A Hideous Beauty

by Jack Cavanaugh

  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 “But they cite lectures or unpublished papers.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

  Convinced 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.”

  The man in the wheelchair checked his watch. “It’s later than I thought,” he said. “You’re right, I’m afraid this is a bad time. I have a class starting in a few minutes. If you’ll check with my assistant, maybe we can find some time for you.”

  “Professor Forsythe?” I’d mistaken the professor for the student.

  The man in the wheelchair turned in the direction of the book stacks. “Miss Ling!”

  An attractive, young Asian woman stepped from between the rows of metal shelves. Brilliant black hair fell to her shoulders and swayed with each step. Her attire separated her from the other female students whose standard uniform seemed to be jeans and a sweatshirt. She wore stylish, black slacks and a silky, red-and-white blouse with splashes of color that suggested flowers. She moved to the professor’s side and looked as though she belonged there.

  “Miss Ling,” the professor said, “this young man would like to make an appointment with me for today.”

  She glanced at me and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Professor,” she said. “You have no time available today.”

  “You’re Professor Forsythe?” I asked.

  The man with the broad shoulders still hadn’t moved. He sat hunched over. His head down. He acted as though we weren’t there.

  “Professor, I apologize,” I said, this time to the man in the wheelchair, “but it’s urgent I speak to you. I’m flying to Washington, D.C., tonight.”

  “D.C.? Do you live there?”

  “I have an apartment there. Don’t use it much.” I stretched out my hand to him. “Grant Austin.”

  Some men feel at a disadvantage shaking a man’s hand from a seated position. Not this man. Seated, he was a presence to be reckoned with. He had a prominent nose, intelligent, sky-blue eyes, and an easy smile. He spoke with the slightest hint of a Scottish brogue. “You’re a lobbyist?” he asked.

  “He’s a writer,” Miss Ling said.

  Our heads turned toward her in tandem.

  “You know Mr. Austin?” the professor asked.

  “Of him,” she said.

  “Are you acquainted with his work?” the professor asked.

  “You’ve read my book?”

  She spoke to the professor. “He’s written a biography of the president. It won the Pulitzer.”

  The professor was delighted. “The sitting president? Do we have it?”

  Without so much as a glance at me, Miss Ling went to find the book.

  Leaning toward the man hunched at the table, Professor Forsythe said softly, “I suppose we can continue this tomorrow?”

  The man said not a word. He shoved back his chair and rose to impressive height. His broad shoulders seemed to unfold even broader. His bearing was powerful, knocking me back a step.

  To the professor, he confirmed, “Tomorrow.”

  Turning to leave, he looked at me for the first time. His face registered surprise; then, anger and distaste. He paused. His eyes turned hard as marble, like those of a Greek statue. His mouth twisted with such deep loathing I felt a strong compulsion to apologize, though I didn’t know for what.

  The moment passed and he strode away.

  His reaction to me hadn’t gone unnoticed. The professor was intrigued. “Who did you say you are?” he asked.

  Miss Ling returned with my book. She handed it to the professor, who examined the cover, front and back. He compared me to my publicity photo with a chuckle. He scanned the copy on the dust-cover flaps, the table of contents, and the first few pages. After that, he began thumbing.

  “Have you read it?” he asked without looking up.

  “Yes,” Miss Ling replied.

  “And?”

  Miss Ling shot a nervous glance in my direction. “It won the Pulitzer.”

  The professor lowered the book “That’s not what I asked.”

  I sensed a bad review coming. If she liked the book she wouldn’t have hesitated to say so.

  “Pedantic,” she replied. “Contrived. A public relations piece.”

  “What?” I cried. That was the second time in as many days someone called my writing pedantic. I liked it even less the second time around. I rose to my book’s defense. “Miss Ling, I’ll have you know—”

  My book hit the table, cutting short my rebuttal. “Miss Ling . . .” the professor said.

  On cue she began gathering up papers and books from the table in preparation to leave.

  The professor placed a hand on her arm. “Miss Ling. I’m going to stay here and talk to Mr. Austin. Please start my class for me.”

  Miss Ling scowled. She directed her displeasure at me.

  The professor gave her instructions. “They’re supposed to have read the chapter on General Revelation,” he said. “Discuss the material with them. If it becomes apparent they are ill-equipped for the discussion, give them a pop quiz. There’s a list of questions in the front of my book.”

  Her gaze was dark and cold and unwavering. She didn’t like me.

  “Miss Ling . . . ?”

  She gathered up her things and was gone.

  The professor folded his arms. “Two for two, Mr. Austin. Do you always have this effect on people?”

  I was as perplexed as he was amused. “Honestly, Professor, I’m a very likable guy.”

  The professor motioned toward a chair. “How about if you have a seat and explain t
o me what’s so important it’s keeping me from my class.”

  “Yes . . . well . . .” Now that I’d gained a hearing, I wasn’t sure how to begin. I took the chair vacated by the brooding giant. “All right . . . I’m going to mention a name and I want you to tell me if you recognize it.”

  “Are you testing me, Mr. Austin?”

  “Believe me, Professor, that’s not my intention. If you’ll indulge me.”

  I took his silence as consent. I let a significant pause cleanse the air and I readied myself to judge his reaction. “Semyaza.”

  He didn’t blink.

  “Do you recognize the name?” I asked.

  “I do.”

  “Can you tell me in what context?”

  Tilting back his head, he studied me a moment. “No,” he said.

  “No?”

  “I prefer you to set the context, Mr. Austin.”

  His reluctance indicated he was leery of my intentions. Fair enough. He didn’t know me. “What if I told you I might have met someone who is using the name Semyaza for reasons unknown. What would you say to that?”

  “I’d say the phrasing of your question indicates you’ve been hanging around too many politicians.”

  I grinned. “All right. Let me rephrase.”

  “Now you sound like a lawyer.” The man had a quick wit and wasn’t afraid to use it. I like that in a professor.

  I tried again. “What would you say if I told you I met someone who called himself Semyaza?”

  “I’d say someone was playing a practical joke on you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”

  “Professor, wait! Please . . . this is important. Have you heard the name Semyaza used in any other context than . . . than . . .”

  “Than what, Mr. Austin?”

  I swallowed hard. “Than angels,” I said.

  He leaned back. “First, you tell me you’ve met someone named Semyaza. Then, you ask me if Semyaza can be anything other than an angel. Mr. Austin, are you telling me you’ve seen an angel?”