If Angels Fall Read Online Free PDF Page B

Angel. All of his devotion,
watching, planning—the chloroform, the wig, balloon—it had worked. Gloriously.
    Keller floated with his thoughts back, months back, even though time
was meaningless to him. His mind was floating ... to ... a watery death .
    He repeated it to himself as if it were an incantation.
    It was April. April, death’s chosen month .
    Standing at the edge of the pier, gazing upon the Pacific. All that
he was, all that he had been, looked back from the still water.
    Eyes that haunt my dreams .
    Prolonged severe grief reaction, the doctor had called it.
    Keller remembered the doctor staring at him, twisting a rubber band.
“Accept that you cannot change reality, Edward. And understand that at this
institute, those self-admitted take a lower priority. Move on with your life.
Find solace where you can.
    Keller had found it.
    In his visions.
    And out there among the fog-shrouded Farrallon Islands, where his
life ended, and where he would resurrect it. His heart now knew his destiny. It
had been revealed to him.
    Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth .
     
    Filling the tanks of the boat, Reimer studied him standing there at
the dock’s edge, clutching the big paper-wrapped package.
    Edward.
    That was the guy’s name. Reimer couldn’t recall his last name. The
guy looked—what? Late forties, early fifties? Slim? No. Gaunt, really. About
six foot. Could use a haircut and lose that shaggy beard. If Reimer had to be
honest, old Ed there looked bad. Seemed to get worse every year. A shame. One
of the smartest people Reimer had met. Talked about religion, philosophy,
business—when he talked. Sounded like some sort of professor.
    But he wasn’t.
    Reimer knew what he was. Yes, sir. It was a damn shame about him,
something the old-timers at Half Moon Bay, those that knew, rarely talked
about. Not to Ed’s face anyway. What good does talk do? What’s done is done.
Reimer only wished to hell the guy wouldn’t come to him every time he wanted to
go out there.
    “How you making out with that twenty-eight-footer I put you on to?”
Reimer tried not to sound obvious. “She was in pretty good shape when you bought
her. Lapstrake with twin Mercs, wasn’t it?”
    Keller nodded.
    “Where you got her docked?”
    He didn’t answer.
    Reimer shrugged, replaced the fuel nozzle on the Shell pump. The clank-clank echoed in the morning stillness. The odor of gas wafted from the gas tanks’
openings as he wiped the caps with a rag.
    “All set,” Reimer said.
    Keller stepped into the boat, clutching his package. Reimer untied
the lines, climbed behind the wheel, adjusted his grease stained ballcap,
scratched his stubble, and surveyed the Pacific. Fine morning. Fog was light.
Season would begin soon.
    “The usual place?” Reimer said.
    Keller nodded and placed two one-hundred-dollar bills in Reimer’s
hand. It wasn’t necessary, Reimer had told him. But why argue? What good would
it do? He turned the ignition key. The motor rumbled and he eased the throttle
forward, leaving a white foamy wake to lap against the dock.
    San Francisco’s skyline stretched across the starboard side, the
spires of the Golden Gate jutting majestically through a blanket of fog as they
made their way to the Farallons. Reimer was born in San Francisco. His father
had earned a living running a charter to the gulf from Half Moon for whale and
bird-watchers long before it was fashionable. Reimer loved the region, the
Pacific’s moods and hues, the taste of salt air. He glanced at Keller, his eyes
fixed to the horizon. Looking for ghosts. No point in talking to him. Why
couldn’t he just say no to the man? Reimer shrugged and gave her a touch more
throttle, enjoying the wind in his face.
    Reimer’s boat was a beauty. His mistress. A Searay Seville. A
twenty-one-footer. She had a cuddy cabin, a rebuilt V-6 170 horsepower
Mercruiser. Glided like a dream as they moved into the California current and
cut across the coastal shipping