"So that's why you came back," Sue said. "You're here because the president is coming to San Diego. And you think Jana can help you get close to him."

"Very good," I said, impressed.

"She won't help you."

I smiled rakishly. "I can be rather persuasive when I want to be."

She smirked. "You're not as charming as you think you are."

For several moments we concentrated on our pastries and coffee.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me," she said.

Since I knew her agenda, I decided a preemptive denial was the best approach. "My schedule is up in the air," I said. "I can't promise to meet with the professor."

Sue Ling smiled sweetly, sipped her coffee, and stared out the window. She took my statement as a challenge.

I changed the subject. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

She set down her coffee, folded her hands, and looked directly into my eyes, awaiting my question. Her brown eyes so mesmerized me, I almost forgot what I was going to ask her.

"You're a student of physics," I said. "How is it that you've hooked up with a professor of theology? The disciplines are so far apart."

"Not as distant as you might think," she said. "I went to Heritage College after high school. I was a Bible studies major and the professor was one of my teachers. I eventually became his teaching fellow.

"Actually, it was Professor Forsythe who encouraged me to pursue physics. My senior year I was having a hard time finding a suitable subject for a term paper and he suggested I do a study of the spiritual side of the cosmos."

"I've always thought the spiritual and the physical were opposites, irreconcilable, in tension with each other."

"That's what most people think. You're wrong."

I laughed. "Simple as that."

"Simple as that."

"Unless I completely missed the boat in my college physics cla.s.ses, I could probably find a few hundred noted scientists who would take my side."

"You could introduce me to a million scientists. It wouldn't make any difference. They're all wrong."

I admired her confidence, even though she was academically misguided. "It always comes back to the supernatural with you and the professor, doesn't it? Not everything is about angels."

"More so than you think."

I sipped my coffee. "Don't get me wrong. I deal with intangibles all the time. Speech. Ideas. But the difference between us is that my intangibles are verifiable. I deal with facts that can be checked and corroborated, facts so powerful they can change the world. I don't have time for fairy tales and myths."

"Then maybe it's time you double-checked your so-called facts. Real? You don't know what real is. I'll take what you so ignorantly refer to as fairy tales and myths over your biased collection of interpreted history any day, and over your political forces that you naively claim shape the world. All this . . ." She patted the table. Lifted her coffee cup. Crumpled her napkin.

I got the message. All matter.

"This is the stuff of the cosmos . . . to you it's real, only it's temporary. And the supernatural, the stuff of the spirit? It existed before the cosmos was created and will continue to exist after the cosmos is burned up and gone. It's eternal. And let me tell you something else . . ."

She was on a roll and getting animated.

". . . all this matter? All this dirt and rock and territory and human flesh that is so important to your history? It's shaped by the supernatural more than you're aware. You want to know what's real?" Her jaw trembled. She was getting emotional.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a purse. From the purse she retrieved three photos in succession and slapped them on the table, side by side. "This is real!" she said, tears coming now. "This is real history shaped by real supernatural forces."

Grant looked at the photos. The first was a studio shot of the professor, younger, though his hair was white. He smiled a carefree smile Grant had yet to see during his time with the man. A handsome woman embraced him from behind, her arms draped around his neck, clasped against his chest. Her head reclined against his. Her eyes, her smile, her demeanor, were that of a woman in love.

The two other pictures were also portraits, the kind taken once a year at school. Two girls, both strawberry blond. The older girl looked like she was a fifth- or sixth-grader. Her smile was strained because she was trying to hide the braces on her teeth. But her eyes were those of a happy girl. The younger girl, possibly third grade, was a little pixie with mischievous eyes.

"The professor's family," I said. Something told me there was a story attached to these pictures and it wasn't a happy one.

"The professor was in his second year at Heritage," Sue said. "His doctoral study had been on kingdom warfare as portrayed in the New Testament, chiefly the book of Ephesians. He taught a course on kingdom warfare at the college which became quite popular. As a result, speaking invitations began to pour in and he traveled frequently, preaching on Sundays and teaching during the week."

Sue took a ragged breath before continuing. "He was beginning to get national attention and had just signed a contract to write a book when they visited him the first time."

"They?"

"Beings you so easily dismiss as myths and fairy tales."

A shiver that stretched all the way back to Myles Shepherd's office chilled me.

"They tried to intimidate him, scare him. Shut him up."

"Why? If they're so threatening you'd think that they would want people to know about them."

"Myths and fairy tales manipulating and controlling people? How ridiculous, Grant."

I accepted her chastis.e.m.e.nt. My statement made it sound like I believed they existed. It was obvious she believed it. But I was confident the story wouldn't hold up under investigation.

"At the time," she continued, "the professor was serving as a volunteer chaplain for the police department. Once a week he would ride along in a squad car and basically make himself available to counsel victims. One day, while he was on duty, his unit was dispatched to an automobile accident with injuries."

Another ragged breath. She glanced down at the pictures on the table. "The professor didn't know it was his family until he arrived at the scene."

Sue fished for a tissue. "A hit-and-run. Nora had just picked up the girls from school. She was turning left with the light. A red pickup truck ran the light. Nora and Jenny were dead when he got there."

She pushed the picture of the youngest girl closer to me. "Terri died in her father's arms."

From the table four smiling faces looked up at me.

"It wasn't an accident, Grant. It was a message. While the professor was holding Terri, he looked up and saw the same three EDs who had threatened him. He blinked and they were gone." Sue reclaimed the pictures one at a time and put them back in her purse.

"EDs?"

