He stared at me deadpan serious.

"I've seen an angel?" I repeated.

He nodded.

I thought back. She certainly looked heavenly. Miss Ling had an aura about her that was striking, especially the way the tips of her hair brushed her shoulders as she walked. Her skin was pale and flawless, almost radiant.

But I wasn't biting.

"Do you really expect me to believe she's an angel?"

"She?"

Humiliation torpedoes come in all sizes. Some are as small as a single word.

The professor's guffaw was so loud he attracted the attention not only of those on the sidewalk, but several people in the parking lot below us. "You thought I was talking about Miss Ling?" he said through tears.

"No, of course not!" My protest had no legs, but I felt compelled to make it. "You were talking about the guy with the broad shoulders, right? I knew that."

"This is rich!" the professor said, wiping his eyes. "Miss Ling's going to get a kick out of this."

"Only if you tell her," I said with growing alarm. "You don't have to tell her."

"Tell me what?"

Miss Ling's timing couldn't have been worse.

"Tell me what?" she said again.

"Did the students give you any problems?" the professor asked her, giving me a momentary reprieve.

She handed his textbook to him. "We covered the material in the chapter," she reported. "I gave them their a.s.signment for Wednesday."

An involuntary chuckle escaped the professor as he received the book and the report. He glanced at me, his eyes sparkling with mischief. I implored him silently not to say anything. "Thank you, Miss Ling . . ." he said. Unable to resist, he added, "You're an angel."

We both burst out with laughter. Miss Ling didn't know what to make of us.

"You have an academic review meeting with Dean Atkinson in five minutes," she said. "You've already postponed it twice. This morning he cornered me and asked if you were going to be there. I promised him you would be."

The professor nodded. Placing the textbook in his lap, he started the wheelchair in motion. "Oh, Grant . . . come to the library tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. I'll introduce you to Abdiel. You can judge for yourself."

"Abdiel?" Miss Ling said, shocked. "You told him about Abdiel?"

"I'll fill you in later," the professor said. He disappeared around a corner.

I didn't know what to do with the invitation. I'd never been invited to meet an angel.

Miss Ling's heels clicked on the cement as she walked away.

"Miss Ling . . . a moment of your time?"

She turned around, polite but chilly. "Don't you have a job or something? Or are you so famous now you no longer have to work?" She stood with att.i.tude, one hip thrust out.

"How long have you known the professor?" I asked her.

Miss Ling gave me one of those I don't see how that's any of your business looks.

I explained. "It's just that he has some rather unusual concepts of reality."

"You could learn a lot from Professor Forsythe," she said.

"Are you one of his students?"

"Former student. Now I'm at the University of California, San Diego."

"Really? Do you mind if I inquire as to your major?"

"Yes, I mind," she said. She didn't appear to be joking.

I shrugged. "I didn't mean to-"

"Yes you did. Physics, to answer your question. I'm writing my doctoral dissertation in quantum physics."

"Impressive . . . but it surprises me. You strike me more as the comparative lit type."

She sneered at me. "Is that supposed to be some kind of clever quip, Mr. Austin? Or is it a lame attempt at a pickup line?"

Her persistent antagonism was wearing thin.

"I didn't mean anything by it," I said. "It's just that where I attended school, the quantum physics students were geeky types who played Dungeons & Dragons and attended Star Trek conventions."

She turned and walked away.

I called after her. "Angels, Miss Ling? A woman of your obvious intelligence, doesn't it bother you that the professor believes in angels?"

She swung around with fire in her eyes. "I'll have you know," she said, "that Professor Forsythe is the most brilliant, dedicated, compa.s.sionate man I know. If you were given two lifetimes, Grant Austin, you would never be half the man he is!"

"What's with the att.i.tude? Ever since I arrived you've treated me with contempt. You've been rude and just plain mean. Are you taking it out on me because I look like some guy who dumped you? You don't even know me."

Her eyes squinted disdainfully. "Oh, I know you," she said. "I know all about you."

"We just met!" I argued. "What is it about me that ticked you off? The rumpled suit? Is that it? You took one look at my rumpled suit and concluded I was a slob, right? Well, I'll have you know, beneath this rumpled suit beats the heart of a nice guy."

"I suppose you think you're charming, don't you?" she shot back.

"Wait a minute, you can't say that wasn't charming. Admit it. You found me charming right then."

