A Hideous Beauty (24 page)

“Apparently, if you change one of them in some way, the other one instantly reflects that change. He said that scientists have done successful experiments on particles as far as sixty-two miles apart. He was all jazzed about it, saying that experiments would improve communications and make quantum computers possible. He claimed it may even make teleportation a reality. Did I understand everything he said? Of course not.
Did I believe him? Why shouldn't I? The guy knew what he was talking about. And anything that will eliminate the dead zone in Rose Canyon for my cell phone, I'm all for.”

She pinched off another molecule, looked at it, and popped it in her mouth. She was refusing to look at me, which meant she was still miffed for my not going to Myles Shepherd's funeral. But I wasn't going to bring it up and I hoped she wouldn't either.

“Jana, I need your help,” I said, getting down to business.

Still staring at her oatmeal bar as though it was the most fascinating oatmeal bar she'd ever seen, she said, “You flew all the way out here to ask for my help? Why didn't you just pick up the phone? Two days ago you told me you had no plans to return to San Diego.”

“Things changed,” I said.

I hadn't told Jana about the coded confession in my book. Had Sue Ling? Even though Jana said they shared everything, I doubted Sue had told her. Jana's a reporter. If she knew about a threat to the president, she wouldn't be acting aloof. Which meant she didn't know about my access to the White House being cut off or my trip to Montana. So without revealing any of this to her, somehow I had to convince her to help me get close to the president.

“Does this have anything to do with that silly death threat in your book?” Jana asked.

I stared at her dumbly.

She smiled. “I told you Sue and I tell each other everything.”

My life suddenly got easier or more complicated depending on how she answered my next question. “Have you told anyone else?”

Exasperated, she turned her attention away from her oatmeal bar to me. “Do you mean will you hear about it on the
evening news? Of course not. I know you. It's a prank. It's not newsworthy unless you write for the tabloids, which I don't.”

Her news director might disagree with her, but I wasn't going to press the point. “Thank you, but I fear it's more than just a prank.”

As briefly as I could, and speaking in a low whisper, I caught her up to date, everything that had happened since I learned about the coded message, including my interview with Doc Palmer.

She wasn't aloof anymore.

“Grant! What have you gotten yourself involved with?” she cried.

“That's what I have to find out. And that's why I need your help.”

She shook her head while brushing crumbs from her hands. She shook her head while taking a sip of orange juice. “No . . . no . . . no . . . no, Grant. I will not help you assassinate the president.”

“But you just said—”

“I didn't know the full story then.”

“Jana! You know me. Do you really think I'm capable of assassinating the president?”

In my exuberance I let my voice carry. A pair of shocked faces stared at us from behind the refrigerated display cases. “I'm a writer,” I explained to them. “We're working on some dialogue for a novel.”

The bakery employees nodded as though they believed me, but a spark of doubt remained in their eyes.

“See?” Jana said. “That's what I'm talking about. No, I don't think you're plotting to assassinate the president. But it doesn't matter what I think. If something happens, it'll appear you had something to do with it.”

“What you think matters to me.”

“Look at it from a reporter's perspective. One, you confess to the killing in print. Two, the president himself warns you to stay away from San Diego, yet here you are. Three, you tried to break into the White House, and even though the Secret Service has warned you to keep your distance, you are currently trying to find a way to get close to the president.”

“Do you think you can get me a press pass?”

Jana raised her hands in exasperation.

“OK . . . look at it from my perspective,” I pleaded. “Everything you said is true. Someone is setting me up. But I can't just sit back and do nothing, can I? I have to find out who's doing this to me and why so that I can clear myself.”

“You could fly to Oakland,” Jana said.

“Why Oakland?”

“It's not San Diego.”

I reached across the table, across the oatmeal bar, and took Jana's hand. “I need your help,” I said. “The president will clear me, I know he will. All I have to do is get close enough to ask him.”

“Close enough. How?”

“With a press pass.”

“Out of the question.” She pulled her hand away, pushed back her chair to leave.

“At the fund-raisers,” I said. “Maybe I could get close to him there.”

“Good luck,” Jana said.

“Maybe I don't have to get close enough to talk to him,” I said. “Just get his attention.”

“How?”

“Four words,” I said.
“Doc Palmer is alive.”

“Do you think it'll work?”

“If the president knows I know the truth about Vietnam and his drug problems, he'll talk to me.”

“Or eliminate you.”

“He wouldn't do that.”

“A man doesn't rise to his level of power without having the means to protect himself.”

She had a point. Though I still didn't want to admit it, Douglas wasn't the man I'd portrayed in my book. “Are you going to help me?” I asked.

“No. And I don't know how long I can sit on this, Grant. I really don't. Just Doc Palmer being alive . . . this is . . . this is big.”

She gathered her things and walked out of Howard's Bakery.

By ten o'clock that night I was in bed, exhausted from the trip and from arguing with three women. Christina called just as I was settling into my hotel room.

It was a quarter past five o'clock, a quarter past eight o'clock in Washington. Not until I heard “Hail to the Chief” did I remember she was expecting me to meet her for dinner at DeLugo's.

“Are you stuck in traffic?” she asked.

“Sorry. I tried to call you.”

“No problem. I got us a table. How long will you be?”

