"Thank you, Ms. . . ."

"Corbett," she said. "Please call me Kathy."

With a snappy about-face, Kathy returned to her post behind the reference desk, folded her hands on top, smiled, and said, "Name your poison!"

Behind her, a girl with straight, shoulder-length hair and large round gla.s.ses sat at a computer terminal entering data from a stack of cards. She glanced up at me and did a cla.s.sic double take. Her eyes then darted to the end of the counter and I understood how I'd been so readily recognized.

Propped up in a wire book holder was a copy of my book with the back-cover publicity photo prominently displayed to anyone working behind the counter.

"Would you mind?" the reference librarian said, reaching for the book.

She opened it to the t.i.tle page. Dutifully, I smiled and autographed it. As I did, I noticed no one had checked it out.

"I suppose this is the noncirculating reference copy," I said. "If you'd like, I'd be willing to sign any circulating copies you have in the stacks as well."

Kathy corrected me with a smile. "Oh no," she said, "this is our circulation copy."

Circulation copy. Singular. Never checked out. Being an author can be a humbling experience.

She closed the book, patted it, and set it aside. "Now . . . how may I help you, Mr. Austin?"

"Yes, well . . . I'm researching a name," I said.

"Surname?"

"Um . . . no, I don't think so."

"Given name, then."

"Possibly . . . but I'm not . . ."

"Historical or contemporary?"

"Um . . ."

"Foreign or domestic?"

"Probably foreign, but not in the sense that . . . that makes sense . . ."

She pursed her lips and c.o.c.ked her head and looked at me as only research librarians can do. She was good at it. It was probably an expression she used at least a dozen times a day on freshmen.

Loud and clear was the unspoken question behind her expression: How do you expect me to help you if you don't know what you're talking about?

"Look, Kathy . . . I'm not certain, but the name may be rooted in mythology. It may be New Age. It may be the name of a fictional character. Or it may not be a name at all, it may be a t.i.tle. I just don't know."

She nodded, encouraged to hear lucid sentences coming from my mouth. "All right," she said. "Let's approach this from another direction. Why don't you tell me the name and we'll go from there."

"Semyaza."

"Semyaza," she repeated. Reaching for a slip of paper, she wrote the name down. "Semyaza. S-E-M-Y-A-Z-A?"

"That would be my guess."

Her eyebrows arched.

"I've only heard it spoken once," I explained. "I've never seen it written."

Putting on her researcher's face, Kathy turned to a computer monitor. She tapped in a few commands and waited. When the desired screen appeared, she typed in the name. Her eyes remained fixed on the monitor while the computer did its magic. "Hmm. Interesting," she said.

"What?" I leaned over the counter to see the screen, but she had it angled to prevent prying eyes. "What?" I asked again.

She punched a key and a printer jumped to life. It spat out a single sheet of paper which she grabbed and handed to me. "Why don't you start with these books," she said, "and I'll follow up on some leads on the computer."

The sheet contained a short list of call numbers.

Thanking her, I entered the stacks with printout in hand looking for the BT section. There were three books on the list. All of them with the reference call number BT966.2.

I found the BTs against the back wall and understood what the reference librarian had found interesting. I wasn't in the mythology section, as I had suspected; nor was I in the history, anthropology, or fiction sections. Section BT was reserved for books on New Testament theology.

Finding the three books on the list, I carried them to a table and dug in.

Moments later Kathy came walking up. "Somehow you don't strike me as the type," she mused.

"What do you mean?"

She set an open book in front of me. It was a collector's edition with full-color photographs of angel figurines. Displayed was a ceramic angel with a lute, a hand-painted angel with a trumpet made of resin, a guardian angel table clock, and a girl angel snuggling up with a polyester blanket. Prices ranged from $12.95 to $74.95.

Kathy the librarian held out for as long as she could, which wasn't long. She burst into laughter. "I'm sorry," she cried. "I couldn't help myself. Not after what I found. Here's the real scoop."

She set two printout pages from Web sites she'd found on the Internet on top of the book. I glanced at them, then at her.

A reference librarian with a sense of humor. Go figure.

"There were more references, but they say pretty much the same thing," she said of the printouts.

SEMYAZA -Angel; of the rank of Seraphim. A leader of the angels who rebelled in heaven and cohabited with women. The 200 angels under his command are divided into groups of ten, each with a prince.

The second printout was similar to the first: Semyaza (Aramaic; Shemyahzah), which means "my name has seen" or "he sees the name." Possibly an indication that had the rebellion in heaven succeeded, he would have been granted the Archangel Gabriel's position, which he coveted. Semyaza was cast out of heaven with Lucifer. On earth, he is legendary for his corruption of humanity.

"Semyaza is the name of an angel," I muttered. "Which explains . . ." I pointed to the book of figurines. "Very funny."

"You look like a man who enjoys a joke," she replied.

I stared at the printouts, not knowing what to think. What did any of this have to do with Myles Shepherd?

"You say you heard the name," Kathy said. "Do you mind if I ask where?"

"Um . . . from a high school teacher."

She shuffled through some other printouts she'd kept in her hand, placing one on top. "Is this him?"

The printout was from one of those Web sites where people post their picture and personal information and invite friends to leave messages. The man in the picture had a large, oval face with straight jet-black hair down to his collar. He wore a goatee. His lips were black. And he wore round, wire-rim gla.s.ses. From his expression he appeared to have an upset stomach.

According to the bio, he was thirty-two years old and lived in Midwest City, OK. Under turn-ons he listed creative piercing; his favorite music was Black Sabbath, Kiss (the early alb.u.ms), and Marilyn Manson. At the top of the page, next to his picture, there was a place for his name: Semyaza.

To me, this was funnier than the figurines. I laughed.

"Not him, I take it," Kathy said.

