Part 6 (2/2)

”Um . . . from a high school teacher.”

She shuffled through some other printouts she'd kept in her hand, placing one on top. ”Is this him?”

The printout was from one of those Web sites where people post their picture and personal information and invite friends to leave messages. The man in the picture had a large, oval face with straight jet-black hair down to his collar. He wore a goatee. His lips were black. And he wore round, wire-rim gla.s.ses. From his expression he appeared to have an upset stomach.

According to the bio, he was thirty-two years old and lived in Midwest City, OK. Under turn-ons he listed creative piercing; his favorite music was Black Sabbath, Kiss (the early alb.u.ms), and Marilyn Manson. At the top of the page, next to his picture, there was a place for his name: Semyaza.

To me, this was funnier than the figurines. I laughed.

”Not him, I take it,” Kathy said.

”No offense to Mr. Semyaza of Midwest City, but if a nationwide search were conducted to find the polar opposite of Myles Shepherd”-I tapped the printout-”this guy would win, hands down.”

Kathy crumpled the printout and chuckled. ”Would you like me to search some more, or have you found what you needed?”

”Give me a few moments to thumb through these books and I'll let you know.”

”It's no problem . . . really! I'd be more than happy to search some more.” Her eyes were eager, if not pleading.

”Thank you. Just give me a few minutes.”

She stood there, staring at me with a silly grin on her face. I smiled at her, not knowing what she was waiting for.

She s.h.i.+vered pleasurably and cried, ”I'm a.s.sisting a Pulitzer Prizewinning author!” With a squeal she did a little dance back to the reference counter.

The three books from the stacks were of little help. Using the index in the back of each one, I located the references to Semyaza. Without exception they were located in chapters on angelic beings and provided little additional information. Semyaza, as indicated by the printouts, was the name of an angel who aligned himself with Lucifer and was cast out of heaven.

Next, I noted the authors of the books. All three were professors of the New Testament at conservative seminaries. One other thing had caught my attention. All three of the works were heavily footnoted, with one name appearing prominently in the citations: J. P. Forsythe.

Stacking the open books one on top of the other, I carried them to the reference desk. Kathy stood at the end of the counter, her head in an oversized volume. Opposite her was a young man, a student by the looks of him.

When she saw me coming, she swiveled the book around so that it faced the student and pointed to where he could continue searching. ”Yes, Mr. Austin,” she said, turning her attention to me.

I set the books on the counter. ”All three of these authors reference the work of J. P. Forsythe,” I said. ”But they cite lectures or unpublished papers. I'd like to know who Forsythe is and if he's published anything.”

She checked the footnotes. ”Very good, Mr. Austin,” she said. ”Straight to the original source.”

”This isn't my first time researching,” I said good-naturedly.

She laughed louder than was necessary.

A check of Books in Print revealed that J. P. Forsythe had no published works.

”That's odd,” Kathy said. ”He's obviously a recognized authority. Well, if we can't find anything about a man's work, let's see if we can find something about the man.”

I leaned on the counter as she pecked on the keyboard, paused, pursed her lips, and pecked some more.

”Ms. Corbett . . .” the student with the oversized volume said.

Without taking her eyes off the monitor, the librarian waved a hand at him. ”Just leave it on the counter.”

The boy closed the book. He appeared to have another question. After a brief moment he walked away.

”Well! Look at this!” the librarian said, stepping back. ”Your mystery source? He's local!”

”Forsythe is local? How local?”

”El Cajon. I found a reference listing him as a consulting editor for the Evangelical Quarterly, which says he's a professor of theology and the New Testament at Heritage College in El Cajon. Um . . . that was two years ago. Hold on . . . let me double-check . . .”

Fingers flew over the keyboard. Her right hand moved to the computer mouse. ”Let's see . . . Heritage College Web site . . . faculty . . . Department of Theology . . . there you go!” She turned to me with a smile. With the satisfied grin of someone who just solved a riddle, she said, ”Your boy's still teaching at the college if you want to talk to him!”

CHAPTER 6.

Convinced that some of the answers might be found in El Cajon, I retraced my steps, despite a growling stomach and a much-antic.i.p.ated nap.

There comes a time in the course of every research project when relations.h.i.+ps begin to appear between pieces of information and you get your first hint of the total picture. That moment came for me as I was leaving the library.

Walking back through the underground pa.s.sage, past the Native American displays, I remembered that some indigenous tribes used peyote while undertaking spiritual quests. An hallucinogenic plant, the peyote altered their state of perception.

The one thing of which I was certain was that while I was in Myles Shepherd's office, my state of perception had most definitely been altered. Semyaza was the name of a spirit ent.i.ty. The pieces fit.

I began to formulate a theory. I had been fine when I arrived at the high school and throughout the a.s.sembly. It was in Myles's office that reality took a vacation. Somehow, he'd drugged me. If I knew what substance he'd used, I could probably figure out the delivery method.

Then we chatted while the drug took effect. I began to hallucinate and, before I pa.s.sed out, Myles performed some kind of victory ritual in Semyaza's name.

Myles Shepherd, a member of some New Age cult that wors.h.i.+ps the angel Semyaza. Did Jana know about this? She'd gotten upset when I asked her about his activities in college.

The parking lot fit the theory too. The drug wore off and by morning all that remained were a few lingering aftereffects.

What about seeing Myles at the scene of the accident? Hallucinogenic flashback.

It all added up. The remaining question was, Why? I had a theory for that too.

Two pieces of the puzzle formed the basis of my motivation theory. First, the a.s.sa.s.sination threat. Somehow all of this was tied into a plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president. I had to a.s.sume the threat was real and that Myles was not working alone. Second, Myles Shepherd's ego figured in. When he learned I had been invited to give a speech at our alma mater, that I would be returning as the conquering hero complete with press corps, he couldn't stop himself from boasting about the plot. He was aching to tell me he knew the final, unwritten chapter of my book.

This was vintage Myles Shepherd. He was forever predicting his victories. At the end of our junior year, he boasted he would be senior cla.s.s president. He was. He boasted he would be valedictorian. He was. He boasted he would be the tennis team's Most Valuable Player. He has the trophy to prove it.

Of course he knew there was a risk in revealing the plot. He knew I'd try to stop him. So he devised a way to discredit me. If I notified the Secret Service, when they questioned me about the details of the plot it would also come out that I saw the alphabet dance across the room. So much for my credibility.

I had to give Myles credit. He might have gotten away with it. His plan was solid. The only thing he hadn't counted on was dying.

The irony of his death intrigued me. It had a Twilight Zone twist to it. An elaborate plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president of the United States thwarted by a common freeway accident.

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