If Angels Fall (tom reed and walt sydowski)

by Rick Mofina

  “I’ve wanted you to do a lot of things.”

  “I’ve been thinking that maybe I would take a leavefrom the paper, stay home and work on a novel.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes.”

  They watched Zach playing on the computer.

  “He misses you,” she said.

  “I miss both of you.”

  Reed looked at his wife.

  “I have to think, Tom. I have to think abouteverything.”

  Reed squeezed her hand and nodded.

  SIXTEEN

  Dr. Kate Martin sat in the reception area of The San Francisco Star,twisting her briefcase strap. She looked at her watch again.

  Relax. Relax. Relax.

  She expected to see Mandy Carmel, the Star’stop feature writer. Her articles on SIDS babies and Bay Area children with AIDSwere so well written, so compassionate.

  Still, waiting here, it was difficult to put herselfat ease.

  Twice before coming she had picked up the phone tocancel. She didn’t do it. Despite all the risks, her blatant violation ofuniversity policy and the potential harm a story could have on the volunteers,she was determined to see this through. She had tried in vain to find thefunding needed to extend her research. The university, thanks to Levine, hadrejected her. The state denied grant money. Corporations politely refused her.And national victims’ support and lobby groups, which applauded her work, werecash strapped. Press attention was her last hope.

  A sensitive article by Mandy Carmel would either savethe program or bury it.

  She took in the crisp current edition of the Staron the table before her. The latest on the kidnapping screamed from the frontpage: WHERE IS DANNY? She thought of his parents, of his abduction, and thequestions it raised about Tanita’s murder. It underscored how imperative herresearch was. She had to do this.

  “Dr. Martin?”

  She looked up. “Yes?”

  “Tom Reed.” He held out his hand to greet her as shestood.

  Tom Reed!

  She recognized him from the face-slapping footagewhich TV news stations had recently replayed. Her skin prickled withapprehension.

  He was about six foot. His khaki pants, pinstripe,button down shirt, and tie complimented his medium, firm-looking build.Mid-thirties. His tan set off his smile. His short brown hair was a littleunruly. Behind wire-rimmed glasses were intense, blue eyes.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “I assumed I was to meet with Mandy Carmel?”

  “Mandy’s been on a leave to Europe and won’t be backfor six weeks. Your letter was passed to me.”

  “To you? But why? I thought-“

  “We can talk in there.” He nodded to the boardroomnearby.

  The room barely contained the mammoth table andleather executive chairs. The walls featured the Star’s three Pulitzersand framed news pictures. The earthquakes, the Oakland Hills firestorm. Amother giving birth. A weeping cop cradling his dead partner.

  Reed slapped his notebook on the table. Martindeclined coffee.

  “Be blunt, Doctor. You’re upset that I’ve beenassigned to this?”

  “To be blunt, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Your part in the Donner case and the suicide concernsme. An article about my research might be best suited for a reporter accustomedto handling sensitive issues. It involves parents who’ve lost childrentragically. You’re just a crime reporter.”

  “Just a crime reporter? Sensitivity is a quality aliento people like me, is that what you mean?”

  “No, I mean, I-“ This was not going well. “I thinkI’ve made a mistake coming here.” She stood to leave.

  “Your work deals with victims of tragedy, itssurvivors. Right?”

  “It’s somewhat more complex than that, but yes.”

  “I deal with victims, too, and probably in greaternumbers than you’ve ever experienced. So I resent having to prove to you that Iam qualified to write about your work.”

  “I am protective of the sensitive nature of myresearch.”

  “But the bottom line here, Doctor, is you want tomanipulate us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Set aside your work. You need us to keep your programafloat. That’s why you’re here. It’s obvious from your letter. It dictates thetype of story you want us to write, in accordance to the conditions you’velisted.” He withdrew the letter from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and read:“You may interview only the subjects I’ve selected and I have editorialapproval.” Reed stared at her. “What do you think this is, the churchbulletin?”

  Martin closed her eyes. Leave. Leave now, she toldherself.

  “I don’t know who in the business you’ve dealt withbefore, but it just does not work this way.” He let her letter fall on thetable.

