CHAPTER 7
Three days later, Ryan looked around the Roman apartment Puccini had provided for him. Despite how nice this it was, Ryan didn't quite feel at home there yet. It was a nice place. Well-furnished, complete with a balcony that nearly surrounded the entire apartment. A soft, wall-to-wall carpet spanned the living room. A flood of sunlight poured through the French doors, forming a rectangle of light on the carpet.
Being on the third floor made Ryan feel like he was always flying. Puccini had certainly picked a place where Ryan would want to live. Inserting his fingers into his jeans pockets, Ryan leaned against the wall to ponder the situation.
One thing about Puccini: he knew how to get what he wanted. If it hadn’t been for the mental threat, Ryan might actually want to work here. If it weren’t for the sick feeling in his stomach whenever he looked Puccini in the eye, again receiving that mental threat from his new boss, Ryan would enjoy the whole thing.
Ryan decided to open the French doors that led onto the balcony. A lump formed in his throat as he did so. He’d been living here for almost three days now. He had finally gotten through to Richard and Christina, the day after his move; he had not spoken with them since. At least they were both fine, although they were grieving baby Jessica’s disappearance. Still, something was nagging at him. But what?
He'd long since recognized the nagging feeling as guilt, but he didn't know what about. He had contacted Richard and Christina as soon as he could. He had done his best to help after the disappearances, and he had taken a great job working for someone who promoted peace. He couldn’t think of anything that would make him feel guilty. Still, the guilt weighed so heavily on him he wanted to cry. Ryan tried to shove the guilt to the back of his mind by admiring the view from his balcony.
The scenery was beautiful. Despite a high vantage point, other buildings of the same height blocked his view of the city. But when looking slightly upwards, he could see a huge mountain range. The slopes folded into each other and peaks each stood separately. Scattered clumps of clouds dotted an otherwise deep blue sky, and a cool breeze caressed his cheeks.
The sight just made the lump in his throat worse. Ryan tried to swallow, to hold back the tears. He couldn’t cry. He wouldn’t cry!
To his relief, he heard the cell phone ring from inside. Ryan spun around and raced back through the door; in his haste, he nearly tripped over an armchair.
It took Ryan under ten seconds to plop onto the couch and answer the phone. “Hello?” he said.
Puccini's voice greeted him. “Ryan. It’s Antonio.”
Ryan felt bile rise in his throat at the familiarity of first names. Still, after that scary experence in Puccini's office, Ryan dared not disagree with him. So, at Puccini’s request, Ryan was on a first-name basis with him. Still, he maintained a little formality. “Hello, Antonio.”
“Ryan, I have met the young woman you recommended to me--Monica. It turns out her full name is Monica Welleye, and she is just the way you described her, and even more.” It was then that Ryan realized the source of his guilt. Recommending anyone to work for this man was...he didn't know why that was bad exactly...but it was the source of his guilt. He was sure of it. He feared he’d made a terrible mistake in recommending her.
“Would you come by my office and meet her?” Puccini asked. Ryan, who had nearly collapsed at the revelation, was silent for a moment, but before Puccini could ask if he was still there, he recovered enough to say something.
“Sure,” he said. “When?”
“Just as soon as you can get here.”
Out of habit, Ryan nodded his acquiescence. “Give me a few minutes to change clothes.”
His mind wandered as he wrapped up his conversation with Puccini. What had he been thinking, recommending a nice girl like her to a man like him? Oh well, he thought, what’s done is done, and it’s too late to do anything about it now.
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Richard couldn't help but smile. He felt good.
It had been three days since he’d sat in his car, three days since he’d been outside the house, and three days since he had worked. How wonderful it felt to get out of the house once more! And on such a nice day like this, too, with the sky devoid of clouds and such a pleasant breeze wafting against his face as he had walked outside toward his car.
