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Excerpts

1

A heavenly glory blazed directly in my path. Shielding my eyes, I fought to keep them open. To close them now meant almost certain death. I hated driving east at this time of morning.

As if Southern California freeways weren't dangerous enough, the sun hovered at just the right inclination to make seeing nearly impossible. Through the thinnest of eye slits I saw the cars ahead of me begin to stack up at the Second Street off-ramp. I slowed, maneuvering into the queue.

For some reason my mind flashed back to an elementary-school assembly. Instead of going to the auditorium we carried our chairs out to the playground, and as we sweltered on the blacktop, a man who called himself Mr. Science taught us about the sun.

"Never look directly at the sun," he said.

To demonstrate what would happen if we failed to heed his warning, Mr. Science pointed a telescope at the sun. Then he held a grape with a pair of pliers close to the eyepiece. The grape was supposed to be our eye. We slid to the edge of our chairs in anticipation.

At first nothing happened, but Mr. Science assured us that even though we couldn't see anything yet, the sun was cooking the retina of the substitute eye, causing permanent damage. Seconds later, when the focused sunlight burned through the skin, hot juice squirted out of the grape, eliciting squeals of disgust from the girls and howls of delight from the boys. Not only did Mr. Science make his point, but he inspired all manner of shenanigans with grapes-as-eyeballs at lunch.

A wave of taillights rippled toward me. I braked. Traffic came to a standstill. I turned my head, using the pause in the action to give my eyes a rest.

As bright as the sun was, I'd seen brighter, on top of the Emerald Plaza tower in the middle of the night. Let me tell you, the sun's a dim bulb compared to the light of two dozen angry angels. If Mr. Science ever demonstrates what happened to me that night, he'll place a grape on the ground and squish it under his heel.

It's hard to believe that was a month ago, or that it's been that long since President Douglas was assassinated. I haven't seen a single angel since. At least that I'm aware. I mean, when they take human form, who can tell? I lived with one every day for four years and never knew he was an angel.

But then I suppose all that will change soon. Professor Forsythe had that Paul Revere tone in his voice when he called.

The angels are coming! The angels are coming!

He didn't actually say it. He didn't have to. Believe me, it takes a lot to drag me away from my cheese Danish and coffee in the morning.

When I finally arrived at Heritage College, the parking lot was full. Likewise, the area streets were lined with cars. If the universe is expanding like scientists say, why is it I can never find a parking place?

I ended up a quarter of a mile from the college. I must have looked like one of those Olympic walkers as I hurried toward the campus.

My cell phone rang. It was my publisher. I considered letting the answering service take the call. I wasn't sure I was ready to talk to him yet.

I flipped open the phone.

"Grant? Higgins. Have you read the contract?"

"My agent faxed it to me this morning," I told him. "I haven't had time to go over it yet."

"Whatever problems you have with it, I'm sure we can work them out," he said. "I don't mind telling you that I'm getting a lot of pressure from above on this one."

I grinned. Pressure from above. Little did he know.

"I told you, I haven't had time to look at it yet."

"Can I at least tell them you're interested?"

Of course I was interested. I needed the money.

The publisher came to me on this one. They wanted a tell-all book documenting how the Douglas administration had systematically deceived me while I was researching President Douglas's biography. It would begin with an eyewitness account of the assassination and then detail subsequent events that uncovered the web of lies that concealed the truth from the American public.

My agent said the publisher was anxious to save face after printing the president's story. And frankly, my career could use some damage control, since I was the expert researcher who had been duped.

"We want you to show that things aren't always as they seem," Higgins pressed. "After reading this book John Q Public will never take a White House statement at face value again. They'll always wonder what's really going on behind the scenes."

"This isn't the world you think it is," I mused.

"Exactly! So you're in? Grant, I want you to know that I went to the mat for you on the advance money."

It was an impressive amount. Nearly double what they'd offered me for the biography. My agent told me not to let the amount give me a swelled head, that it reflected the publisher's desperation more than their assessment of me as an author. He was right.

"Shouldn't you be talking to my agent?"

Higgins mumbled something about desperate times and desperate measures. We both knew that his end run around my agent was unethical.

"How much leeway will I be given on the project?" I asked. "If I do it, I want to do it my way."

"That's what we want!" Higgins insisted. "Your frustration. Your outrage. How you felt when you first realized you were being led down a garden path."

That wasn't what I meant. I wanted to write about what I saw in the sky the day of the assassination. I wanted to reveal to the world the supernatural forces behind the plot. But I knew if I started talking about angels and the war in heaven my publisher would pull the contract off the table in a human heartbeat.

I'd reached the stairs that led from the parking lot to the campus.

"Listen, Higgins, I'll need to get back to you."

"You sound winded."

"I'm late for a meeting."

"A meeting? Grant, you're not meeting with another publisher, are you? Let me get back to my boss. I can get you more money."

"I'll have to call you back."

"When? Grant, the pressure on me is incredible. Don't leave me hanging."

"Soon. I'll get back to you soon."

"How soon?"

I'd reached the top of the steps. My breathing was labored, and it was difficult to talk. "I'll call you as soon as I have an answer." I snapped the phone closed. For good measure I turned off the ringer.

The first thing I noticed about the campus was that there were more students milling about than usual. Someone or something had poked the hive. The place was abuzz with conversation.

The professor had told me to meet him in the library. It was our usual meeting place. As I wove my way in that direction some of the students recognized me from recent events. They fell silent and stared as I passed them.

I opened the library door and had stepped aside for some coeds who were trailing behind me when Sue Ling grabbed me.

"You're late," she said by way of greeting. She pulled me away from the door.

"I couldn't find a parking place."

"This way."

Her pace was urgent. Her expression serious. Something was wrong.

"The professor, is he -- "

She plowed ahead. "He's waiting for you."

Small, with dark hair and brown eyes that shimmer with intelligence, Sue Ling is the most devoted person I know. As his personal assistant she serves the professor with passionate loyalty, with an emphasis on passionate. Just once I'd like to know what it feels like to have a woman look at me the way she looks at the professor.

"Talk to me, Sue Ling. Tell me what's going on."

"You'll learn soon enough."

Did I tell you she was stubborn? So am I.

I put on the brakes. Sue Ling's momentum carried her several steps before she realized she was walking alone.

"Grant!" she protested. "We don't have time -- "

Fifty feet ahead of us the door to the administration offices swung open. Seated in his wheelchair, the professor held the door open with one arm.

"Miss Ling, I told you to bring him the moment he arrived!" the professor said, clearly exasperated.

From the expression on her face it was evident his words stung. Sue Ling prided herself on her efficiency.

I stepped between them. "Professor, it's not her fault. I -- "

But the professor wasn't listening. His arm looked like a windmill in a gale as he motioned toward me. "Come, come -- "

I half-ran toward him. Sue Ling didn't follow. When I looked over my shoulder, she had turned and was walking away.

"We need your help," the professor said, pulling me inside.

Tartarus © 2008 by Jack Cavanaugh