Towing Jehovah Read Online Free PDF Page A

foggy something-or-other to transform Thomas's interior image of God along such radically anthropomorphic lines.
    Except that his knees were rattling.
    Sweat was collecting in his palms.
    He stared at the rug, contemplating its thick, sound-absorbent fibers, and when he looked up the angel's eyes riveted him: golden eyes, sparkling and electric, like miniature Van de Graaff generators spewing out slivers of lightning.
    "Dead?" Thomas rasped.
    "Dead."
    "Cause?"
    "Total mystery. We haven't a clue."
    "Are you . . . Raphael?"
    "Raphael's in New York City, tracking down Anthony Van Horne—yes, Captain Anthony Van Horne, the man who turned Matagorda Bay to licorice."
    As the angel brought up the house lights, Thomas saw that he was coming unglued. Silvery hairs floated down from his scalp. His wings exfoliated like a Mexican roof shedding tiles. "And the others?"
    "Adabiel and Haniel passed away yesterday," said the angel, retrieving his harp from the lectern.
    "Terminal empathy. Michael's fading fast, Chamuel's not long for this world, Zaphiel's on his deathbed . .
    ."
    "That leaves Gabriel."
    The angel plucked his harp.
    "In short, Father Ockham," said Monsignor Di Luca, as if he'd just finished explaining a great deal, when in fact he'd explained nothing, "we want you on the ship. We want you on the Carpco Valparaíso."
    "The only Ultra Large Crude Carrier ever chartered by the Vatican," the Holy Father elaborated. "A sullied vessel, to be sure, but none other is equal to the task—or so Gabriel tells us."
    "What task?" asked Thomas.
    "Salvaging the Corpus Dei." Bright tears spilled down Gabriel's fissured cheeks. Luminous mucus leaked from his nostrils. "Protecting Him from those"—the angel cast a quick glance toward Di Luca—"who would exploit His condition for their own ends. Giving Him a decent burial."
    "Once the body's in Arctic waters," Orselli explained, "the putrefaction will stop."
    "We have prepared a place," said Gabriel, listlessly picking out the Dies Irae on his instrument. "An iceberg tomb adjoining Kvitoya."
    "And all the while, you'll be on the navigation bridge," said Di Luca, laying a red-gloved hand on Thomas's shoulder. "Our sole liaison, keeping Van Horne on his appointed path. The man's no Catholic, you see. He's barely a Christian."
    "The ship's manifest will list you as a PAC—a Person in Addition to Crew," said Orselli. "In reality you'll be the most important man on the voyage."
    "Let me be explicit." Gabriel fixed his electric eyes directly on Innocent XIV. "We want an honorable interment, nothing more. No stunts, Holiness. None of your billion-dollar funerals, no priceless sculpture on the tomb, no carving Him up for relics."
    "We understand," said the Pope.
    "I'm not sure you do. You run a tenacious organization, gentlemen. We're afraid you don't know when to quit."
    "You can trust us," said Di Luca.
    Curling his left wing into a semicircle, Gabriel brushed Thomas's cheek with the tip. "I envy you, Professor. Unlike me, you'll have time to figure out why this awful event happened. I'm convinced that, if you apply the full measure of your Jesuit intellect to the problem, pondering it night and day as the Valparaíso plies the North Atlantic, you're bound to hit upon the solution."
    "Through reason alone?" said Thomas.
    "Through reason alone. I can practically guarantee it. Give yourself till journey's end, and the answer to the riddle will suddenly—"
    A harsh, guttural groan. Dr. Carminati rushed over and, opening the angel's robe, pressed the stethoscope against his milk-white bosom. Whimpering softly, Innocent XIV brought his right hand to his lips and sucked the velvet fingertips.
    Gabriel sank into the nearest seat, his halo darkening until it came to resemble a lei of dead flowers.
    "Pardon, Holiness"—the physician popped the stethoscope out of his ears—"but we should return him to the infirmary now.
    "Go with God," said the Pope, raising his moistened