Sleeping Late On Judgement Day (48 page)

He looked me over, then went to get two glasses from a tray and poured water into both of them. “Some refreshment?”

“Sure. You had the glasses ready. Were you expecting someone? Like me?”

He gave me a look that was a little amused, a little irritated. “Why would I be expecting you?”

“Never mind. I'm here because I want to know more about a particular angel.” I checked my notes. “Yep, that's all. Just some info on one little angel. I'll take hard evidence, interesting stories, completely dubious scuttlebutt—you name it.”

“Oh? And what do I get in return, Mr. Dollar?”

“The inside information on how a major angel fell. You've heard about Anaita?”

“I confess that I have. In fact, even if I hadn't, the fact that you're still around suggested she was out of the picture.”

“Yeah. Well, I was there when she was taken down. And it's an interesting story. What do you say? You game to trade?”

He drank his water, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. “And what angel is it you want to know about? Because that might make a difference. One of the ephors in charge of your case? Someone involved in the Magian movement, one of Anaita's dupes?”

“Nope. I want you to tell me all about an archangel called Samkiel.”

I'm betting that name won't mean anything to you, but trust me, you've heard it. Gustibus recognized it, too, because he looked surprised. “Really?” He shook his head as though I'd offered to hock him a priceless antique for the price of a cheap bottle of wine. “Very well. Let's talk.”

And so I told him about the snow and ash on Kainos—all the way up to the last moments when the angels came and my best friend died in my arms. I told him everything, even the things I'd rather have forgotten. When I didn't tell him enough, Gustibus asked questions—good questions, hard questions that I didn't always have the answers to myself. It really made me wonder about him, because it might just have been the hunger for truth of a true historian, but there were times when it seemed to go deeper than that.

When I was done, he answered
my
questions, and you'll hear about those answers soon enough. All together, it made for a fascinating afternoon, and for a long time it was just the two of us, one speaking while the other listened. The ocean beat against the shore like a lover at a locked door, and the wind plucked at the shingles and rattled the windows.

 • • • 

By the time we finished it was early evening. I stood up, stretched, then fumbled in my pocket for my car keys.

“Oh, one last thing,” I said. “Just a minor question, not a trade. You don't have to answer.”

He put his glass down and turned from the window. He, as usual, had stood during the entire time I was with him. “What might that be?”

“I was just wondering whether you might be someone else.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know, it sounds strange. But I couldn't help thinking that if someone wanted to slip me information, even manipulate me a bit here and there, it would be nice if they had a cover as someone who knows a lot about Heaven while still being an outsider. Someone like you.”

“Ah. And in this solipsistic view of things, Mr. Dollar—Bobby—who would I be?”

“Don't know. That's why I'm asking. One of the ephors? My boss Temuel? Some other angel I don't know? Heck, maybe not even an angel—there have to be lots of folks from Hell playing the long game up here, who wouldn't mind the combination of getting inside information and making trouble for Heaven.”

His smile looked genuine, if a bit indulgent. “Should I remind you that you came looking for me, not the other way around?”

“Absolutely. Can't argue with that.”

“And even if this conspiracy theory
were
true—although it most definitely is not—you know very well that such a mysterious double-agent version of Karl Gustibus would have to deny everything anyway. So the question is a bit pointless, isn't it?”

“I guess so.” I got up. “Thanks for the briefing on Samkiel. I have a feeling I may find that very useful.”

Gustibus didn't walk me out. The nun who'd let me in hours ago was still clutching the broom as I went past her on my way to the door, but at least she didn't take a swipe at me.

I had a lot to mull over on my way back through the hills. I put on Sonny Rollins'
Blue Seven
, good thinking music, and watched the trees swaying in what looked like the winds before a storm. The sky was dark. So were my thoughts.

I parked my gaudy yellow ride in the Tierra Green garage and headed for the stairs. I had decided to call Clarence, because I thought I'd better share some of this with somebody, and he was about the only person left who knew enough of the story to understand, not to mention that he'd handed me a major piece of it himself. But just as the phone screen lit up, and I started to put in numbers, something punched me in the back
hard
, knocking the wind out of me. I staggered, and it was harder to turn around than it should have been. I got myself swiveled just in time to see the pale, staring face of one of Baldur von Reinmann's minions—Timon, the dark-haired one. His eyes were wide with an almost sexual excitement, and I could see sweat beaded all over his face in the pale light of the garage's overhead light. He had a long, bloody knife in his hand, an SS dagger.

