"No stamp," Agent Cunningham said.

He pulled out a half-inch-thick stack of letter-sized pages. The pages flopped over and I could see that they were additional pages of the professor's ma.n.u.script. A note was attached to the first page with a paper clip.

Agent Cunningham read it aloud. " 'Honestly, Grant, I don't know if this will hurt or help you right now. I just felt compelled to send it to you.' "

Agent Cunningham looked up. "Who's Professor Forsythe?" he asked.

"A colleague."

"And this?" he asked, flipping through the pages, scanning the paragraphs.

"My family genealogy," I said.

CHAPTER 22.

After relocating to the Red Lion in Mission Valley, I called Jana. Now more than ever I wanted to talk with the president. I'd spent over a year orbiting his world, conducting interviews that resulted in a portrayal of a life that now appeared to be all smoke and mirrors-and I was angry. My professional pride had been bruised and I felt like a patsy.

The questions kept stacking up: Exactly who was behind the changes in my book and why?

What was the president's response to Doc's version of events in Vietnam and the medications while in the White House?

Why didn't the president want me here in San Diego?

"It's because there's going to be an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt, isn't it?" I said, practicing my antic.i.p.ated interview. "But you know that, don't you? Why? Why would you, the president of the United States, consent to your own a.s.sa.s.sination?"

Even before I asked, I could hear his reply: This world isn't what you think it is, Grant.

I was beginning to believe it.

Before my bags. .h.i.t the bed in my second hotel room, Jana's phone was ringing and ringing and ringing. Just when I thought I was going to get an answering machine, Jana answered. "Grant?"

Her voice was shaky. I knew why.

"You talked to Sue Ling," I said.

"Yeah," she said quietly.

Was this how it was going to be for me from now on? Grant, the cosmic freak.

"Jana, I'm not a monster," I said. "I'm not going to reach through the phone and rip your face off."

"You're angry."

"You bet I'm angry! I'm angry, confused, hurt . . . And right now I could use a sympathetic ear. I'd expect as much from someone who has known me as long as you have."

A stretch of silence was her reply.

I switched topics. "The reason I called is that I need to get the information you have on the president's itinerary. Would it be possible for us to-"

"Grant . . . I can't talk about this right now. I . . . I . . ."

"Jana, I need that information. Could you at least send me a press packet or-"

"Grant, I really have to go."

She hung up.

Frustrated, I tossed my phone onto the bed. It landed next to the professor's envelope, the one with the additional pages of ma.n.u.script.

Setting the ma.n.u.script on the table, I stared vacantly out the hotel window. I couldn't read right now.

A trio of boys splashed and screamed in the hotel pool. On the golf course a foursome was teeing off at the tenth hole. A man with a large belly and plaid pants took a healthy swing, tracked his ball, leaning to his right, leaned farther, said something I couldn't hear and probably didn't want to hear, slammed his club into his bag, then took off in a golf cart in search of his ball.

Not one of these people was thinking about angels. A few days ago I was just like them. I missed those days.

Pushing myself up out of the chair, I turned back into the room. My heart catapulted into my throat when I saw Myles Shepherd standing there.

CHAPTER 23.

Myles Shepherd. Looking very much alive.

It took several hard swallows for me to get my heart back where it belonged, and a couple more before I was able to form words. "Aren't you dead?"

"You're not that lucky, Grant."

Two men appeared from nowhere behind him. Since they hadn't entered through the door I felt it was a safe a.s.sumption that they were angels, too, and the fact that they weren't attacking Myles meant they were probably on his side.

All of these appearings and disappearings were starting to get on my nerves.

"Reinforcements, Myles?" I said. "Are you afraid to face me alone?"

"Semyaza," he said, sneering. "My name is Semyaza. That should be clear even to you by now."

We faced off as we always had, whether it was across a tennis net or over a chessboard or sparring over Jana.

"A lot has changed over the last few days, Grant," Semyaza said. "This world isn't what you thought it was, is it?"

"That's what everybody keeps telling me."

"As a concerned friend, I thought I'd drop in and check up on you. See how you're doing."

"Your concern is touching." The fact he'd brought reinforcements troubled me. Unless they weren't reinforcements. "Is one of them-"

"Your grandfather?"

Semyaza exchanged grins with his buddies.

"No, Grant. I'm afraid Azazel couldn't make our little meeting today. He's rather busy at the moment, what with the a.s.sa.s.sination extravaganza. There are so many things to consider in a presidential a.s.sa.s.sination and Azazel wants to make sure that every detail is perfect. He likes to put on a good show."

"I can imagine," I quipped. "Deciding on a design for the c.o.c.ktail napkins must have kept him up nights."

Semyaza bristled. It annoyed him when I didn't take him seriously. He'd always been that way and I always got a kick out of annoying him. And then he'd smash me at whatever it was we were competing over and he'd get the last laugh.

