A Hideous Beauty (8 page)

A reference librarian with a sense of humor. Go figure.

“There were more references, but they say pretty much the same thing,” she said of the printouts.

SEMYAZA —Angel; of the rank of Seraphim. A leader of the angels who rebelled in heaven and cohabited with women. The 200 angels under his command are divided into groups of ten, each with a prince.

The second printout was similar to the first:

Semyaza (Aramaic; Shemyahzah), which means “my name has seen” or “he sees the name.” Possibly an indication that had the rebellion in heaven succeeded, he would have been granted the Archangel Gabriel's position, which he coveted. Semyaza was cast out of heaven with Lucifer. On earth, he is legendary for his corruption of humanity.

“Semyaza is the name of an angel,” I muttered. “Which explains . . .” I pointed to the book of figurines. “Very funny.”

“You look like a man who enjoys a joke,” she replied.

I stared at the printouts, not knowing what to think. What did any of this have to do with Myles Shepherd?

“You say you heard the name,” Kathy said. “Do you mind if I ask where?”

“Um . . . from a high school teacher.”

She shuffled through some other printouts she'd kept in her hand, placing one on top. “Is this him?”

The printout was from one of those Web sites where people post their picture and personal information and invite friends to leave messages. The man in the picture had a large, oval face with straight jet-black hair down to his collar. He wore a goatee. His lips were black. And he wore round, wire-rim glasses. From his expression he appeared to have an upset stomach.

According to the bio, he was thirty-two years old and lived in Midwest City, OK. Under turn-ons he listed creative piercing; his favorite music was Black Sabbath, Kiss (the early albums), and Marilyn Manson. At the top of the page, next to his picture, there was a place for his name: Semyaza.

To me, this was funnier than the figurines. I laughed.

“Not him, I take it,” Kathy said.

“No offense to Mr. Semyaza of Midwest City, but if a nationwide search were conducted to find the polar opposite of Myles Shepherd”—I tapped the printout—“this guy would win, hands down.”

Kathy crumpled the printout and chuckled. “Would you like me to search some more, or have you found what you needed?”

“Give me a few moments to thumb through these books and I'll let you know.”

“It's no problem . . . really! I'd be more than happy to search some more.” Her eyes were eager, if not pleading.

“Thank you. Just give me a few minutes.”

She stood there, staring at me with a silly grin on her face. I smiled at her, not knowing what she was waiting for.

She shivered pleasurably and cried, “I'm assisting a Pulitzer Prize–winning author!” With a squeal she did a little dance back to the reference counter.

The three books from the stacks were of little help. Using the index in the back of each one, I located the references to Semyaza. Without exception they were located in chapters on angelic beings and provided little additional information. Semyaza, as indicated by the printouts, was the name of an angel who aligned himself with Lucifer and was cast out of heaven.

Next, I noted the authors of the books. All three were professors of the New Testament at conservative seminaries. One other thing had caught my attention. All three of the works were heavily footnoted, with one name appearing prominently in the citations: J. P. Forsythe.

Stacking the open books one on top of the other, I carried them to the reference desk. Kathy stood at the end of the counter, her head in an oversized volume. Opposite her was a young man, a student by the looks of him.

When she saw me coming, she swiveled the book around so that it faced the student and pointed to where he could continue searching. “Yes, Mr. Austin,” she said, turning her attention to me.

I set the books on the counter. “All three of these authors reference the work of J. P. Forsythe,” I said. “But they cite lectures or unpublished papers. I'd like to know who Forsythe is and if he's published anything.”

She checked the footnotes. “Very good, Mr. Austin,” she said. “Straight to the original source.”

“This isn't my first time researching,” I said good-naturedly.

She laughed louder than was necessary.

A check of
Books in Print
revealed that J. P. Forsythe had no published works.

“That's odd,” Kathy said. “He's obviously a recognized authority. Well, if we can't find anything about a man's work, let's see if we can find something about the man.”

I leaned on the counter as she pecked on the keyboard, paused, pursed her lips, and pecked some more.

“Ms. Corbett . . .” the student with the oversized volume said.

Without taking her eyes off the monitor, the librarian waved a hand at him. “Just leave it on the counter.”

The boy closed the book. He appeared to have another question. After a brief moment he walked away.

“Well! Look at this!” the librarian said, stepping back. “Your mystery source? He's local!”

“Forsythe is local? How local?”

“El Cajon. I found a reference listing him as a consulting editor for the
Evangelical Quarterly,
which says he's a professor of theology and the New Testament at Heritage College in El Cajon. Um . . . that was two years ago. Hold on . . . let me double-check . . .”

Fingers flew over the keyboard. Her right hand moved to the computer mouse. “Let's see . . . Heritage College Web site . . . faculty . . . Department of Theology . . . there you go!” She turned to me with a smile. With the satisfied grin of someone who just solved a riddle, she said, “Your boy's still teaching at the college if you want to talk to him!”

CHAPTER
6

C
onvinced that some of the answers might be found in El Cajon, I retraced my steps, despite a growling stomach and a much-anticipated nap.

There comes a time in the course of every research project when relationships begin to appear between pieces of information and you get your first hint of the total picture. That moment came for me as I was leaving the library.

Walking back through the underground passage, past the Native American displays, I remembered that some indigenous tribes used peyote while undertaking spiritual quests. An hallucinogenic plant, the peyote altered their state of perception.