“The fuck!” I said, then he stabbed me again, this time in the belly. He grabbed me with his free arm so he could plunge the knife in several more times. My knees buckled and he let go of me.

“You killed him!” The words tumbled crookedly out of his mouth. “The most beautiful man, our leader! He could have been one of the world's masters!” Timon's dark hair hung in his face. He looked way too emo for a genuine murderer. “You ruined it!”

“No,” I said, bubbling blood. “
You
ruined it.” I was on my hands and knees, drizzling blood, trying to find a way not to shriek at the pain that had set the whole of my torso on fire, front and back. I was talking to distract him, but it felt like I was belching out fire and broken glass. I grabbed his legs with my hands and began to drag myself upright. He tried to pull away, but somehow it didn't occur to him to stab me again. “Dumbass,” I grunted through clenched teeth. “You could have been a camp counselor. Or a Deadhead, or a fucking comic book fan, something decent.” And there it was, tucked in his belt like a birthday surprise for me—my own sofa gun, the Smith & Wesson.38 that he'd stolen at the museum. “But you had to hook up with a bunch of miserable racist Nazi shits—!” I did my best to punch him so hard in the nuts that he'd die, but I was pretty weak and only gave him a mild thump. As he stumbled back, though, I managed to hang onto the butt of the revolver.

It took him a second to realize what I was pointing at him.

“I bet you wish you'd taken up golf,” I said as his eyes grew wide. “Or collecting stamps.” Then I emptied the revolver into the middle of him. Like a good little fascist, he'd cleaned and reloaded it, so he got all five rounds. I don't think the last two or three were necessary, but by that point I couldn't actually see anything, and even the healthy crack of the.38 Airweight sounded like the tap of a distant hammer.

I died pretty quickly after that.

O
KAY, HERE'S
something you may not have known: apparently dead people dream.

How did I know I was dead? Well, unless it's ever happened to you (and you were an angel at the time, like I was) it's hard to explain. Basically, there was a brief moment when all the lights went out, the party was over, and I could no longer feel the breath of the Highest whispering in my blood. I can't explain it any better than that.

So I know for sure I was dead. What I don't know is how I came back to life in the same body. But I'll get to that in a moment. As for the dreaming part . . .

It was Caz, but somehow I was seeing through her eyes. And I thought she must be in Hell, because all I saw was fire and smoke and hopeless faces. She was stumbling past them and the owners of those faces kept trying to grab at her, to pull her down, but she fought past them and out into a swirling nothingness. Suddenly there was a line of fire in front of her, and then something else was there—something big. Something powerful. Something that had come for her and her alone. It raised its hand . . .

And I woke up. Shouting. Thrashing, trying to help her, save her, but I was restrained.

No. Only restrained on one side. And not exactly restrained, either. Somebody was holding my hand.

“Bobby. It's okay. You're in the hospital. Don't fight, you'll tear out the stitches!”

It took me a long moment to focus. Part of me was still seeing that sparking hole in the air, the huge dark shape stepping through to take Caz. “Clarence?”

“Shit.” He almost smiled, but he looked worried. “I guess even almost dying isn't going to get you to use my real name, is it?”

“Almost?” I fell back against the pillow, or at least something shaped like a pillow, but with no actual pillow-ish qualities like softness or comfort. “Are you sure?” I couldn't understand what I was doing here. “Are you still holding my hand?”

“Does it make you nervous?”

“No, I was just checking. I'm trying to figure out what's what.” What's what included a standard-issue hospital room with the window blinds shut and everything around me the same institutional beige color. “Why am I alive?”

“Because God loves you?”

I was tired already and wanted to go back to sleep, to drop into darkness where I could at least dream about Caz. “Could be. Or maybe it's more of a curse than a reward.” I felt like the hacked remains of a Thanksgiving turkey. I swear I could feel places where the neo-Nazi bastard's knife had scraped the bones in my chest on its way to my vital organs. “The guy who stabbed me?”

“Dead. Very dead. Name was Geoffrey something. One of the Black Sun guys.”

“Yeah. I recognized him.” I was feeling waves of weariness now. “What's the news? How long have I been out?”