  “And just how does it work, Mr. Reed?”

  “If we do a story, we’re going to examine your groupand your research, not promote it. You say your work is valid. How do we knowthat? You could be with a corporation poised to establish such programs in achain of clinics and are looking for a story as a source of advertising. Thathappens. You could simply be seeking personal glory in your field. We don’t know.You came to us.”

  “I resent what you’re implying. You don’t know me ormy work.”

  “And you don’t know me, or mine. You send us ablueprint of what you want and glide in here on a cloud of academic arrogance.You see me and your jaw drops like you’ve stepped in something disgusting.”

  This was a disaster. Martin sat down and consideredcanceling everything. She had handled this poorly. The program was doomed nomatter what she did. She cupped her chin in one hand, studied the dramatic newspictures, then Reed. He had a dangerous, exciting air. Judging by his passion,he was likely as committed to his work as she was to hers. She drummed herfingers against her cheek. “Perhaps I’ve become too comfortable in the ivorytowers of academe, Tom.”

  He chuckled. “If we had a couch in here…” Reedscanned the room.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d tell you my miserable problems. The last fewweeks have been tough ones for me, Doctor.”

  “Kate. Call me Kate. How about that coffee?”

  “Then we’ll rewind the tape and take it from the top?”

  “Agreed.”

  Reed returned to the room with coffee in two ceramicmugs bearing the Star’s logo. “Today was supposed to be my day off,” hesaid. “I apologize for being so hard on you.”

  She sipped, waving away his apology. “I’m the one whoshould apologize.”

  “I checked you out with our education reporter. I readyour biographical notes in the university directory. You’re well respected inyour field and certainly didn’t deserve the grilling I gave you. Your letterhit a nerve. Being suspicious comes automatically.”

  She gave him another appraisal. Maybe he wasn’t such aself-important ass after all.

  “I want to do a story about your work. I’m just notsure what shape it will take. Tell me about it.”

  Martin explained her bereavement research, what thegroup was, how it functioned, and how her study differed from others in theobservations she was able to make.

  Reed asked questions and made notes.

  “I’m wondering, why did you choose this field,psychiatry?”

  She tugged at the cuffs of her blazer. “That’ssomething I’d prefer not to discuss, if you don’t mind. It’s personal.”

  “I see.”

  “The real inspiration for the study came when I wasasked to help the two girls who found Tanita Marie Donner last year.”

  “That was you?”

  “Yes. It was then that I asked police if any help hadbeen offered to Tanita’s mother. I began seeing her and the idea for the groupand the research was born.”

  “What about Angela Donner? What’s happened to her?”

  “She’s a participant in the group.”

  “Really?”

  Martin nodded.

  “Your le
tter says fourteen volunteers participate insessions.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they aware of your coming to us for a story?”

  “Yes. Most of them support it.”

  “Tell me something about the deaths of the childrenhere.”

  Martin removed a file from her briefcase and beganrecounting fourteen tragedies. In some instances, the children had been killedin front of relatives, or died in their parents’ arms, or their bodies had beendiscovered by them. When she was finished, Reed was engrossed.

  “I’d like to sit in on the next session and profilesome the parents. The program is about them. Their stories would convey theimportance of your work and its impact on their tragedies.”

  “I’ll start making calls tonight,” Martin said,passing Reed a page with the time and place of the next session. “Goingdirectly to press, as I am doing, is a violation of the department’s policy.I’ve put my job at the university on the line.”

  Reed’s eyebrows shot up.

  “This program is invaluable and I’m determined to saveit. Not for me-for the people who are being helped by it.”

  “I understand.”

  They shook hands. Martin snapped her briefcase closed,smiled, and left. Reed sat alone in the room, thinking.

  He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. His headached. Yet things were brighter with Ann. And he was sure he had inadvertentlyfound Tanita Donner’s mother.

