where was his portable computer game? His CD player?His little knife? He treasured those things. She went to the dresser and liftedit slightly. His stash of cash, savings from his allowance, was gone. Shelooked around again. So were his jacket and school backpack. He’s run away.
She called Tom’s place, letting the phone ring. Hismachine clicked on. She left a message, urging him to call her immediately. Shehung up and dialed another number. She had an idea.
“San Francisco Starnewsroom,” said a hurried voice.
“I’d like to talk to Tom Reed. This is his wife. It’surgent.”
Her request was met with an unusually long silence.
“Hello?” Ann said.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reed. I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, uh. Tom was, uh — ” the voice dropped to aconfidential whisper. “He … as of yesterday, he no longer works here. I’msorry.”
She hung up and sat down. That was what he was tryingto tell her. It explained why he missed them at the airport, why he had beendrinking. He was fired. She buried her face in her hands.
Time to get it in gear, Annie. Where was the mostlikely place Zach would go? To his father’s.
Okay. She would drive across the Bay to Tom’s roominghouse. She stood. Wait! What if Zach returns? She should wait here.
She brushed her tears away, grabbed the phone, andpunched Tom’s number in again, letting it ring and ring and ring.
She would keep calling until she broke that freakingmachine.
SIXTY-THREE
God was present .
Edward Keller felt the intoxicating heat of His love.It was overpowering — he was swirling in it, as he hurried through Berkeleyfor San Francisco, delighting in the celestial trumpeting that melted into hornhonking, waking him to the fact that his rental van was drifting towardoncoming traffic. Keller shrugged it off.
He had found Michael the Archangel. He had gazed uponhim.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.
The transfiguration was near, brushing against hisfingers. All he had to do was obtain Michael, the last angel.
The Lord would illuminate the way.
For God will send His angels to watch over them.And they shall embrace them and carry them to Heaven.
Waiting for the light to change at an intersectionwest of the campus along Center, Keller feasted obsessively on a thumbnail. Hewas planning his route to the Bay Bridge, when a miracle blazed like aprophet’s comet before his eyes.
“Sweet Jesus!” He couldn’t believe it! It was Michael!
Heaven’s warrior!
Keller managed only a glimpse, a mind-searing glimpseof nine-year-old Zachary Michael Reed, wearing a bulging backpack and crossingCenter. He was walking.
He was alone.
Alone!
Keller drove ahead for a block and tucked his van intoa parking space ahead of a larger cargo truck, out of sight. He adjusted hispassenger-side mirror, catching Michael’s distant reflection.
And behold the earth shook and God’s angeldescended from the skies. His eyes were like lightening, and any who opposedhim were struck dead.
The boy’s image grew with each step, quickeningKeller’s pulse. He was sweating. What should he do? What if Michael spotted himand became suspicious? He had to remain calm. In control, as he was with theothers.
I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.
The final challenge.
Michael stopped at a store, less than three carlengths away. Had he noticed the van? He couldn’t have. Keller adjusted themirror again. It looked like a hobby store. Michael peered into the window,then went inside. Where were the adults? Was he allowed to go into the storealone? Keller waited. No one else appeared. The boy was alone.
It was a sign.
He must act on it.
Dominus Deus sabaoth.
Keller scurried to the back of the van, watching thestorefront from its tinted rear windows. He quickly changed into a shirt, tie,dress pants, and suit jacket. The same outfit he used for his insurance man. Heknotted the tie, combed his hair neatly, and slid on a pair of dark aviatorglasses.
The van’s side door rolled open.
Anyone watching with a modicum of interest would haveseen a very serious, professional-looking man of authority stepping from hisnew van to attend to an important business matter. If they guessed he was acop, they would be right, Keller would tell them confidently if pressed. For inhis beast pocket he carried the leather-cased laminated photo ID and shield ofRandall Lamont, special investigator for the State of California, a personalityhe had created after sending fifteen bucks to a mail-order house thatadvertised in the back of a detective magazine.
But Keller knew no one was watching, or cared.
Except God.
And He was lighting the way.
SIXTY-FOUR
“Inspector Turgeon? Inspector Sydowski?”
“Yes,” Turgeon said.
Professor Kate Martin stepped from the door of hercondo, indicating two sofas facing each other over a glass-and-rattan coffeetable, the centerpieces of her living room overlooking the Golden Gate andPacific. A hint of hyacinths lingered.
Although she was barefoot in Levi’s and along-sleeved, ratty flannel shirt, Martin moved with the swanlike elegance of aself-assured woman. But Sydowski’s deeper reading picked up the unease in hereyes. Her hair, pulled back with a navy barrette, was loosening. She corralledthe wild strands slipping in front of her face, revealing bright white flecks onher hands. She folded her arms across her chest. “I was painting a bookcasewhen you called.”
Turgeon and Sydowski saw the file folders stacked onthe coffee table. Martin had obviously stopped painting to scour through them.
“Sit down, please. Be comfortable. I’ve made someraspberry tea. Would you care for some? I have coffee, too, if you like?”
“Tea would be fine,” Turgeon said.
“And Inspector Sy-DOW-ski? I hope I’m pronouncing itcorrectly?”
“You are. No tea for me, thanks.” Then he thought ofsomething as she started for the kitchen. “Dr. Martin?”
She stopped and smiled.
“By chance, would you have any Tums?”
“I’m sorry, no. I do have Alka-Seltzer.”
“That’ll do, thanks.”
The chicken sandwich Sydowski had inhaled during thebriefing was jitterbugging through his system. It nearly burned a hole in hisstomach during the drive over as Turgeon read aloud, for the second time, everyword of the article the Star had recently published on Martin’sbereavement research study.
The Homicide Detail’s secretary had clipped the story,“as per the lieutenant’s instructions”. Leo was a pain that way about the localpapers. Anything with the word “murder” in it activated her scissors. But whatwith the Yellow Ribbon Task Force working a green light, Gonzales never got aroundto reading this one. And Sydowski, a scrupulous reader of crime stories, missedit. When he approached Gonzales immediately after the FBI’s profiler went onabout the bad guy suffering psychological pain involving children, Gonzalesordered the secretary to get the story.
It was written by Tom Reed.
“First he fucks us up on the Donner file — what thehell is it with this guy? Flora, can you make some copies of this please?”