“A good while—several days. The doctors barely saved you. Monica and a bunch of others have been here a couple of times to see you, but you were unconscious, full of tubes, and not much fun. As far as how things are going, Heaven-wise, pretty much the same. Still the big hush-hush about you-know-who.”

“I wish they'd give her a golden parachute. A real one. Let her try to use it from high Earth orbit.” I changed my position on the bed. It hurt, but not so badly that I couldn't feel my body already healing itself. Soon I'd be back to normal in a world without Sam and Caz or any point at all. Fucking Heaven. They'd found the best way to punish me. Simply keep me alive and stupid and suffering forever.

Clarence squeezed my hand and then let go. “I'm so sorry, Bobby. About Sam. Do you think there's any chance he'll be back?”

“He sure didn't think so.”

After a short silence, he said, “I miss him too, you know. A lot.”

I almost said something sarcastic, but the impulse just evaporated. “I know, kid. He really liked you, and that wasn't all that common with him.”

“Sam spent a lot of time with me in the last few months. It was like he was coaching me to take over for him. I think maybe he had a feeling. That something would happen.”

“Coaching you to what? Say that again.”

The kid looked embarrassed. “He knew you'd need a partner. Someone to watch your back.”

I gave him a long look. Sam was right, of course. Sometimes I'm a half-empty balloon, but sometimes I'm a kite. It's nice to have someone around who knows when to grab the string and keep me anchored. “We'll see.”

“Or, if you'd rather start interviewing other applicants, I'll let G-Man know.”

“Fuck you. I'm not that happy about being alive, so don't you dare make me laugh. It feels like I've got stitches holding my stitches together. I still want to know why I'm not a corpse. And don't tell me it's because God loves me.”

“Okay, I won't.” Clarence smiled and stood up. “But you ought to at least entertain the possibility.”

“You're dead to me, Harrison. Dead.”

“And you're alive, Bobby, whether it's convenient or not. See you visiting hours tomorrow.”

I almost let him get out the door before I remembered. “Hey, Junior.”

“What?”

“Just wanted to check something. Samkiel, right?”

“Sorry?”

“The guy who sent you for training, an archangel. Samkiel, that was his name, wasn't it?”

“Yeah.” He gave me a look. “What made you think of that?”

“Nothing. Next time you come back, bring alcohol.”

“Not happening, B.” He went out, closing the door quietly, as if loud noises might be particularly upsetting to the recently dead. Because I
had
been dead, or at least as dead as an angel ever gets, I was sure of that, but here I still was, and I hadn't even been recycled into a new body.

The things I'd been considering when the guy with the knife jumped me on my doorstep were coming back to me, definitely including my most recent conversation with Gustibus. But I was tired from being awake, worn out just from that little give-and-take with Clarence, so I didn't get much thinking done before I was asleep again.

 • • • 

I was standing in the middle of so much beauty that even the hardest of hearts would have broken, even the most stiff-necked would have bowed his head, but even in the middle of the Elysian Fields, with the shining towers of the Celestial City on view before me, I felt oddly hollow.

Angel Doloriel
, a voice boomed, filling the green world with implied echoes, although only I heard the words.
You are wanted in Heaven.

I wasn't surprised. I hadn't come here by my own choice, so I had been expecting a summons. I could have taken the slow way and appreciated the glory that was Humanity Beyond Death, the contented souls in the Lord's fields and the tuneful, heart-healing songs of the Choir Invisible, but I was tired—not body-tired, but soul-tired, which is deeper. I let myself be carried directly to whatever fate was waiting for me.

I found myself somewhere I'd never been before. From the way the light fell (or didn't fall—it's hard to explain) I was pretty sure I was actually within the Heavenly City, but it felt like a part where I'd never been before. For a moment I wondered if I'd finally made it into the Empyrean, the center of everything, forbidden to the rank and file, but I guess I'll never know. All I could say for certain was that it was a place that felt both indoor and outdoor at the same time, with the silence and solemnity of a crypt under a cathedral, but the airiness of a tent on a windy hillside. The walls even seemed to be some kind of fabric, light as cloud, moving in a breeze I couldn't actually feel. Except for the intimations of size and the heavenly light, it could have been the field headquarters of an important general. Which gave me a clue about who I was going to see.

“Angel Doloriel. God loves you.”

