The Angel of Earth

by

Rodford Edmiston

Part Two

The phone rang, actually causing Melody to jump a bit. Coral hurried into the den from the kitchen to get it, since Aaron was busy with his guest. After giving a perfunctory greeting and then listening for a moment, she gestured Aaron over. He sighed, just a bit, rose and moved to take the antique receiver.

Melody couldn't hear what was said by the person on the other end, but from the multiple changes in Aaron's demeanor and what he said in response, she figured the news was bad but not an emergency. Aaron finally finished, hung up, and stood for a moment with his hand on the phone. Eventually, he turned back to his guest.

"I'm afraid something has come up," he said, with a sad smile. He knew, of course, that Melody had more things to discuss with him. "A long time friend died a few days ago, and someone only just remembered to call me. The funeral is in a couple of hours. Would it be all right to resume after I come back? Say, around 2 O'Clock?"

"That will be fine," said Melody, though she was frantically rearranging her schedule in her head. The local time wasn't even Nine yet and Blackpool was due to return for her in less than three hours. She'd have to meet him and ask if he could bring her back later, or maybe he could just wait with her. Meanwhile, "I haven't been in Haven for a couple of years. I'm sure there's plenty to catch up on."

"Oh, yes," said Aaron, his smile broadening. "If nothing else, I'm sure Joe would be glad to tell you some interesting stories."

That was her cue to rise, gather what she had brought, and leave.

* * *

Melody hadn't been dissembling about there being plenty for her to do while she waited for Aaron to return. With help from Joe Blank, the reporter had little trouble filling the time. She met her husband as they had agreed and Melody persuaded him to have lunch with her at the town's cafeteria. Which was not difficult. That was one of the few public places where he felt comfortable with rolling his mask up enough to eat and drink. That was partly due to this being one of the few public places where doing so garnered only a small amount of attention, all of it polite.

However, after lunch Blackpool had work of his own to attend to. Melody saw him off and spent most of her remaining wait time in the town's library, researching and making notes. At 1:45 she gathered her items, and calmly walked back to Aaron's house.

Coral was no warmer the second time, though she was a bit more communicative with the reporter.

"You're in luck," said Coral, still unsmiling, as she opened the door shortly after Melody rang the bell. "He just got back. He's in his office. The one here."

She left Melody to find her own way. Fortunately, the layout of the home was familiar to her.

Aaron looked very different in the somewhat old fashioned, grey, three-piece suit and hat he currently wore, the outfit - like his house - being a bit archaic. The effect was so startling that Melody paused, about to knock on the open door, her hand stayed. At first because of the unusual sight. Then because he appeared to be talking to someone she couldn't see.

Aaron was standing at a window, the lower portion of which was open. As was the screen beyond. Melody needed a moment to see who - or, rather, what - he was talking to: A small, nondescript grey bird standing on the window sill.

"You need to stop teasing that cat," said Aaron, sternly.

The bird gave an irate chirp.

"I don't care if you think it's fun. It's not fun for you when you get caught. It's not fun for me when I have to rescue you. It's definitely not fun for the cat when I take you away from him. One of these times I won't be quick enough."

The bird gave another chirp, somehow managing to sound insincerely repentant.

"I'm just telling you to stop teasing the cat! It's not that hard. Just stop."

The bird glared at him, then leapt into the air and flew out the opening. With a sigh, Aaron closed the screen and the window and turned around. He seemed surprised to find that he had an audience.

"Uh, good afternoon," he said. "Oh; right. You wanted my informed opinion about some things. Well, if you will wait in the den, I'll be there as soon as I change."

"Well, not to change the subject," said the reporter, "but can you first explain what you are wearing? Especially that hat."

"Mannequin calls this my pimp hat," said Aaron, rolling his eyes. "I figured that for a funeral I should wear something more formal than my usual flannel shirt and jeans."

"You probably should have dressed in a more modern style," said Melody, grinning at his hat.

"The last time I tried to dress according to contemporary tastes, my wife accused me of depleting the zoot population."

The reporter had to laugh at that.

"I'll be in the den when you're ready," said Melody, still obviously amused.

Figuring she had a few minutes, Melody put her purse and notes on the coffee table and went into the kitchen to get some water. She forgot how quickly her host could move when he wanted to. Melody put her used tumbler in the sink and realized Aaron was already in the den. She hurried back into the room.

Melody could hear Aaron singing. "Do you know what it means, to miss New Orleans?" There was his usual "human" voice and three or four others - male and female - plus instruments. As she entered the den she half expected him to be making all the sounds himself, but he actually had a platter on his turntable and was singing with the recording, in just one voice.