  Last year, after Tanita’s murder, her mother haddropped out of sight. Now, with the anniversary of Tanita’s murder coming up,the press would be looking for her. In the wake of Danny Becker’s kidnapping,they’d be more determined. But he knew where Angela Donner was. And soon, witha little luck, he would be talking to her. Martin’s work was secondary.Angela’s story juxtaposed with Danny Becker’s case, would make a great read.

  And, there was more.

  He had covered many of the cases Martin described,reciting the names he knew. He’d get the library files before he went to thesession. The guy whose kids drowned before his eyes had to be one of the worse.Reed couldn’t recall it. He’d do some digging on that one.

  SEVENTEEN

  On good days, warm memories of his wife yielded Sydowski sufficient will topropel his life another twenty-four hours. On bad days, like this one, when hefelt alone and could not accept the fact that she was gone, he contemplated hisGlock.

  Take the eternal sleep and find her. Be with her.

  What time was it back east? The luminescent hands ofhis watch glowed 1:29 A.M. Three hours later where his daughters lived. Toolate to call. Wearily he found his way through the darkness. He knew his house,every tick and creak of it. In the kitchen, he snapped on the light and heatedsome milk for cocoa.

  It had been six years since he saw the monitor aboveBasha’s hospital bed flitter, then flat line. The young doctor and nurserushing in, telling him to leave. Battling against a killer no one couldstop-not even him.

  The beast slowly ravaged Basha’s nervous system withmuscular rigidity, condemning uncontrollable tremoring upon a gentle woman whohad dance at her daughters’ weddings. It consumed her by degrees, devouring apiece at a time. She could not feed herself, she could not have intelligibleconversations, she could not go to the bathroom without help. Ultimately shewore diapers. The final insult: she could not be trusted to hold her infantgrandchildren. She watched through her tears and he cared for her. A couple oftimes he swore her bed was empty, she barely visible under the rumpled sheets.Carrying her emaciated body, her fragility terrified him. She weighed nothing.She was dying in his arms.

  Waiting in the hospital hallway the night they triedto save her, a strange thing happened. Sydowski heard her call his name. Once.Her voice was young, strong, wondrous. He was amazed. No one else heard her.How could it be? He remembered his daughters beside him, wailing. Then theyoung doctor, the one with an earring in his left lobe, appeared from Basha’sroom and was standing before him.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. She’s gone. We did everything wecould.”

  Something was indestructible cleaved inside, forcinghim to hold his girls to keep them from coming apart. The young doctor touchedSydowski’s arm and those of his daughter.

  The milk for his cocoa had come to a boil.

  They would sit in the living room. She would beembroidering something for the babies. He’d be reading. Often he would discussa case with her and she’d make a suggestion about an aspect he overlooked. Herespected her insights. For he had one true partner, it was she.

  Since she died, he felt uneasy being home alone. Thegirls’ rooms were empty reminders of happier days. He shuffled around theplace, chasing after her scent. It was still in the house, the fragrance oflilacs. Once he found a strand of her hair in her vacant side of their closet.His immediate reflex was to put it in an evidence bag, as if he could solve thecrime of her death. Instead, held it in his palm and wept.

  He pursued death for a living: tracked it, waded intoit, bagged its aftermath, and arrested the guilty. Professionally and mentally,he was prepared for every case, but nothing, not the course work, not thestreet time, not the scenes, prepared him for Basha. Death had turned on himand raked its claw across the web of his existence, leaving it in tatters. Hecould not reconnect. He had fallen into a black hole and feared he would neverfind his way out. Maybe he was dead too? Maybe this was his hell? Deathhaunting him with the memory of his wife in the faces of corpses. The murdershe could not clear. Tanita Donner. The slash across her little neck. The flies.The maggots. Her eyes. Her tiny, lifeless eyes. Open. Staring at him. Pleading.What had she seen in the last moments of her life?

  Enough of this.

  Get past it. He was alive. Among the living. And hewas hungry. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out some egg bread, sweetbutter, onion, and fresh kielbasa he bought at the Polack deli in the mission.He’d pay dearly with heartburn later, he told himself, biting into his sandwichand sifting through the Chronicle’s sports section. The Giants weredoing well, sitting atop the division with a.651. Outperforming the A’s. He’dtease the old man.