With more conviction than I felt, I said, "I'll stop the a.s.sa.s.sination. You know that, don't you? But then, that's why you're here, isn't it? What do you plan to do, Myles? Get your buddies to tie me up and stick me in a closet until it's over?"

Semyaza sniffed indifferently. "You know they hate you, don't you?"

I glanced at the two angels behind him. "They don't even know me."

"Not them. Abdiel and the others. They despise you because you're one of us."

"I'll never be one of you."

Semyaza chuckled wickedly. "Oh . . . I beg to differ, Grant. I do beg to differ . . ."

The room grew dark and the ceiling began to stir. I glanced up to see it populated with demons, just as the ceiling in Myles Shepherd's office had filled with hideous gargoyle things. They cl.u.s.tered in the corners, straining as though on a leash.

"You don't choose family," Semyaza said. "That's what they are. Your family. Think of this as a family reunion."

The flesh on my arms and neck began to tingle.

"This is your destiny, Grant. Because of who you are, you have no hope of a blissful afterlife. Your future is with them, elbowing for ceiling s.p.a.ce, in constant torment, aching for a moment of peace, pleading with the G.o.d who has turned his back on you for annihilation so the pain will stop."

Above him the activity increased like a beehive disturbed. Gargoyle mouths twisted in silent cries.

The thought of being one of them . . . of writhing among them on the ceiling . . . chained . . .

"So that's the plan, is it, Myles? Because I learned the truth, now you're going to kill me?"

"The truth?" He laughed hard. "The truth? You've read the ramblings of an ancient fool and you think you know the truth? I'll show you the truth."

When would I learn not to goad Myles?

At his signal a lone demon dropped from the ceiling onto the bureau. I recognized him from Myles Shepherd's office. It was the same demon that had dropped onto the file cabinet and clutched the tennis trophy.

"Call me sentimental," Myles said, "but I just love family reunions, don't you?"

I was too horrified to reply. My eyes were locked on the tortured soul on the bureau. It stared at me and drooled like I was a T-bone steak.

Semyaza said, "Grant Austin . . . meet your father."

Before I had time to blink, the demon hit me in the chest and clawed its way inside. I clutched at my clothing, ripping open my shirt, as though I could go after it and tear it out. My fingers ripped away the shirt and began clawing at the flesh, digging deep red channels. But I made no progress. My own flesh, my own rib cage, kept me from getting at him.

I could feel him inside me. Restless. Stirring. Gnawing. I could hear him in my head, whimpering and moaning. He babbled words I couldn't understand, but I understood his anguish . . . oh, how I understood his anguish . . . an anguish so thick, so heavy, it dripped inside me and coated my soul with an oppressive, oily depression.

I dropped to my knees, my hands clenched helplessly in fists as I fought the torment and the mounting anxiety.

Semyaza stood over me, grinning that insufferable grin he'd perfected as Myles Shepherd. His cohorts flanked him. Above them, on the ceiling, gargoyle demons danced with glee at the thought of one of their number finding a measure of satisfaction at my expense.

"Let's leave Grant and his father to get better acquainted," Semyaza said. "I'm sure they have a lot of catching up to do."

The three rogue angels disappeared. The ceiling cleared. I fell onto my back, clutching at my head, writhing on the floor.

CHAPTER 24.

It was night when my demon father vacated me. The hotel drapes were open and from the floor I could see stars. I don't know why he left when he did. Maybe he had dinner plans. All I know is that he left me completely exhausted. I felt like I'd spent the afternoon wrestling a grizzly bear.

I lay on the floor, my arms and legs splayed, my chest rising and falling as if I'd run a marathon. Not until the ache of lying on the floor was greater than the ache of moving did I get up.

Crawling to the bedside table, I reached for my phone and punched through the list of recent calls that had been made to my number. I found the listing I was looking for, the call that had reached me at Christina's apartment. "Sue Ling, this is Grant."

"Grant . . ." Her voice was hesitant.

"I need to reach the professor. Do you have a contact number which I could use to . . . oh, h.e.l.lo, Professor."

I don't know why I was surprised. Sue Ling was never far from the professor. I told him I needed to speak to him, tonight if possible. He gave me an address in North Park.

A small corner house, 3198 Landis Street appeared to have been built in the late thirties. It had a front porch with wooden pillars on each corner that looked like a thin Egyptian pyramid. A long, wooden ramp for handicapped access indicated I was at the right house.

My knock was answered by an invitation to let myself in. The screen door creaked as I opened it. The door had been left open a crack. I stepped into a cozy living room lined with bookshelves. Two floor lamps with shades provided soft light. The absence of a television, or the sound of one, made me feel like I was stepping back in time.

"Come in, Grant!" the professor said cheerily, wheeling himself into the room from the more brightly lit kitchen.

Behind him I could see Sue Ling whipping a dish towel around an appliance. Shoving the appliance into place, she continued wiping down the counter and putting dishes away in the cupboards. Her movements were automatic. She didn't have to think, let alone ask, where anything went.