Hitting a small bump in the road destroyed his feeling of perfection, sending shoots of pain through his swollen ankle. OK. So maybe he wasn’t feeling great, but escaping was a wonderful feeling despite his still unhealed ankle. His flight bag sat next to him on the front seat.
Christina had been different since he’d caught her praying. And he suspected that her new friend Gloria had been the cause of that difference. Every day, they would disappear for hours at a time, doing who knew what. Richard guessed from what they said it had something to do with religion, but he wasn’t sure. Richard pursed his lips at the thought.
That's why Richard was anxious to get back to work. Christina had been driving him nuts as of late. And the absence of Jessica made home life all the harder. He never thought he’d miss her constant wailing at night, or the way she's scream her head off the spur of the moment. But he did.
Right now, he pushed all thoughts of that out of his mind. He’d gotten a call from his boss, John Taylor, that morning, telling him that there was a new first officer to replace Timothy waiting for a flight to Los Angeles. As much as he hated to admit it, he actually missed Timothy too.
I’m glad to hear I’m getting a new first officer, he thought. Suppose we have another disaster like the one we had a few days ago? We came that close to crashing! He shuddered at the memory.
Another memory came into his mind that made him shudder a second time. Two nights before, someone had tried to break into their home, and the police had not been able to send anyone to stop him. Richard had sneaked downstairs with a baseball bat, and had frightened the man off. Since then, the news had been full of stories of criminals robbing people’s homes, raping and murdering innocent people in broad daylight, and looting now-empty stores. Downtown areas looked like war zones.
At least, Christina won’t be going to Ground Zero for a while. Richard sighed. He had made her promise, the day before, that she would not leave the house unless he was with her, not even to go shopping. He would buy their groceries until things settled down. I may hate her getting on this new religious tangent, but I’m still a good husband! He grimaced.
At the airport, he limped into his boss’s office. John Taylor rose to his feet and circled his desk. “How’s the ankle?”
Setting his flight bag on the smooth, polished pine desk, Richard bent over to rub it. “Still swollen, but mending.”
“Good.” John nodded toward the back corner. A man with sandy-brown hair, cut above his ears, approached John and Richard. He had on a uniform and a pilot’s cap, and he grasped a flight bag in his right hand. John smiled.
“Richard, meet Andrew. He’s just been hired to take Timothy’s place.”
Andrew shook Richard’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Captain Daly.”
“Thanks.” Richard smiled. “You, too.” Andrew’s eyes, he noticed, radiated caring. Whom had he recently seen with eyes like that? He scratched his arm as he tried to remember.
John looked at the clock. “Better hustle, you two--your flight to Los Angeles will be commencing in an hour.”
“Yes, sir.” Richard picked up his flight bag as he spoke. Turning to Andrew, Richard nodded toward the door. “Come with me--I’ll show you where our plane is.” With a nod, Andrew followed him into the hall.
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Ryan walked down the hallway to Puccini’s office. His shoes made soft thuds in the carpet as he approached the door, and his black tie felt tight around his throat. He had reluctantly changed into a business suit before leaving his apartment. Straightjacket and noose, indeed, he thought, grimacing down at the jacket that covered his bleached, snow-white shirt. An overwhelming urge to yank his tie off and toss it into the nearest trash can welled up in him. There ought to be a law against these things!
He felt foolish for even having this resentment. All the years he'd worked as a commercial pilot, he'd had to wear a tie as part of his uniform. In truth, he had sought to avoid it as much as possible. He would wear the tie until he was in the cockpit and the plane was off the ground; then he'd remove the tie and lay it aside until it was time to land. And ever since his layoff months before, he hadn't even had to do that.
It almost made him sad that he knew his way around now and he only saw Kristen for brief seconds as he passed her desk. He seriously considered visiting her someday, since she lived in the apartment right below him, as he had recently learned. He wouldn’t be able to do that any time soon, because his schedule would be quite full for the next several weeks.
