Angel Time (The Songs of the Seraphim 1)

"I want these Russians pushed back," said the man. He looked off, musing, finger curled for a moment under his lip. "I never planned on these Russians. No one did. I never even dreamed of anything like these Russians. I mean I never thought of them operating on so many levels. You can't imagine the things they do, the scams, the rackets. They work the system in any conceivable way they can. That's what they did in the Soviet Union. That's how they lived. They have no concept that it's wrong.

"And then these crude kids come along, somebody's third cousins, and they want Alonso's house and his restaurant." He made a disgusted sound and shook his head. "Stupid."

He sighed. He looked at the open laptop on the little table to his right. Toby hadn't noticed it before. It was the laptop he'd taken from the lawyer.

"You keep pushing them back for me, over and over again," the man said, "and I'll love you even more than I do now. I'll never betray you. In a few days you'll understand that I just don't betray anybody, and that's why I'm ... well, who I am." Toby nodded. "I think I understand already," he said. "What about the lute?"

The man nodded. "I know people, yes, of course. I'll find out what's on the market. I'll get it for you. But it can't be the finest. The finest of lutes would be too ostentatious. Cause talk. Leave a trail."

"I know the meaning of the word," said Toby.

"Fine lutes are on loan to young soloists, never really given to them, I don't think. There are only so many in the entire world."

"I understand," said Toby. "I'm not that good. I just want to play a good one."

"I'll get you the finest that can be bought without any trouble," said the man. "Only you have to promise me one thing."

Toby smiled. "Of course. I'll play it for you. Anytime that you like."

The man laughed. "Tell me where you come from," he said again. "Really. I want to know. I can place people like that," he snapped his fingers, "by the way they talk, no matter how much training they've had, no matter how much polish has been added. But I can't figure your voice at all. Tell me."

"I'll never tell you," Toby said.

"Not even if I tell you that you're working for The Good Guys now, Son?"

"It doesn't matter," said Toby. Murder is murder. He almost smiled. "You can think of me as coming from no place. Just someone who popped up at the right time."

I was astonished. This is just what I was thinking. He is someone who has popped up at the right Time.

"And one more thing," said Toby to the man.

The man smiled and opened his hands. "Ask me."

"The name of that piece of music you just played. I want to buy a copy of it."

The man laughed. "That's easy enough," he said. "The Rite of Springby Igor Stravinsky."

The man was beaming at Toby, as though he'd found someone of priceless mettle. So was I.

By noon, Toby was deep asleep and dreaming of his mother. He was dreaming that he and she were walking through a big beautiful house with coffered ceilings. And he was telling her how grand it was all going to be, and his little sister was going to go to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart. Jacob would go to Jesuit.

Only something was very wrong in this spectacular house. It became labyrinthine, and impossible to comprehend as one wholesome dwelling. Walls rose up like cliffs, floors tilted. There was a giant black grandfather clock in the living room and on the front of it was the figure of the Pope, as if hanging from a gibbet.

Toby woke up, alone, and for a moment frightened and unsure of where he was. And then he began to cry. He tried to hold it in, but it became uncontrollable. He turned over and buried his face in the pillow.

He saw the girl again. He saw her lying dead in her little short silk skirt and ludicrous high-heel shoes, like a child playing dress-up. She had had ribbons in her long blond hair.

His guardian angel laid his hand on Toby's head. His guardian angel let him see something. He let him see the soul of the girl rising upwards, retaining the shape of her body out of habit and out of ignorance that it now knew no such bounds.

Toby opened his eyes. Then his cries became worse, and that deep chord of despair grew louder than ever.

He got up and began to pace. He looked at his open suitcase. He stared at the book about angels.

He lay back down and cried until he fell asleep, the way a child might do it. He was also saying a prayer as he cried. "Angel of God, my guardian dear, let `The Good Guys' kill me sooner than later."

His guardian angel, hearing the despair in that prayer, hearing the grief and the utter misery, had turned his back and covered his face.

Not me. Not Malchiah.

He's the one,I thought.

Flash forward ten years of your time to the point where I began: He's Toby O'Dare, to me, not Lucky the Fox. And I'm going for him.

Chapter Five - Songs of the Seraphim

IF EVERI'D BEEN STUNNED IN MY LIFE, IT WAS NOTHINGcompared to what I felt now. Only gradually did the shapes and colors of my living room emerge from the haze in which I'd plummeted as soon as Malchiah had stopped.

I came to myself, seated on the couch and staring forward. And I saw him, with utter clarity, as he stood against the wall of books.

I was shattered, broken, unable to speak. All he'd shown me had been so vivid, so immediate, that I was still reeling to find myself in the present moment, or anchored securely in any moment at all.

My sense of sorrow, of deep and terrible remorse, was such that I looked away from him, and slowly dropped my face in my hands.

The thinnest hope of salvation sustained me. In my heart of hearts I whispered, "Lord, forgive me that I ever separated myself from you." Yet I felt at the same moment that I formed these words,You don't believe it. You don't believe it, even though he's revealed youmore intimately than you could ever have revealed yourself. You don't believe. You're afraid to believe.

I heard him move towards me and then I came to myself again with him beside me.

"Pray for faith," he whispered in my ear.

And I did.

An old ritual came back to me.

On bitter winter afternoons, when I'd dreaded going home from school, I'd shepherded Emily and Jacob into Holy Name of Jesus Church, and there I'd prayed:Lord, set my heart afire with faith, because I am losing faith. Lord, touch my heart, and set it afire.

The old images I'd used returned to me, as fresh as if it were yesterday. I saw the faint design of my heart and the bursting yellow flame. My memory lacked the vibrant inescapable color and motion of all Malchiah had shown to me. But this I prayed with all my being. The old pictures faded suddenly, and I was left with the words of the prayer alone.