  He’d never understand Johnny Sydowski’s Polishstubbornness. Eighty-seven-years old, living alone by the sea in Pacifica. Whydid he refuse to move in with him here? It would be easier to get to the ballgames at the Polish Hall. They could share a beer and enjoy each other’scompany. The old man liked it where he was, so what the hell? Sydowski foldedthe paper, finished his sandwich, and his cocoa, put the empty plate and mug inthe sink before leaving to check on his birds.

  His love for breeding and showing canaries blossomedafter a friend gave Basha a singing finch as a gift twenty years ago. He likedits song. It made him tranquil. He bought more birds. His collection thrived.He joined bird fanciers’ societies, entered competitions, and built an aviaryunder the oak tree in his backyard.Basha made curtains for the windows and itlooked like a tiny cottage from a fairytale. Inside, the paneled walls wereadorned with ribbons, trophies, and mementos. Would he make the Seattle shownext month? He pleasantly accepted the drive up the coast. It depended. If theyfound Tanita Marie Donner’s killer. Or Danny Becker’s body.

  The velvety cooing of sixty canaries soothed as heinspected their seed and water supply. Tenderly, he picked up a nest of fourfledglings, fife fancies. Seven days old and looking good. No bigger than atoddler’s finger. Delicately Sydowski placed one in his hand, caressing it withhis pinky knuckle while its wee beak yawned for food. He felt its warmth, itsmicroscopic heart quivering and he thought of Tanita Marie Donner and hermurderer.

  Did he feel the warmth of her delicate neck, her heartpulsating?

  Sydowski was exhausted, could barely keep his eyesopen. He returned the fledglings, locked up the aviary, returned to the house,trudged upstairs, and went to bed, hoping to fall into a sound sleep before hisheartburn started.

  EIGHTEEN

  A cobra with its hood flared and fangs bared coiled around Virgil Shook’s left forearm,while a broken heart engulfed in flames burned on his right. Terr
or andtorment.

  The twin forces of Shook’s life were manifested in thetattoos conjured up by a killer in exchange for sex years ago in a Canadianprison. The cobra’s head swayed gently, ripe to strike as Shook ladled chickensoup for the destitute shambling along the food line at the shelter of Our LadyQueen of Tearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church on upper Market. Whispers andblessings mingled with clinking cutlery and the tap of hot food dispensed ondonated plates.

  If these broken, rotten burdens only knew who theywere blessing. If they only knew who he really was. It was sweet. Shook inhaledthe aroma of his power with that of roasted meat as one by one they came beforehim extending their plates, bowing their heads.

  Like them, Shook haunted the city’s streets and cameto the kitchen often. Today he was upping the ante in his game with the priest.Today was Shook’s first as a volunteer. Oh, how he loved it. Here he receivedsanctuary, blessings, and absolution.

  He was savoring the irony of it, seeking his confessoramong the crowd when he glimpsed a little treasure. A tiny temptress. Shookgauged the object of his attention. Four years fresh from the womb, he figured.She arrived before him, holding her bowl. He swam in her pure blue eyes,plunged his ladle-deep into the urn. His lips stretched into a predatory grinawakening the scars on his cheeks and revealing a jagged row of prong-liketeeth.

  “What’s your name, sunshine?”

  “Daisy.”

  “Daisy? My I love to pick daisies.”

  The little flower giggled. Accepting her bowl, herfingers brushed his. A butterfly’s caress that thawed his blood. Best notflirt, short eyes. So tender. He knew what she craved. So tender. Best flyaway.

  Shook bit down on his lip. His migraines were hittingagain.

  A brain-rattler had knocked him on his ass last week.The need to love again was overwhelming. It had been nearly a year since thelast time. Since Tanita. Now, Danny Becker’s kidnapping made it dangerous to gohunting. How much longer could he take this? He was tiring of his game with thepriest. He needed to hunt, to prove the city belonged to him. Scanning theshelter, he located Daisy among the far flung tables and indulged in a bold,ravenous stare, assessing the possibilities until he was nudged by thevolunteer beside him.