Ryan paused to rub his hands on his jeans, then slowly opened the door to Puccini’s office. Almost instantly, before he’d opened it halfway, a smell drifted toward his nostrils that his body did not welcome. It was familiar to him because he had often smelled the same thing on his sister's clothes, in a lighter version. His head spun, his knees buckled, and he leaned against the doorknob. As he fought down nausea, thankfulness surged through him that he hadn't had a full reaction to the smoke.
Ryan forced himself to open the door the rest of the way. As he suspected, there sat Puccini at his desk, cigarette in hand, talking on the phone. Even as Ryan walked in, Puccini blew out a line of smoke. Ryan’s head began to throb.
Leaning against the doorknob, he mumbled, “Oh, God. Help.” He didn’t know if he was praying or not.
Puccini snapped to attention. “I will call you back, Elijah...OK, good-bye.” He hung up. “Ryan! Good to see you.”
Elijah, again, Ryan thought, clutching his stomach. What do Elijah and Puccini have going between them, anyway? Shouldn't it be his new prime minister Puccini deals with, and not the Israeli foreign minister?
Ryan's vision blurred as his eyes unfocused; he tried to steady himself. He was tempted to puke on the carpet, but decided to fight the urge. “Pr...” Ryan began weakly, then corrected himself, in the same tone. “Uh, Antonio.” He moved away from the door only to lean against the smooth paneled wall.
Puccini leaped to his feet and rushed toward Ryan’s side. Ryan wondered what his new boss had done with the cigarette, as it was no longer in his hand. Still, he was grateful for the hand that grasped his elbow and steadied him. “Are you all right?”
“I should’ve told you before,” Ryan said, deciding that it was best to take responsibility in this matter. “I get along with cigarette smoke about as well as...well, as Superman gets along with Kryptonite.”
With an apologetic look, Puccini rushed back to his chair. Evidently, he knew the story of Superman. Grabbing the cigarette, he squashed it between his fingers before setting it in an ashtray. Ryan still couldn't breathe; the smoke in the room was too thick.
“There,” Puccini said. “The Kryptonite is safely hidden in the lead-lined box.” Despite Ryan’s unfocused eyes he noticed a smirk on Puccini’s face. But while the smirk slowly widened, no smile appeared in the man’s eyes.
Ryan barely managed to plaster a weak, amused smile on his face. Who would have thought that one of the most powerful men in the world was a Superman fan? He winced as his head throbbed.
“Come on.” Grasping his arm, Puccini raised Ryan fully to his feet. “We will go to a conference room. That way, you will not have to breathe the smoke.” Puccini spoke quickly into an intercom by the door. “Kristen, please inform all guests I will be in conference room #3 until further notice.”
The familiar voice responded, “Yes, sir.”
As Ryan followed Puccini down the hallway, Ryan let his mind wander to Puccini’s secretary. Kristen's accented voice was nearly as perfect as every other aspect of her. She had an excellent figure, and dark hair that was always swept up. Small curls framed her face. Her dark eyes were always wide and aware, showing every emotion in her heart. Ryan's own heart skipped a beat when he looked at her. Not only was she attractive, but he felt something special for her. She seemed to have a heart of gold. He remembered clearly the devastation he'd seen on her face the day of the disappearances, and the twinkle that had slowly returned to them over the next few days.
He shook his head, trying to stop himself from daydreaming. His legs still felt like rubber, his stomach still churned, and his head still pounded. But he was already breathing more easily, now that he was inhaling clean air. At least he no longer needed help to stay upright.
At the end of the hall, they entered the conference room. Ryan took note of its size, as well as the length of the polished mahogany conference table, lined with high-backed mahogany chairs. Puccini slowly helped him sit in a chair nearest the door.
Despite his misery, Ryan couldn’t suppress a grin. Here was Antonio Puccini, President of Italy and of the European Union, acting worried about a little exposure to cigarette smoke. The thought nearly made Ryan roll on the carpeted floor in hysterical laughter, but he controlled the urge and used his arms to balance properly.