"Apparently, you never learned the difference between charming and childish. You think you can scuff your foot on the ground and say, 'Aw, shucks,' and you're being adorable. Well, let me tell you, Grant Austin, you're not the least bit adorable. You're disgusting, insecure, and needy."

"Needy? I'm not needy! I'm so far from being needy, needy is extinct in my world."

"Get a clue, Grant. When a woman looks for a man she wants a mature relationship, not a babysitting job."

I was definitely at a disadvantage. It was obvious Miss Ling was drawing on background material and I didn't know the source. "Just who have you been talking to?"

She grinned with sarcasm. "So, you recognize the description of yourself, do you?"

"You've obviously been talking to someone who knows . . . who thinks she knows me."

She mulled that for a moment. I didn't think for a moment I'd stopped her, but I had slowed her down a bit.

"Before attending UCSD," she said, "I earned a master's degree at State. Lived on campus. University Towers. Roomed with an incredibly talented woman who majored in broadcast journalism."

"Jana," I said.

"Between you and that reptile Shepherd, when I wasn't attending cla.s.ses, I was helping her pick up the pieces of her life. For both being 'nice guys,' the two of you really did a job on her."

"Hold on just a second," I protested. "Jana and I split up . . . what? Ten years ago? We were a couple of kids back then. And she left me! How would you like to be called to account for something you did ten years ago?"

Miss Ling played her trump card coolly. "Jana called me this morning from a cab."

"Oh."

"That's it? That's your defense?"

"I can explain what happened this morning."

"And does the explanation have anything to do with the fact that you obviously haven't grown up in the last ten years?"

"I was going to call her . . . I am going to call her after I leave here. Invite her to dinner. I want to work things out."

"And will Christina be joining you?" Miss Ling asked.

She walked away. This time I didn't stop her.

CHAPTER 9.

Fatigue stalked me from El Cajon to my hotel room in Mission Valley and I was ready to surrender to it. This time yesterday I was pa.s.sed out on Myles Shepherd's office floor. I wouldn't call it a nap, but it was the last time I'd closed my eyes for any length of time.

I took a much-needed shower, left a message for Jana on her answering machine, listened to Christina's phone ring a couple dozen times, grabbed a jar of peanuts and a soda from the honor bar, and crashed onto the bed.

Three hours later I awoke holding an empty jar. Peanuts lay scattered on the bed, the floor, and plastered on the side of my face. It could have been worse. I could have fallen asleep holding the soda can.

From my balcony I watched the sun expand until it was a huge orange ball. It dipped itself into the Pacific Ocean. I dialed Jana's cell number a second time, then tried calling her at the television station. They took a message.

The six o'clock evening news broadcast Jana's story of the freeway accident during the morning commute and the resulting traffic jam. I knelt inches from the screen and searched the crowd behind her, hoping to get a glimpse of Myles. I didn't, of course.

Seven p.m. How much longer should I wait for Jana? Should I order room service?

Reaching for the remote, I sat at the foot of the bed and clicked on the television. The Los Angeles Angels were dominating the Devil Rays. I wasn't familiar with either team and after a few innings my interest waned. I changed channels.

Click.

The Angels were still playing, only this time heavenly angel Christopher Lloyd was lifting the baseball outfielder off his feet to make a miracle catch.

"It could happen!" I quoted the line with little J.P.

Click.

Redheaded angel Roma Downey was revealing her true ident.i.ty to a suicidal artist. "I'm an angel, sent from G.o.d," she said with her soft Irish brogue. Special effects lighting simulated a halo.

"It's nothing like that!" I shouted at the screen. "Trust me, I know."

I couldn't believe I'd said that. I knew nothing of the kind. This whole angel scenario was Professor Forsythe's theory, not mine. What I saw in Shepherd's office was a hallucination, not an angel.

But three angel programs in a row? What a coincidence, especially considering all the talk about angels today.

My thumb paused over the channel changer. I grinned. What are the odds of four programs in a row about angels?

Click.

John Travolta was the Archangel Michael. His wings were molting.

I stared dumbly at the television. This was beyond coincidence. It was downright spooky.

Click.

Angel Cary Grant swooped his arms and a Christmas tree was miraculously dressed.

Click.

Probationary angel Michael Landon adjusted his ball cap and climbed into a car driven by Victor French.

Scared now, I turned the television off. It came back on by itself.

Angel Clarence explained to Jimmy Stewart that every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.

Click.

I didn't change the channel. It changed by itself.