Seraphim by Jon Michael Kelley

of the Almighty Himself! Amen! Then again, maybe not. I don’t know. What I do know is that you didn’t hear it coming. Why? Because you haven’t been listening . You didn’t see it coming. Why? Because you haven’t been looking . Quite frankly, Father, Helen Keller had keener senses.”
    Eli said nothing, could barely breathe. He hated this ambiguous shit; Gamble’s vague, circuitous approach to everything. His sophomoric insults.
    Gamble sighed. “If your devotion to this whole matter is in a state of collapse, then perhaps we should start making arrangements for your dismissal.”
    “No, no, please,” Eli choked. “That won’t be necessary. My allegiance is as strong as ever.”
    “I sincerely hope so, because if it isn’t then you will have not only dishonored yourself, but you will have pissed me mightily off. And I assure you, Father, that the latter will pain you far more than the former.”
    Suppressing his urge to scream, Eli bit hard into his clenched fist, nearly drawing blood.
    “Now, pay very close attention,” Gamble said. “After you’ve recaptured the second angel, there’s something I want you to do for me. I’ve left a package for you in the pulpit. Handling instructions have been included. If all goes well, then we won’t have to worry about this sort of thing happening again.”
    “If only I knew what this… resurrection meant?” Eli said.
    “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin, Father?”
    Why, the same number of them it takes to screw in a light bulb , Eli thought to say, but dared not. He reflected for a moment, then took a deep breath. “As you know, I’m more a theologian than a philosopher, but your question, of course, is an aged and rhetorical one; a metaphor to demonstrate the unimaginable, the incalculable–”
    “Oh, shut up, Father,” Gamble groaned. “The answer I was looking for is: none. Because angels have much better things to do with their time than frolic on sewing utensils. Or, as I’ve just demonstrated, to try and explain calculus to a tadpole. So, just concern yourself with finding Katherine Bently, and let me ponder the whys and how-comes.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “One more little detail,” Gamble said. “It’s come to my attention that you assumed some rather harsh liberties with one of the couriers.”
    “Li-liberties?” Eli said, having no idea to what Gamble was referring.
    “You lashed out angrily, Father.”
    “Oh, yes— that ,” Eli stammered, now remembering how he’d struck the creature’s face. “I was angry, flustered, confused—”
    “If you ever touch one of my beasties again—ever so much as raise your voice to them one octave higher than the genial norm—I will unleash upon your soul the wickedest of carnivores. Are we clear on this matter?”
    “My sincerest apologies,” Eli said, his voice almost a whisper. “It will never happen again.”
    “See that it doesn’t,” Gamble said. “And while we’re on the subject of beastie mistreatment, I’ll remind you that your mother wields her cane like a cattle prod. If she does not cease and desist, then I will advance her state of osteoporosis so far that you’ll have to pour her into bed.”
    “I understand.”
    Before allowing himself to cry, Eli waited until he could no longer hear Gamble’s heavy, rhythmic breathing, smell his foul breath. There was no opening and closing of the door, no footsteps receding down the aisle while he whistled a catchy tune.
    Mr. Gamble exited in his customary manner: without a sound.

     

11.
     
    Duncan found Rachel’s photograph. On the back, stenciled in gold brush script:
     
    FRANKY AND JOHNNIE’S OLDE TYME PHOTOGRAPHY
     
    321 Porpoise Avenue, Rock Bay, Massachusetts
     
    Hand-written in red ink below that was a date, and what Duncan assumed was an invoice or purchase number. If the date was factual, then the picture was just over twelve years old.
    It was a trick; had to be. And a very nasty one at that.
    In