Puccini shut the door before taking the seat across the table from him. Despite his manner--that that of a worried older brother--looking into Puccini's eyes re-confirmed Ryan’s mistrust of him. “Are you all right?” Puccini asked, concern in his voice. Still, his eyes remained emotionless.
Ryan nodded. “I...” He cleared his throat. “I think so. Thanks.” He folded his arms on the table’s smooth surface as he spoke.
Puccini let out a sigh of relief, then said in a half-joking tone. “That is good. I could not let anything happen to my private pilot.”
Puccini didn’t seem to notice Ryan’s wan smile. Instead, he said, “I have some news for you.”
Ryan's curiosity was piqued. What kind of news could Puccini have for him? He sat up straight, widening his eyes, resting his hands on the smooth surface of the table.
Puccini continued speaking calmly, as though not noticing Ryan's sudden reaction. “The recommendation you gave me yielded a most a fruitful search. The flight attendant you were talking about--Miss Welleye--is indeed Irish, and surprisingly new to the job of being a flight attendant. Yet she comes with an excellent recommendation: she handled the crisis superbly, on the day of the mass disappearances.”
Ryan's eyebrows arched. Despite his churning stomach, he couldn’t help being confused at the thought that Monica wasn’t an experienced flight attendant. She had seemed so in control, and as Puccini had said, she had handled the crisis with the skill and calm of a seasoned attendant. His confusion mixed with relief that Monica hadn’t been killed in a related accident following their flight. Ryan smiled.
“Monica should be arriving in Rome as we speak. She will be with us for the big flight to New York. We will wait for her here until she arrives. We have to be in the air in less than two hours. You will find your flight bag, containing your uniform, in a bathroom down the hall.”
Ryan felt a stab of guilt at Puccini's statement. His headache and stomach ache grew worse. What have I gotten the poor girl into?
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Richard slowly steered the huge machine. Despite the slow movements of his hands and arms, the plane was moving fast--faster than any car in the world. He frequently looked out the windshield at the fleecy clouds drifting past the plane. The only reason he wasn't taking advantage of the auto-pilot was because he needed something to distract him. He looked down at the instrument panel and scowled.
Conditions at home had gone from bad to worse. With Jessica gone, Richard had expected Christina to start smoking in the house, but to his surprise she seemed determined to give up the habit altogether. He often noticed the guilty look on her face when she would even pick up a cigarette. She claimed, “I’m just hurting myself, Richard. And by doing that, I’m damaging God's temple.”
Richard fought back the growl of frustration that wanted to come out of his mouth, and tried to keep himself from clenching his fists over the wheel. On top of all that, she had argued, when he forbade her to leave the house in his absence, that surely she would be safe with Gloria, but he had put his foot down. Reluctantly, Christina had acquiesced. She’d better be staying home, as she promised! He took a deep breath as he fought to regain control of his emotions.
“You take over, Andrew,” he said, trying not to let his anger show.
Andrew glanced at him, concerned. “Is something wrong?” he asked, grasping his own wheel. Richard relinquished control of the plane and leaned back in his seat.
“Nah,” he said, almost too quickly. “At least, nothing I want to talk about.” He clenched his fists as he spoke.
Andrew only reacted with his facial expression. As he focused straight ahead, Richard suddenly found himself amazed at Andrew's ability to concentrate on two things at once. After a moment, Andrew spoke. “Let me guess; it has something to do with the disappearances last week.”
Richard nodded, then became aware that Andrew couldn't see him. “Yeah.” He glanced sideways at his first officer.
Andrew nodded firmly, and although his body language said it, he voiced what Richard already knew he was thinking. “I thought so.”
Silence.
Richard hated silence; it always spoke too loudly. So instead, he told Andrew everything that had been going through his mind. “My wife’s been on a stupid religious kick since we lost our baby.”
Andrew bit his lip. Richard suspected, from the way he almost flinched, that the disappearance of the children had to be a sore spot for him.