The one thing of which I was certain was that while I was in Myles Shepherd's office, my state of perception had most definitely been altered. Semyaza was the name of a spirit entity. The pieces fit.

I began to formulate a theory. I had been fine when I arrived at the high school and throughout the assembly. It was in Myles's office that reality took a vacation. Somehow, he'd
drugged me. If I knew what substance he'd used, I could probably figure out the delivery method.

Then we chatted while the drug took effect. I began to hallucinate and, before I passed out, Myles performed some kind of victory ritual in Semyaza's name.

Myles Shepherd, a member of some New Age cult that worships the angel Semyaza. Did Jana know about this? She'd gotten upset when I asked her about his activities in college.

The parking lot fit the theory too. The drug wore off and by morning all that remained were a few lingering aftereffects.

What about seeing Myles at the scene of the accident? Hallucinogenic flashback.

It all added up. The remaining question was, Why? I had a theory for that too.

Two pieces of the puzzle formed the basis of my motivation theory. First, the assassination threat. Somehow all of this was tied into a plot to assassinate the president. I had to assume the threat was real and that Myles was not working alone. Second, Myles Shepherd's ego figured in. When he learned I had been invited to give a speech at our alma mater, that I would be returning as the conquering hero complete with press corps, he couldn't stop himself from boasting about the plot. He was aching to tell me he knew the final, unwritten chapter of my book.

This was vintage Myles Shepherd. He was forever predicting his victories. At the end of our junior year, he boasted he would be senior class president. He was. He boasted he would be valedictorian. He was. He boasted he would be the tennis team's Most Valuable Player. He has the trophy to prove it.

Of course he knew there was a risk in revealing the plot. He knew I'd try to stop him. So he devised a way to discredit me. If I notified the Secret Service, when they questioned me about the details of the plot it would also come out that I saw the alphabet dance across the room. So much for my credibility.

I had to give Myles credit. He might have gotten away with it. His plan was solid. The only thing he hadn't counted on was dying.

The irony of his death intrigued me. It had a
Twilight Zone
twist to it. An elaborate plot to assassinate the president of the United States thwarted by a common freeway accident.

But it wasn't over. I had to assume that Shepherd's partners would continue with the plan to kill the president without him.

I was hoping the name Semyaza would help me figure out how to stop them. Myles had selected the name for a reason. If I could learn the significance behind the name, it might lead me to the conspirators. Professor J. P. Forsythe was the man holding the key to Semyaza.

It was nearly noon and eastbound freeway traffic was still sluggish. It had yet to recover from the accident.

My plan was to take care of business at Heritage College, then head back to the hotel for a nap. I'd call Jana and try to talk her into a late dinner. I wanted to patch things up with her before returning to Washington, D.C. Then I'd grab a red-eye flight home. Come morning, I'd start knocking on White House doors until I got someone to listen to me.

Small colleges attract prospective students with their small teacher-to-student ratios. Large universities advertise programs, facilities, and faculty credentials. The moment I stepped into Heritage College's library, I was reminded why I chose to attend a major university.

The entire library could have fit inside the domed atrium at San Diego State University. There was no circular descending staircase and no subterranean passageway. It had a front door, a circulation desk, and rows of closely spaced metal bookshelves
in what appeared to be a converted elementary-school classroom.

Upon arriving at the college, I began my search for Professor Forsythe in the faculty building. He wasn't in his office. A student who was scanning the Employment Opportunities bulletin board suggested I try the library. Which I did. Another student at the circulation desk directed me to the study area in the far corner.

I found two men seated at a table beside a wall of windows that overlooked a distinctively Southwestern garden with a variety of cacti and rocks.

One of the men had his back to me. He was lecturing. He spoke in a hushed tone, but it was definitely a lecture. The other man, seated in a wheelchair, hung on every word as though it was gospel truth.

The lecturer had the shoulders of an all-American lineman. It amused me to think that a professor of theology had at one time played football. Most of the college linemen I'd met would have defined eschatology as the study of Eskimos.

The man seated at the end of the table was older. He had a full head of white hair and intense, blue eyes. I recognized the type.

His kind were retirees or widowers or both who hated golf. To pass time, they reenrolled in college. They took a single class at a time, devoted their entire life to it, treated the professor as their best friend, and inevitably succeeded in blowing the top off the class grade-point average, causing serious damage to all the other students, who were taking a full load, working, and trying to have some semblance of a social life.

In this case, instead of being retired, the man was disabled. He sat with his chin cupped in one hand and showed all the signs of hero worship.

On behalf of all the students whose grade-point averages he was undermining, I felt no pangs of remorse interrupting this one-course wonder. “Excuse me, Professor Forsythe?”

The lecture came to an abrupt halt. His shoulders tensed at the interruption.

“Professor, I apologize, but I must speak to you. It's important.”

He refused to turn and acknowledge me.

I recognized the power-play tactic. Politicians in Washington are masters at playing power games. Here, if the professor let me interrupt, he would lose control. By not acknowledging me, the professor retained control by forcing me to return at a different time, thus admitting that his schedule was more important than mine.

I refused to be intimidated. This wasn't Capitol Hill, it was a small college in east El Cajon. The least he could do was to have the decency to turn around, even if it was to tell me to go away. “Professor, I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but it's imperative I talk to you today.”