Part 22 (2/2)
Perched behind his laptop, head down, brow furrowed, the professor listened with two index fingers racing from key to key, recording every word Abdiel spoke. Every so often the professor smiled or shook his head or grunted with astonishment at what he was hearing.
Abdiel paused in his dictation to offer commentary. ”The invasion caught Lucifer and his forces completely by surprise,” he said. ”The brilliance of the plan was its audacity, that the Son of G.o.d would lower himself to such a state, that he would clothe himself with the very material that formed the basis of Lucifer's complaint. However, once the shock of the invasion wore off, Lucifer spied his chance to turn it to his advantage.”
He pivoted, took a breath, and prepared to continue his narration. The professor sat back, signaling he needed to take a break.
”Why do you type with only two fingers when G.o.d has given you ten?” Abdiel asked ”This would go much faster if you used all your fingers.”
The professor held up his two index fingers like they were smoking guns. ”I'll have you know these babies got me through college and postgraduate school. The way I see it, if ever they break down, I have eight fresh fingers standing in the wings ready to take their place.”
Abdiel wasn't amused. He rarely laughed at human humor.
The professor's eyes fell back onto the laptop screen. ”You make the Nativity sound like D-day,” he said.
”Very good,” Abdiel replied. ”The comparison is accurate. The birth of the Christ was an invasion of Lucifer's territory. Everything that followed was a direct contest between Lucifer and the Son, culminating in the battle of the cross. That the two would meet in head-to-head combat had become inevitable.”
With a yawn, the professor stretched.
”I see that you are tired,” Abdiel said. ”I will come back tomorrow.”
Rubbing his eyes, the professor agreed. Then, when they focused again, he was surprised to see Abdiel still standing there. He appeared to have something on his mind.
”She is delivering the narrative?” Abdiel said.
The angel's interest intrigued the professor. He never showed much concern over what humans did.
”As we speak. The first chapter only.”
Abdiel nodded. He stared at the floor with a sour expression.
”You should meet him,” the professor said. ”Talk to him. It may ease your concern.”
”Or compound it.”
”Once you get to know him . . .”
”No.”
”He may surprise you.”
”Not likely.”
”Why? Why won't you meet him?”
Abdiel took to pacing again. ”The memory of the Watchers is too painful for us.”
From an earlier dictation the professor knew he was referring to preflood angels who had mingled with the human population in the pretense of guiding them spiritually. Semyaza, Azazel, and others had mated with the human women and produced offspring who, when they were killed in the flood, became nomad demons wandering the earth in torment.
Abdiel said, ”The fate of the offspring . . . troubles us. Does that surprise you? You have to understand, angels were once a united community. Those in rebellion were once our friends. To see their offspring subjected to . . .” He didn't finish. ”The fact that they brought it upon themselves,” he added, ”doesn't lessen our pain.”
”Neither did Grant bring this upon himself,” the professor said.
The comment stopped Abdiel in his tracks. He didn't like it, but made no reply.
”Just talk with him.”
”I said no.”
”Are all angels as stubborn as you?”
”Insulting me will not make me change my mind.”
”What will change your mind? There are larger issues here, surely you of all beings can see that. Talk to him. You owe him that much.”
”I SAID NO!”
Abdiel's shout shook the walls. A mounted picture behind the professor fell, shattering the pane of gla.s.s. He leaned over in his chair to pick it up. When he turned back, Abdiel was gone.
”Fine, be like that,” the professor said to the empty room.
CHAPTER 17.
Howard's Bakery on Broadway in El Cajon anch.o.r.ed the eastern corner of a typical California strip mall featuring everything from art supplies to an exercise studio to flowers and a ninety-nine-cent store, with the majority of the property consisting of parking lot.
When I pulled into a parking s.p.a.ce I could see Sue Ling waiting for me at a table on the other side of a panel window. She was dressed in a simple black-and-white leaf-pattern dress that accentuated her slight figure, and my initial thought was that she looked natural in a store window. With her sitting there, the male clientele would increase significantly.
She sat with her elbows on the table and hands folded. Her legs were crossed at the ankles. A small, black portfolio-style carrying case rested against the leg of her chair next to her feet.
Her smile was cordial when she saw me.
”Can I get you something?” I offered once inside.
She gave me her order and I returned moments later with two coffees, a lemon bar for her, and an eclair for me. When I sat down, I winced. The chair reminded me of my injury.
”Something wrong?” she asked.
I grinned sheepishly. ”Just a minor disagreement between me and some White House guard dogs.”
A comment like that begged the story. I told it briefly and with humor, downplaying the seriousness of it all.
”Why do you do that?” she asked. ”Downplay everything with humor?”
I shrugged. ”I don't know. Defense mechanism, I guess. If the seriousness of this whole ordeal ever catches up with me, I'll probably end up on a remote farm in Montana with NO TRESPa.s.sING signs posted all over the place.”
<script>