“Sorry,” Richard said. “Did you lose anyone?”
To Richard's surprise, Andrew shook his head. “No, no. All my friends are still around.” Richard found that hard to believe, and even more so when Andrew lapsed into silence. He removed his cap to rub his hair, front to back. The mattress creaked underneath him when he shifted position slightly.
“But…” He hesitated, as he remembered that Timothy used to do the same thing to him. How Richard had hated that! But in the aftermath of the disappearances, everyone needed to talk to someone.
“But…” Andrew paused. “I haven’t seen my friend Monica since the day of the disappearances. She's a flight attendant, and she got this job working for that Italian guy, Puccini. I haven’t heard from her since.”
“She’s just your friend?” Richard asked, in a teasing tone that clearly said he didn't believe that for a moment.
Andrew's cheeks and ears turned a bright shade of red. “Yeah...Just a friend.”
Despite the fact that Richard didn’t believe him, he let it go. Changing the subject, Richard said, “You know, my brother-in-law just started working for Puccini. He’s a pilot, too.”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “Oh, really?”
Richard nodded, as once again, silence settled over the cockpit. Minutes passed. Tumult churned in his heart as he thought about the recent events and the change that had taken place in his wife.
Finally, Richard broke the silence by saying, “You know, Puccini’s coming to New York soon. Maybe you’ll meet up with Monica then. Christina and I are planning on meeting her brother when he gets here.”
Despite his attempt to hide it, Richard noticed Andrew seemed quite glad to hear that. “I hope so.”
Richard nearly laughed. Andrew had a way of blushing that made one want to burst into chuckles. Did Andrew really expect Richard to believe Andrew and this Monica lady were only friends? After all, he hadn’t been born yesterday! At that moment, a memory shot into Richard’s mind. Monica’s eyes radiating caring, same as Andrew’s! Two of a kind, he thought. No wonder they’re close!
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Monica paused at the door of Conference Room #3. She had on a flight attendant’s uniform, and pearl earrings dangled from her ear lobes. She couldn’t help but think it strange that she’d been told to meet President Puccini in the conference room instead of Puccini's office. She shook her head. It was always possible he was meeting with more people than just her and needed some extra room. Monica shrugged, as she silently wondered why she was even thinking about it when she was about to meet one of the most powerful men in the world. Resolutely, she pushed the door open.
When she entered the room, both men rose to their feet instantly. Monica noticed that while it seemed like a reflex on the part of her assignment, Ryan Whittaker, it appeared to be done as an afterthought at the part of Antonio Puccini. Sunlight poured through the window at the back of the room.
Puccini looked almost exactly like the way she’d pictured him. His hair was jet-black and combed neatly. His facial features were clearly Italian. He appeared well-muscled and was quite tall. But his eyes seemed to stand out. At first glance, she thought them to be a honey brown. But upon a closer look she saw them to be greenish-gold. That seemed an odd switch that she could only explain as the lighting of the room.
Ryan, on the other hand, was an inch or two below six feet. He had sandy-blond hair that reminded her briefly of Andrew. He was also rather muscular, and you could guess from looking at him that he was more comfortable in jeans and a flannel shirt than in the business suit he was wearing. His eyes were less confusing, more warm and open than Puccini’s. They were a dark shade of blue.
Monica smiled warmly at the men. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Monica. Monica--Welleye.” The last name felt unnatural to add on to her given name, but she remembered to do so, to keep from sounding odd.
Both Ryan and Puccini stepped forward to shake her hand. Looking at Ryan, she realized he looked a little pale. She then noticed that no matter what emotion registered in Puccini’s voice and on his face, none showed in his eyes. “It is nice to meet you, Monica.”
Puccini put so much emphasis on her name that Monica knew that she wouldn’t be able to talk him into calling her Miss Welleye even if she wanted to. But despite the fact that he seemed to be friendly, a sick feeling in her gut when he addressed her made her wish he’d be slightly more formal.
