If Angels Fall (59 page)

A great blue heron
glided in the sunlight a few feet above, head extended forward,
neck folded back on its shoulders, soft plumage drooping as it stalked prey
along the beach.

Lady of the waters. Keller smiled, looking up from his
worn Bible, eyes brimming with tears. He gazed at the afternoon sea: water made
holy by the suffering of Christ, you who are washed in this water, have hope of
Heaven’s kingdom.

I am the resurrection, the way, and the light.

The light, the light ... under cover of the night. The
Lord was with him, guiding him, thwarting Lucifer’s every attempt to interfere.
Yes. After he had intercepted Michael’s phone call, Keller gathered the Angels
and took the back routes of the East Bay, driving here in a Taurus station
wagon he had prepared weeks earlier. It had Nevada plates and each rear window
was curtained in black with a small silver cross affixed to its center. Keller
had magnetic signs custom made for the driver and front passenger doors,
reading: A & B MORTUARY SERVICES, CARSON CITY, NEVADA. The children, who
were sedated, slept in a large, oblong cardboard box in the wagon’s rear. Along
the way, Keller stopped to pick up the trailered boat and switched the station
wagon to another rental van, which he hid in one of the double-sized garages of
a self-help storage facility in Novato. He drove to the park, launched the boat
in darkness, concealing the van and the trailer in thick brush.

Keller knew Point Reyes from his pilgrimages. Years
ago, he had submitted a bid to rebuild the old mission church. “Upon this rock
I will build my church; and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it. And
I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of Heaven.” Three days after he
put in his estimate, he lost his children. Out there, near the Farallons. “But
Satan shall not prevail, for God had given him the keys to the kingdom.” Divine
Destiny.

Navigating by moonlight with the running lights off,
Keller inched the boat safely around the Point Reyes Lighthouse, Overlook,
Chimney Rock, and along some twelve miles of shore to this hidden cove near
Drakes Estero, where he had taken sanctuary for the night, anchored and
tethered to the nook’s jagged rocks. Bitter, cold winds fingered into the cove,
knocking the boat against the rocks. Keller did not risk a fire. Again, he
sedated the children, leaving them to sleep aboard under blankets and tarps. He
cloaked the entire craft with camouflage netting. Keller did not sleep. He
huddled nearby under a blanket, as the wind rocked the boat, reading Scripture
by penlight, keeping a vigil, counting down the hours, talking with God.

Now, afternoon had come. He could hear the children
under the blankets, waking groggily. Keller could not stand it any longer. It
was time. For twenty years he had waited, suffered, repented, and prepared for
this day, this day of celestial glory and light.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth.

Keller checked his watch. From their location, it
would take over an hour to reach the islands at the right moment. He had
memorized the charts. Everything he needed was in the boat. He was ready. Why
was he waiting? It was time. But as he moved to the boat, his adrenaline-driven
euphoria had given way to exhaustion, fear.

It should have been you, you bastard!

Accept that you cannot change reality. You must
forgive yourself and move on.

The children are innocents.

The entire world knows your pain. Do not extend it
to others who never harmed you.

Whoever committed this desecration shall be damned
all the days of his life!

It’s time, Edward. Your children are waiting.

Are you doubting Divine Will?

I am the resurrection and the life.

Your children are waiting.

Through his tears, Keller saw his son Pierce.

“Why are you doing this?”

Keller was in the boat, holding his hand, his small
warm hand.

Pierce was alive! Here, talking to him.

The resurrection and the life.

“Please, don’t hurt us.”

Oh Pierce. Keller stretched out his hand, caressed the
boy’s shivering head, his young hair. Enraptured, Keller wept, his heart rising
and falling with the boat ... the black waves rolling. His children screaming:
Joshua, Alisha, Pierce. Like lambs in the night. The cold darkness swallowing
them, devouring them.

Joan’s body twisting in the attic.

Keller squeezed the child’s hand and scanned the cove.

Something humming, growling in the air. A search plane,
far off, over the sea near the horizon.

Satan would challenge him to the end.

“You won’t win this time! It is destined,” Keller
shouted at the sky. He glared at Zach. “Get back under the tarp! Now!”

Keller raced to the console, started the twin Mercury
engines, pulled a machete from under the seat, and sliced the tether lines. The
coastal waters were heavy with afternoon traffic, pleasure crafts, charters,
fishing boats, and commercial ships. He raked the back of his hand over his
parched lips.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth.

Easing the throttle forward, Keller set off for the
islands.

The spires
of the Bay Bridge, then the Golden Gate, passed below the FBI’s Huey helicopter
after it lifted off from Hamilton Navy Air Force base in Alameda near Oakland.
It headed west over the Pacific.

Mid-afternoon. Visibility, excellent.

Langford Shaw, the San Francisco FBI’s SWAT team
leader felt the tension aboard. He glanced from his notes to his men, while
listening over his headset to the play-by-play of the bureau, the Coast Guard,
the Navy, and the task force in Wintergreen. It was a massive rescue operation
and he was in charge.

