"I think we both know your position in that argument."

"There are others who feel you may be of some use to us."

I didn't ask. My head was spinning. How often does a guy learn that he is some rogue angel's love child, that his existence is the topic of debate at Satan's table, and that angels in the heavenlies are ashamed he exists? Of course, this after learning that a president was a.s.sa.s.sinated and a city nearly destroyed to impress him.

"What do you want from me?" I asked.

"A statement of allegiance to Lucifer."

"To what end?"

"In case you haven't noticed, you are in the midst of a war. In time of war sides are chosen, allegiances are made known. A person's allegiance with one side or the other becomes a matter of life and death."

"And if I declare allegiance to Lucifer?"

"You write your own success story for the remainder of your earthly life. As long as you do nothing to oppose Lucifer, you will not be harmed."

"What happens at the end of my natural life?"

"That is out of our hands. Your fate has been fixed by the Father."

I knew the answer to the next question, but I had to ask. "And if I refuse to pledge allegiance to Lucifer?"

"We kill you. If we cannot gain your cooperation voluntarily, we will reduce you to a demon so that we can control you."

I glanced over my shoulder at the broken bridge.

"Take a good look at it, Grant. The choice is simple. You're overmatched. Haven't you learned that lesson yet? I've been beating you at every turn since the day we first met as freshmen in high school."

"How much time do I have to think about it?"

My question angered him. "If you have to think about it, there's no hope for you. I'm ready to kill you now."

"Here? With n.o.body to see it? No one to cheer your final victory over me? Give me until midnight tonight. You can make a spectacle of it."

Semyaza grinned. He liked that idea.

"Midnight, then," he said. "Atop the Emerald Plaza tower where you contemplated ending your life the other day. Yes, I was there. I must say you put me in a quandary. Had you decided to throw yourself over the ledge I wouldn't have known whether to save you or not."

Then he was gone.

There's something unsettling about people disappearing suddenly like that. But I was glad he was gone. I needed time to think.

I started to leave the Midway, but my feet were still glued to the deck.

"Not funny, Semyaza," I said.

The news crew had packed up and were heading toward the exit. As they walked by me, the cameraman said, "Can we give you a lift?"

When my feet still wouldn't move, I folded my arms casually and smiled. "Thanks, but I think I'll just hang around here for a while."

"Suit yourself."

"Oh . . . and guys," I said. "The Pulitzer. It's not that big a deal."

The tech snorted. "A lot you know," he said.

A steady stream of onlookers began finding their way onto the deck to see in person what so many of them had watched on television. Dallas had its gra.s.sy knoll. Now the Midway had one more reason to attract tourists.

As they pa.s.sed by me on both sides, I nodded and greeted them. I think some of them thought I was a member of the museum staff.

Whenever I was alone enough not to be overheard, I pleaded with Semyaza, "Come on, let me go. You're not going to keep me here until midnight, are you?"

CHAPTER 30.

It was dark when I left the bay, having finally regained control of my feet. I wanted to escape the crush of the curious as they swamped the wharf. But I found I didn't want to be alone either.

I considered calling Christina or Jana, but then I realized the news crew hadn't returned my cell phone. Just as well. If the girls knew what awaited me, they would try to talk me out of going, or insist on going with me, and I couldn't allow that. I'd already jeopardized them enough for one day.

I felt the same about Sue and the professor. I would have liked to have been able to say goodbye, but at what price? It would only bring needless anxiety into their lives. I had to face the fact that I was alone in this.

After ten or fifteen minutes of walking I found myself in the Gaslamp Quarter, the entertainment district comprised of several downtown blocks of restaurants, galleries, and boutiques set among charming, Victorian-style buildings. It was billed as San Diego's liveliest neighborhood. That's what I needed right now, a neighborhood.

I found comfort being surrounded by people, listening to the sound of voices and loud music, while at the same time remaining anonymous. Here I could be part of the human race without anybody feeling sorry for me or asking me for a decision.

As expected, there was a single topic of conversation in the Gaslamp Quarter-the a.s.sa.s.sination of President Douglas. Everyone felt a need to tell someone where they were when they heard the news.

There was also a fair amount of speculation as to the ident.i.ty and motive of the pilot of the FA-18. I heard one guy-honest, he was serious-say that the pilot was Fidel Castro. He explained that Castro was behind Kennedy's a.s.sa.s.sination and wanted to kill one more American president before he died, and what better way to do it than by going out in a blaze of glory?

At a sports bar I ordered a soft drink and watched as Vice President Alessandro Rossi was sworn in as the next president of the United States. According to the newscaster, the vice president heard about the a.s.sa.s.sination while flying to New York. The Secret Service wanted him to return immediately to Washington, but since they were already on approach to the airport, Rossi insisted on taking the oath of office in New York, just as George Washington had done.

The impromptu ceremony took place at his brother's restaurant in Brooklyn. According to the press secretary the restaurant was selected to honor the president's immigrant roots. The newscaster questioned the appropriateness of a president taking the oath of office in a Mafia neighborhood, stating that while George Washington may have taken the oath in New York, the red-and-white checkered tablecloths of an Italian eatery were a far cry from the balcony of Federal Hall.

I remained at the sports bar long enough to see a live report from the Coast Guard station at the foot of Laurel Street at Harbor Drive as the recovered body of President Douglas was loaded into a hea.r.s.e. According to the reporter on the scene, Adrian Barbour-I knew him as the tie-President Douglas had left meticulous orders regarding the handling of his remains should such a tragedy occur, including his choice of medical examiner. However, the president's medical examiner had been delayed at LAX-something about an automobile accident-and a local examiner, Ted d.i.c.kson, an ex-marine, was being called in to identify the remains and perform the autopsy.