A flash of fear ran through her that he knew she was an angel. Why that thought scared her, she couldn’t say...but it did. She shot a silent prayer to God for protection and guidance, then sat down next to Ryan and propped her fingers together on the conference table. The smooth surface felt cool to her wrists.
After a few moments of conversation, Monica realized that she’d be going to New York in a few hours. Puccini wouldn't explain why, only that he was making a trip to New York City that day. Maybe, she thought, I’ll be able to meet with Andrew and Gloria. I haven’t seen either of them since the day of the Rapture. The thought of spending time with her fellow angels brought a smile to her face.
She quickly shook thoughts of such a gathering from her mind. Instead she focused on Puccini’s eyes. They were indeed a greenish-gold, but at the same time they were indeed honey-brown. It was as if they formed an ever-changing pattern that Monica almost found hypnotic. Antonio leaned forward, folding his arms on the table, as he explained their current duties.
The hypnotic influence of Puccini’s eyes made Monica nervous, but with determination, she focused all the more. She tried to glimpse his past...his childhood...anything to give her a clue as to who he really was. Nothing. At the point where she would normally have seen a flashback, she saw nothing but blackness. Something about the blackness seemed dangerous, and Monica drew herself out of it, shifting her focus on Ryan’s words for a few moments. She then withdrew mentally again, silently praying for guidance. Something about Puccini scared her, and she would sorely need the Father’s guidance for this assignment!
She was only mildly surprised to realize they'd noticed she’d seemed to tune them out. “Earth to Monica!” Puccini’s words startled her out of her reverie.
“Sorry,” she said. “I guess I just...tuned out.” She felt a blush creeping over her face.
Ryan and Puccini nodded, understanding. Then Ryan said, “Well, to fill you in, you’ve got the apartment next to mine. I’m supposed to give you a ride to the airport, if you want. Since you’ve already got your uniform on, you won’t need to change, but you will need to take an overnight kit with you.” He scratched his neck.
Monica nodded, indicating that was agreeable to her. She was still shaking. She knew one thing now that she hadn’t known before: Antonio Puccini was dangerous.
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Antonio leaned back in his office chair, minutes after his new employees had left. A marijuana cigarette dangled between his fingers, as he inhaled the smoke. So, it seemed he had a rival. Strange. When Ryan had mentioned a flight attendant named Monica, he’d thought her to be the perfect addition to his staff. From Ryan’s description, she had seemed to be just the kind of person he needed to make a good impression on those who rode in his plane. What he hadn’t counted on was her being an angel. Antonio shook his head and pursed his lips, then glowered down at his polished desk.
What angered him even more than the fact of her being an angel was knowing that she’d nearly learned the whole truth about him. She could have seen the danger instead of just feeling it, and that would have ruined everything. Fortunately, fear had gripped her, and for that, Puccini was thankful.
He remembered the moment when Ryan and Monica had left the conference room--Ryan had opened the door for Monica as they did so. Clearly, Ryan Whittaker was the perfect gentleman. That made Puccini nervous, wondering if his new pilot’s attitude towards women was any indication of his character. The threat Puccini had made silently a few days ago should keep him from bolting, Puccini decided, but he couldn’t help but wonder about Ryan’s sense of ethics. Someone who was allergic to cigarette smoke had to be as close to perfect as humanly possible.
Even the reference to Superman had told Puccini that Ryan seemed to have a high sense of morals. No one could be even the slightest bit a fan of Superman without at least fairly good morals. Oh, Puccini was familiar with the Superman legend, but only because he was fascinated by the villains.
Puccini let out a long breath. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He needed to clear his mind, to let himself relax. He had to trust Lucifer to know that Ryan would one day be on their side. He smashed the marijuana stub against his ash tray and went down to the cafeteria to get himself a snack. He needed to call Dayan back when he returned. He also needed to call the new pope, later.
END OF CHAPTER 7