"A term I coined for my thesis. Extradimensionals. Angels. They have the ability to move between physical dimensions."

"The accident. How do you know-"

"That it wasn't just a common, everyday hit-and-run?"

"That's unfair, Sue. I wouldn't make light of the professor's pain."

"But that's their intention, isn't it? To make it appear as an accident. It wasn't. It was murder. If you stick around for long you'll come to realize they like the convenience of car accidents to cover their tracks."

The image of Myles Shepherd's car burning on the Second Street off-ramp flashed in my mind.

"In the Middle Ages they used forests a lot. A person wanders in and is never seen again. The ocean was popular for a time. Sailors get lost at sea. Their methods adapt with the times."

For one insane moment I found myself contemplating what she was saying as though it was true.

Her cell phone rang. She answered it. Looking at me, she said, "Yeah, he's here." She flipped shut her phone. "Jana's on her way."

We both sipped our coffee.

I said, "While I'm sympathetic to the professor's loss, and please believe me, I am. It's just that . . . well, here's the thing . . ." Clasping my hands together, I leaned forward. She met me halfway with intelligent, defensive eyes. "You see, when I write history, I interview people who witnessed the event. And from these eyewitness accounts I'm able to piece together what most likely happened. If I were to interview the witnesses at the scene of the accident where the professor's family was killed, how many of them would tell me that they saw or even suspected that the accident had anything to do with angels?"

"All right," she said, playing along. "If you happened to come across an eyewitness account of angels . . . you're saying you'd believe it?"

I thought I knew where she was going with this. Admittedly, my grin was condescending. "While the professor is an honorable man, given the circ.u.mstances, I wouldn't consider him a credible witness. You have to take into account his emotional state at the time of the accident."

"I'm not talking about the accident now," she replied. "If you were to come across a bona fide eyewitness account of angels, would you believe it?"

Why did I feel like I was being set up?

When I hesitated, she said, "Unless you prejudge the people you interview. You know, root out those who will give testimony contrary to your preconceived conclusions."

"That's bias. It's unprofessional."

"So then, as a professional, one who values eyewitness accounts, if you were to come across an eyewitness account about angels, you'd believe it?"

I sighed. She was relentless. I could think of only one way to find out what she was getting at, and that was to step into her trap. "If the source was credible . . . yes."

Sue Ling reached into her bag and pulled out a manila file folder. Inside it was a slim ma.n.u.script. I recognized the formatting instantly. She turned the pages so they were facing me. "This is an eyewitness account of a war in heaven."

"Heaven."

"It's a narrative history of the events of a war that started before the creation of earth and time. You wanted an eyewitness account, here it is. Abdiel, a veteran of the war, has been recounting the events to the professor."

I picked up the papers and looked at them suspiciously. "White paper?" I said. "I would have expected golden tablets."

She didn't laugh. I thought it was funny.

The professor had attached a note to the front page. I lifted it to look at the text. I scanned the first couple of paragraphs.

Before the clock of cosmic time was wound, In heaven, fresh made, there dwelt a holy race.

Conceived in light for worship we were cast To walk in l.u.s.ter and eternal grace.

Until a fatal wickedness was found . . .

How do I, Abdiel, Seraph of the heavens, describe to humans clothed in flesh the horrors of celestial war?

How do I explain countless dimensions to beings entombed in time? How do I narrate the tales of eternity, of heaven's enduring villains, to a people who cannot conceive of life without a past, present, or future?

And what of war itself and angel death?

Of battle's din and hills alive with celestial tribes . . .

I looked up. "The professor's not serious, is he?" I asked.

I saw what was happening. I'd accused him of hiding, of letting other men take the heat of publishing while he contented himself with doing research from the sidelines. I must have hit a sore spot and now the professor wanted me to help him get published.

I closed the manila folder and pushed it back across the table at her. "This isn't history. It's fantasy fiction. Taking one's personal theological beliefs and attempting to bring them to life with fictional characters is fantasy. While I have to give the professor an A for creative writing, if I showed this to any credible historian, he'd laugh in my face."

"You haven't read it," Sue said testily.

"I've read enough."

Sue Ling s.n.a.t.c.hed the folder off the table and stuffed it back in her bag just as Jana Torres was walking by. She wore a dress skirt that swished just above her knees and black high heels.

Before I could say anything, Sue was gone. She and Jana pa.s.sed each other at the door. They exchanged words. Sue left and a none-too-pleased Jana joined me.

"What did you say to her?" she cried. "I've never seen her so angry."

Jana sat down in Sue Ling's seat and began clearing Sue's things away, wadding up the napkin and corralling the crumbs into a neat pile.

"She wanted me to look at Professor Forsythe's ma.n.u.script," I told her.

"Is it bad?"

"It's not that it's bad . . . it's not my thing. It's fiction."

"You mean it's about angels."

For some reason the revelation that Jana knew of the professor's fascination with angels took me by surprise. To me, it's one of those things you don't talk about with other people. Like personal finances. A person's beliefs about angels and miracles and other biblical stuff is personal. "Sue has told you about the professor's angels," I said.

"We're friends. We talk about everything."

The comment was made as a casual remark, but it sat uneasily with me. It shouldn't have surprised me. Sue Ling had already berated me based on Jana's version of our high school dating experience.

Jana was looking at the refrigerated display cases.

"Would you like something?"

I got her an orange juice and a low-cal oatmeal bar. As I set them in front of her I continued our conversation. "It doesn't bother you that Sue Ling believes in angels?" I asked.

"She calls them EDs."