"Everything's playing out just as Semyaza said it would," I muttered.

You can't win, Grant. You're overmatched.

It was time I started making my way to Broadway Avenue.

Leaving the sports bar, I turned north on Fourth Street. As I was walking past a restaurant with outdoor seating, I was startled by a hand shooting over the wrought-iron railing and grabbing my wrist. "Hey, aren't you . . ." He started to release my arm, but before he did, he said, "Stand right there. Just for a second, OK?"

He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. There were three other people at the table, a couple sitting across from him and a good-looking redhead seated next to him. They seemed as shocked and perplexed by their friend's actions as I was.

Fishing for something under his chair, he retrieved a yellow plastic bag from a Barnes and n.o.ble bookstore. Inside the bag was a copy of my book. He turned it over to the photo on the back and compared the likeness to me. "That's you, isn't it?" he said.

He showed the publicity photo to the other couple and his date. They looked at the photo, at me, then at the photo again.

"It is him!" the redhead squealed.

"You're . . ." He had to turn the book over and read my name from the cover. ". . . Grant Austin! You're Grant Austin, aren't you?"

"b.u.mmer! Today must have been a wild one for you, what with the president getting whacked and all," the other male at the table said.

"Were you there? In the motorcade?" his blond girlfriend asked.

"I wasn't in the motorcade," I said.

"But you saw it, didn't you? You saw the a.s.sa.s.sination?" the holder of the book asked. "Man, that must have been rough, I mean, you've talked with the man, right? Sat down with him . . . interviewed him . . . did you get to know him?"

Had he asked me that question a couple of weeks ago I would have told him I knew the president. I probably would have boasted a little about being on Air Force One, or sitting in the Oval Office, or weekending at Camp David.

"No," I said. "I didn't know him that well."

"But that must have been sad for you today," the redhead opined with a pout.

A middle-aged man sitting with his wife at a neighboring table interjected, "I believe he won an award for that book. The n.o.bel Prize. Am I right?"

"So what are you going to do now?" the man with the book asked. "Write a final chapter or something?"

I took the book from him, autographed it with the date, and handed it back to him. "Hold on to that," I said. "It may be worth something someday."

Reaching the fountain in front of Horton Plaza with time to spare, I took a moment to look across the street at the U.S. Grant Hotel nestled in a cozy light, its polished gla.s.s doors reflecting the pa.s.sing car headlights of Broadway Avenue.

If I took Semyaza up on his offer I could return later tonight and stay in the presidential suite. Or I could take door number two and spend the night on a crowded ceiling with a couple hundred of my closest slimy green relatives.

I looked away. It was better if I didn't think about it, diverting myself instead with the sights and sounds of humanity.

The street I stood on had seen its share of history. I'd seen black-and-white pictures of Broadway on VJ Day at the end of World War II, and while the street didn't look nearly as crowded as it did then, the downtown's main artery was pretty much wall-to-wall people.

I turned westward toward the Emerald Plaza and nearly got run over by three boys on skateboards, all wearing hooded sweatshirts. Despite their attire they seemed nice enough.

Noting my direction, one of them said, "Going down to the bay?"

"Been there."

"Kickin' president, saving those schoolkids like that! When I go down? I want to go down big time, in flames like that!"

"Careful what you wish for, kid," I said.

But he wasn't listening. The three of them had already slapped their boards down and were crossing Fourth against the light.

Five blocks later I'd reached the Emerald Plaza. Pulling open the heavy gla.s.s door, I stepped into the lobby. The door swung closed behind me, shutting out the city noise. A huge atrium of chrome, gla.s.s, and greenery, it served as entryway to hundreds of businesses located in the towers.

Being nearly midnight, it was empty and as silent as a mortuary, except for a pair of bodiless voices coming from one of the adjoining corridors. One male. One female. Apparently he said or did something funny because she laughed.

Crossing the polished white tile floor, I summoned an elevator. The doors made a ritzy whoosh sound when they opened. I stepped inside. The doors whooshed closed behind me.

For several moments I stood there like a man in an oversized coffin. I stared at the double row of b.u.t.tons.

Semyaza appeared next to me.

I started at his sudden appearance.

"Going down?" he said with a smirk.

Without comment I pushed the b.u.t.ton that would take me to the top floor.

Sue Ling lunged for the door.

"Grant?"

Jana and Christina walked in. Sue Ling threw herself into their arms, laughing and weeping at the same time.

"He wasn't at the hotel," Christina said. She was shoeless and worried. "Did you have any luck with his cell phone?"

"A guy named Craig answered," Sue replied.

"A tech at the station," Jana said. She nodded as she pieced events together. "We used Grant's phone to do the broadcast."

"He said he'd return Grant's phone to you at the station," Sue said. "Are you . . . going out with him?"

"Who? Craig?"

"He sort of inferred that you and he have something going on," Sue said.

"In his dreams," Jana replied.

From the middle of the living room the professor watched with interest. The television set was on. It had been on all afternoon.

Jana said, "We're going to drive around downtown and look for him. Come with us."

Sue glanced hesitantly back at the professor. "I probably should stay and-"

"She'd be delighted to go," the professor answered for her.

Sue questioned him with a tilt of her head.

"I'll be fine," the professor insisted. "Go with them. You need to get out."