"No offense to Mr. Semyaza of Midwest City, but if a nationwide search were conducted to find the polar opposite of Myles Shepherd"-I tapped the printout-"this guy would win, hands down."

Kathy crumpled the printout and chuckled. "Would you like me to search some more, or have you found what you needed?"

"Give me a few moments to thumb through these books and I'll let you know."

"It's no problem . . . really! I'd be more than happy to search some more." Her eyes were eager, if not pleading.

"Thank you. Just give me a few minutes."

She stood there, staring at me with a silly grin on her face. I smiled at her, not knowing what she was waiting for.

She shivered pleasurably and cried, "I'm a.s.sisting a Pulitzer Prizewinning author!" With a squeal she did a little dance back to the reference counter.

The three books from the stacks were of little help. Using the index in the back of each one, I located the references to Semyaza. Without exception they were located in chapters on angelic beings and provided little additional information. Semyaza, as indicated by the printouts, was the name of an angel who aligned himself with Lucifer and was cast out of heaven.

Next, I noted the authors of the books. All three were professors of the New Testament at conservative seminaries. One other thing had caught my attention. All three of the works were heavily footnoted, with one name appearing prominently in the citations: J. P. Forsythe.

Stacking the open books one on top of the other, I carried them to the reference desk. Kathy stood at the end of the counter, her head in an oversized volume. Opposite her was a young man, a student by the looks of him.

When she saw me coming, she swiveled the book around so that it faced the student and pointed to where he could continue searching. "Yes, Mr. Austin," she said, turning her attention to me.

I set the books on the counter. "All three of these authors reference the work of J. P. Forsythe," I said. "But they cite lectures or unpublished papers. I'd like to know who Forsythe is and if he's published anything."

She checked the footnotes. "Very good, Mr. Austin," she said. "Straight to the original source."

"This isn't my first time researching," I said good-naturedly.

She laughed louder than was necessary.

A check of Books in Print revealed that J. P. Forsythe had no published works.

"That's odd," Kathy said. "He's obviously a recognized authority. Well, if we can't find anything about a man's work, let's see if we can find something about the man."

I leaned on the counter as she pecked on the keyboard, paused, pursed her lips, and pecked some more.

"Ms. Corbett . . ." the student with the oversized volume said.

Without taking her eyes off the monitor, the librarian waved a hand at him. "Just leave it on the counter."

The boy closed the book. He appeared to have another question. After a brief moment he walked away.

"Well! Look at this!" the librarian said, stepping back. "Your mystery source? He's local!"

"Forsythe is local? How local?"

"El Cajon. I found a reference listing him as a consulting editor for the Evangelical Quarterly, which says he's a professor of theology and the New Testament at Heritage College in El Cajon. Um . . . that was two years ago. Hold on . . . let me double-check . . ."

Fingers flew over the keyboard. Her right hand moved to the computer mouse. "Let's see . . . Heritage College Web site . . . faculty . . . Department of Theology . . . there you go!" She turned to me with a smile. With the satisfied grin of someone who just solved a riddle, she said, "Your boy's still teaching at the college if you want to talk to him!"

CHAPTER 6.

Convinced that some of the answers might be found in El Cajon, I retraced my steps, despite a growling stomach and a much-antic.i.p.ated nap.

There comes a time in the course of every research project when relationships begin to appear between pieces of information and you get your first hint of the total picture. That moment came for me as I was leaving the library.

Walking back through the underground pa.s.sage, past the Native American displays, I remembered that some indigenous tribes used peyote while undertaking spiritual quests. An hallucinogenic plant, the peyote altered their state of perception.

The one thing of which I was certain was that while I was in Myles Shepherd's office, my state of perception had most definitely been altered. Semyaza was the name of a spirit ent.i.ty. The pieces fit.

I began to formulate a theory. I had been fine when I arrived at the high school and throughout the a.s.sembly. It was in Myles's office that reality took a vacation. Somehow, he'd drugged me. If I knew what substance he'd used, I could probably figure out the delivery method.

Then we chatted while the drug took effect. I began to hallucinate and, before I pa.s.sed out, Myles performed some kind of victory ritual in Semyaza's name.

Myles Shepherd, a member of some New Age cult that worships the angel Semyaza. Did Jana know about this? She'd gotten upset when I asked her about his activities in college.

The parking lot fit the theory too. The drug wore off and by morning all that remained were a few lingering aftereffects.

What about seeing Myles at the scene of the accident? Hallucinogenic flashback.

It all added up. The remaining question was, Why? I had a theory for that too.

Two pieces of the puzzle formed the basis of my motivation theory. First, the a.s.sa.s.sination threat. Somehow all of this was tied into a plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president. I had to a.s.sume the threat was real and that Myles was not working alone. Second, Myles Shepherd's ego figured in. When he learned I had been invited to give a speech at our alma mater, that I would be returning as the conquering hero complete with press corps, he couldn't stop himself from boasting about the plot. He was aching to tell me he knew the final, unwritten chapter of my book.

This was vintage Myles Shepherd. He was forever predicting his victories. At the end of our junior year, he boasted he would be senior cla.s.s president. He was. He boasted he would be valedictorian. He was. He boasted he would be the tennis team's Most Valuable Player. He has the trophy to prove it.

Of course he knew there was a risk in revealing the plot. He knew I'd try to stop him. So he devised a way to discredit me. If I notified the Secret Service, when they questioned me about the details of the plot it would also come out that I saw the alphabet dance across the room. So much for my credibility.

I had to give Myles credit. He might have gotten away with it. His plan was solid. The only thing he hadn't counted on was dying.

The irony of his death intrigued me. It had a Twilight Zone twist to it. An elaborate plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president of the United States thwarted by a common freeway accident.