“Christina, I'm not in Washington. I tried to tell you, but our conversation ended so quickly, and then you turned your phone off.”

Silence.

“Christina?”

“Did you miss your connecting flight?”

From the tone in her voice, she was hoping my excuse was simple and explainable.

“No.” I swallowed hard. “I'm in San Diego.”

The silence was so silent I thought we'd lost our connection. Then I heard her sniff. “I see,” she said frostily.

“When I heard on the radio that the president was coming to San Diego, I had to come.”

“Despite his warning.”

“Yeah.”

“Grant, the president was trying to warn you. Protect you.”

“Christina, I had to come. Somehow I have to—”

“I can't deal with this right now, Grant. I just can't deal with it.”

This time her silence was a severed connection.

As much as I wanted to make the most of my stay at the historic U.S. Grant Hotel, I didn't feel like going out again and chose a pizza from room service over dinner in the newly refurbished Grant's Grill. I turned on the TV and watched the Padres blow a four-run lead in the top of the ninth to the Dodgers at Petco Park just a few blocks away and went to bed early.

At 10:30 p.m. I was awakened by the sound of pounding. I opened the door to double trouble.

“Hi, Grant.”

“Hi, Grant.”

Jana and Sue stood shoulder to shoulder with conspiratorial grins. I greeted them in my bathrobe.

“You weren't in bed already, were you?” Sue asked.

The evidence was too overwhelming to deny it.

Jana pushed past me into the room. Sue followed.

“All right, here's the deal,” Jana said.

My phone rang. “Hail to the Chief.”

Jana and Sue looked at each other. “Christina,” they said in unison.

Crossing the room to the phone, I answered it.

“I'm furious with you for going to San Diego, you know that, don't you?” Christina began.

“Hello, Christina!” Jana and Sue sang in unison.

“Grant?” Christina said. “Do you have girls in your room?”

“No,” I said. “Just Jana and Sue.”

Christina didn't share Jana's and Sue's playful spirit. “Well . . . that's just . . . you're just full of surprises, aren't you? I called you because I may have news . . . I was going to tell you at dinner . . . but I got so angry . . . it's important . . . but I don't want to interrupt your party . . .”

“It's not a party,” I protested.

“It's late, Grant . . . and I'm tired . . . good night.”

“Christina?”

She'd hung up.

I signaled to Jana and Sue to give me a minute while I speed dialed Christina's number. No surprise that she'd turned off her phone.

“Here's the deal,” Jana said, as soon as I flipped my phone closed. “Sue . . .”

Sue Ling reached into her bag and pulled out the professor's manuscript. She set it on the table in the corner.

“You read the professor's manuscript,” Jana said. “Then, you meet with the professor tomorrow morning. Once you do that, Sue will call me and I will do what I can to help you contact the president. Within reason.”

I looked at the manuscript on the table, then at the girls who were once again shoulder to shoulder in a united front against me. “You'll get me a press pass?”

“I said within reason.”

What could I say? I was better off than I was five minutes earlier. “I still don't know what you want from me with the manuscript.”

“Just read it,” Sue said.

“All right. I agree to your terms.”

The girls nodded their agreement. Business concluded, they turned toward the door.

“You're right. He does have nice legs,” Sue said on the way out.

“Would I lie about something like that?” Jana said, pulling the door closed behind her.

With little chance of sleeping anytime soon, I pulled out a chair at the table. With the night skyline outside my window I read the professor's manuscript, beginning with a note in the professor's hand, paper-clipped to the front page.

CHAPTER
18

The Spectacle

A HISTORY OF ANGEL WAR

As told to J. P. Forsythe

This is the faithful narrative passed down to me by the Seraph Abdiel, an eyewitness to the events contained herein. Having served under the Archangel Lucifer before the rebellion, Abdiel proved himself “faithful among the faithless—unmoved, unshaken, unseduced, unterrified.” His loyalty, love, and zeal for the Almighty God are well documented in the annals of the angels.

I would add a note about style. During the dictation I have observed that angels—beings who were created to exist outside of time—struggle with chronology. At times the phrasing in the narrative reflects this. I also got the impression that the narrative itself is not solely of Abdiel's creation, but rather a telling that has been handed down, not unlike an oral history.

J. P. Forsythe

u(pernikw=men

(We are more than conquerors)

You were the model of perfection, full of wisdom and perfect in beauty . . . you were on the holy mount of God . . . till wickedness was found in you . . . and you sinned. So I drove you in disgrace from the mount of God . . . I threw you to the earth; I made a spectacle of you . . .

Ezekiel 28:12-17

And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross.

Colossians 2:15

How do I, Abdiel, Seraph of the heavens, describe to humans clothed in flesh the horrors of celestial war? How do I explain countless dimensions to beings entombed in time? How do I narrate the tales of eternity, of heaven's enduring villains, to a people who cannot conceive of life without a past, present, or future?

And what of war itself and angel death?

Of battle's din and hills alive with celestial tribes,

Of angels clad in armor clear as crystal, their swords flashing with sacred light,

Of bugled advances and tattooed retreats,

Of chariots converging on heavenly plains?

 

These are the fantasies of a fallen race. War is never glorious. And spiritual warfare, which has none of these attractions, is most hideous of all.

Lucifer's weapons are largely unseen;