I found myself facing a figure wrapped in brilliance. The angel was seated, but on what I couldn't see, and although I couldn't make out face or features, only a manlike shape of light and cloud, the voice confirmed my guess. “Lord Karael. You called me?”

“Come here, son.” A moment later I was much closer, and also seated, but as with the Angel Militant himself, I couldn't tell if I was on a throne or a camp stool or somehow perched in midair. “You've been through a lot, haven't you?”

“With respect, Master, yes, I have.”

“And now someone else has tried to kill you. How fortunate he failed. These mortals are stubborn things.” Karael smiled. I don't know how I knew that, since he didn't really have a face I could make out, but I felt it like a curtain pulled back a bit to let the sunshine through. “Believe it or not, Doloriel, not everyone in Heaven is out to get you,” he said. “Some of us admire your intelligence and your—how shall I put it? Your determination. And, of course, some don't.”

“Anaita would be one of those, I guess.”

A cloud rolled in front of the sun, or the curtain fell closed again. “We don't really need to talk about her. Nobody is proud of what she did or how far it got. But you don't have to take the blame for that any longer.”

“I don't?”

“No, sir. You, son, are even going to be rewarded a bit. From now on, consider yourself restored to duty and cleared of charges. But that duty will only be half-time for as long as we need until you're back to your old troublemaking self. We'll make sure the San Judas central office has its caseload covered.” He said it with such an air of generous, cheerful finality that he might have been God explaining to Adam about how this direction was going to be called “up” and the opposite would be named “down.”

“Thank you, Lord Karael.”

“You don't have to keep calling me “lord,” son. I'm not the Highest. I'm just one of his faithful servants. Please, call me Karael.”

“Okay. But can I ask a few questions?”

“Of course.” He spread his glowing arms expansively, but with the kind of grace that reminds you why angels are angels. “You've earned it.”

“What about my trial?”

“It will be as if it never happened. We've announced that the whole thing was Anaita's deliberate attempt to confuse and mislead.”

“Wow. Thanks. That's a huge load off my mind. And Anaita herself?”

Karael went a little bit cloudy for a moment. He might have been shaking his head in sadness, not in anger. If he'd had a head instead of just a vaguely head-shaped glow, that is. “She will be punished, don't you worry about that.”

“Yes, but did she explain why she did some of those things? Because a lot of what happened doesn't really make sense.”

For a moment he seemed oddly still. “Like what, son?”

“Well, I don't want to waste your time. I know you must be very busy. Are you in charge of my part of Earth now that Anaita's out of the picture?”

“The division of duties in the Third Sphere is a great deal more complicated than that, but I suppose the simple answer is yes.” A thin beam of sunshine. “I suppose I'm your boss now. But of course the hierarchy remains the same. You'll still report to—”

“Temuel,” I said, cutting him off. “Right?”

“Right.” He hadn't liked being interrupted. “So, if there's nothing more, Doloriel, then I will send you back and get on with some of that new business waiting for me.”

“If you have another moment, sir, I didn't finish telling you some of the things that didn't make sense. See, it was all weird from the very beginning. Like when the souls first began disappearing—the ones we found out later went to Kainos? Edward Walker was the very first one, and I was there right after he killed himself. I was with Hell's prosecutor, Grasswax.”

“Grasswax. The one who was butchered by Eligor over the feather.”

It was very strange sitting with a powerful angel, discussing secrets that only a few days ago had still been getting people ripped to pieces or sent to Hell—or both. “Yes, that's the one, sir. But the weird thing was, when the first soul went missing, Grasswax and I weren't the only folks from our two sides who showed up. In fact, it was like someone pulled a fire alarm. Almost as soon as we noticed that the soul was missing, angels and demons were all over the place.”

The airiness and light got a little roiled. “Hmmm. Interesting point. Why would Anaita do that? Why risk her entire plan by bringing in extra scrutiny and more witnesses so soon?”

“Exactly.”

“I imagine it was Eligor,” Karael said after a moment. “Just because he had a bargain with her doesn't mean he wouldn't try to make things difficult for her. He
is
a Grand Duke of Hell, after all.”

“Good point, sir. Which leads me to the next question. I spent a lot of time thinking about how the bargain worked, Anaita's feather for Eligor's horn, and how Anaita kept it hidden, and what she wanted to do.”