Four years to retirement and fate drops this ball-breaking
fucker in your lap. A fuckup here and you were done. Well, he was a veteran
agent of many wars and he’d be damned if he would allow that to happen. Shaw’s
face betrayed nothing, although his gut hardened when he got the call to
activate: the kidnapping case again. The FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team was en
route on a Lear from Quantico, but they were hours away. Until then, it was all
on Shaw’s shoulders and those of his team.

Intelligence put Keller in a twenty-one-foot,
twin-engine open craft with three child hostages somewhere in the Gulf of the
Farallons, between Point Reyes and the islands. Each SWAT member was handed
photos of Keller, his boat, the children. The top theory said Keller would kill
them at sea between four and six P.M., if he hadn’t already done so. What they
had here was a life-and-death hot pursuit and Shaw expected to execute the
final option.

The Coast Guard’s C-130 Hercules out of Sacramento and
two Twin Otter auxiliaries were flying track crawl search patterns over the
area. The guard also had its HH-65 chopper with the rescue hoist and divers
scouring the islands. The
Point Brower
, a 110-foot cutter, armed with a
three-millimeter cannon, had long since put out from Yerba Buena, making for
the islands at twenty-five knots. Two high-speed, aluminum, diesel-powered
“loaders” were searching the region. A second cutter, the
Point Olivo
,
was coming down from Bodega Bay. The guard offered to scramble two Falcon jets
from L.A. Shaw accepted. He then requested a U.S. Navy chopper pick up four
additional SWAT team members at Hamilton, drop them at sea on the
Point
Brower
. That would give him two sniper teams at sea level and another angle
on the target, should they find him.

Shaw’s bird was the command post where everything was
being coordinated. Once more, he checked assignments, setting up the Huey’s
sniper points. “Mitch, you’ll take starboard, and Ronnie, you set up on aft for
a clear shot.” Shaw indicated Fred Wheeler, the negotiator, on the satellite
phone to Professor Kate Martin, learning about Keller’s background and stress
points. “Fred will try to talk him out of it, if he gets the chance. The rest
of you are assault, depending on how we unwrap this one.” Shaw switched from
the chopper’s intercom to his team radio. “Roy, Doc! Call when you put down on
the cutter.”

As they passed over San Francisco’s shoreline, Shaw
was called from the FBI’s office on Golden Gate Avenue with word that another
bureau Huey, just in from L.A. on a maintenance run, was empty and available.
Good, he wanted two more sniper teams picked up for a third angle. And he had
another idea. “After getting my guys at Hamilton, pick up some task force
members on the house at Wintergreen. We could use them up here. Put a rush on
it.”

FBI Agent Merle Rust took the relay call from Shaw to
the mobile command center at Keller’s house in Wintergreen, then requested the
SFPD clear the park a block west of the house for a helicopter landing.

“Walt,” Rust told Sydowski, “they want us in the air
as observers. A chopper will be here in fifteen minutes. You and me.”

“They spot anything out there yet?” Sydowski followed Rust
out of the bus after they informed the others.

“No.” Rust shielded his eyes. “Chopper’s landing in
the park west of here.”

Tom Reed appeared before Rust and Sydowski, looking
like hell.

“Take me with you.”

“What? How did you--?” Sydowski said.

“I was coming to the bus and I overheard. I want to
go.”

“Impossible, Tom. I’m sorry,” Rust said. “It’s against
policy.”

“I have to know.” He was determined.

“Tom” -- Sydowski softened his voice -- “stay here
with Ann. She needs you. You can help the others. You should be together.”

“Ann overheard you, too. She wants me to go. We have
to know. Whatever happens. I have to know.”

“We’re sorry, Tom,” Rust said, walking quickly with
Sydowski to his car. “You will be told the minute we know anything.”

Reed walked with them. He was unrelenting. “I’m the
only one here who has seen Keller, talked with him. Please. I know this man.
You could regret not having me there.”

The FBI’s Huey was in sight.

At the car, Rust and Sydowski looked at each other,
saying nothing. The helicopter approached, blades whipping, slicing, descending
to the park as the news choppers reluctantly backed off. The press was going to
be out there anyway, Rust figured.

The ground plummeted beneath them and in minutes, Reed
was thundering over the Pacific, sitting knee to knee with FBI SWAT Team
snipers. Seeing their weapons, their icy faces, and hearing their muted radio
chatter, nearly smothered him. Someone passed him a radio with an earpiece so
he could listen, hear clearly the voices of unseen forces. Saviors. Planning a
rescue from the immaculate blue sky. If it wasn’t too late.

From the chopper, the Pacific seemed a universe of
changing hues and eternally deceptive whitecaps that were, or were not, boats.
How could they ever find anyone down there? His stomach lurched. It was futile.
He was peering into an abyss.

Forgive me, Zach. Please forgive me.

Reed’s hands were clasped together as the chopper
banked hard for an immediate northwest heading.