He turned towards Melody as she entered and smiled at her, but kept singing. There wasn't much of the song left, anyway. He held his smile and a spread-armed pose as the last notes faded. Then he moved to the entertainment center and lifted the tonearm. The 45 record went into a sleeve and the sleeve onto a shelf.

"Now that I've gotten that out of my system," he said, smile morphing into a grin.

"Does this have something to do with the jazz tradition of playing upbeat music after funerals?" said Melody, remembering that while he wasn't actually from New Orleans his hometown of Baton Rouge wasn't all that far away, physically or culturally.

"Remember, I became interested in jazz when some people were still spelling it Jass." His expression faded a bit but was still evident as he moved to one of the couches. Melody took this as her cue to sit on the other one. "Actually, many cultures have such traditions. Happy or sad, music is considered essential for memorializing the deceased's life."

He sat after she did, and gestured at the papers she had already placed on the coffee table between them.

"Now, about The Protectorate..."

* * *

Most of what they discussed in the next forty minutes or so was which government agencies, businesses, empowered groups and even empowered individuals were most likely to act against The Protectorate, and why. During that time Coral said her good byes and left for her own home. Aaron actually seemed to relax a bit after she left. However, as the conversation wound down Melody noticed that her host seemed a bit agitated in spite of that. Or perhaps he felt more free to express himself because of it.

"Okay, what is bothering you?" said Melody, finally.

"Is it that obvious?" said Aaron, looking uncomfortable.

"To someone who knows you, yes."

"I'm afraid the burial service and speaking with other attendees afterwards brought something home. Or rather, brought back something I've thought about before."

He sighed and stood, suddenly restless. His mood rapidly changed from his usual, peaceful manner. He actually looked uncharacteristically furious.

"Nothing lasts," said Aaron, as he paced angrily. "Nothing sticks! I teach them and they do better for a while, then I have to start all over with the next batch!"

"You're still here," said Melody, quietly. "The problem is they don't live long enough."

She winced, remembering the grey hairs she had found that morning.

"We don't live long enough," she said, even more quietly. She sighed, and resumed at a normal volume. "The ones who learn are replaced by new people, who - like as not - have to be taught the same lessons. However, you're still here to teach them. As are a few others. None of this is new."

"Yet those of us who think long-term - empowered or not - need people like you," said Aaron, gently, his mood changing to something much less angry, as he turned to smile at Melody. "If for no other reason than to help us keep some of our focus on the here and now."

"Thank you," said Melody, beaming.

Aaron sighed again, and turned back to his bookshelves. Particularly, he looked at a book-wide gap in one section.

"Sometimes you just need the right timing."

"I sense a story," said Melody, eagerly. Which elicited a short laugh from her host. He turned back to her.

"About a century ago, I wrote a biography of Alexander Adams," said Aaron, wistfully. "Ragtime and jazz cornetist, composer, singer and band leader. Unfortunately, the time was wrong to be praising Black cultural figures in the United States. Some people were even saying he was a fictional character. Today his work - especially his music - is widely acclaimed. My book is... long gone. Even I don't have a copy."

"That's what the space is for."

"Yes. Someday..."

He turned back to the shelves, looking at the gap. He sighed again, then turned once more to Melody and again smiled.

"I think my new housekeeper has spoiled me. With her gone home the duties of host fall on me, and I'm failing in those duties. Would you like a snack and something to drink?"

"Yes, please. Actually, if you haven't had supper I could do with a sandwich. Though just water to drink." She laughed. "I got hooked on your town's water the first time I was here."

A polite fiction. The town did have good water, but she had recently been diagnosed as pre-diabetic and was supposed to stay away from sweets. Particularly including soft drinks, which her host favored. Melody actually was a bit hungry, and if it helped Aaron feel useful to provide food and drink...

"One healthy - and locally sourced - turkey sandwich, coming up. Dark meat?"

"Please."

While her host was in the kitchen, Melody rose to take a quick look around the room, which by now was nearly as familiar as her own apartment. She paid special attention to the neatly-arranged photographs. Then she noticed the sheet music on the piano's stand. Curious, she moved closer.

"'Felix Kept on Walking,'" she said, reading the title aloud. Which did little to enlighten her. Neither did a quick glance at the lyrics help. Though the slight yellowing of and the wear on the paper did. Hearing Aaron returning, she moved back to the coffee table.

"It's about an immortal cat with magic powers, who travels the world, having adventures," said Aaron, smiling, as he set out the coffee and cookies.

Of course he knew what I was looking at, thought Melody, with a slight smirk.

"That's very appropriate."

"Oh?" said Aaron, innocently. "How so?"

She had to laugh at that.

She then paused for a moment, to look carefully around the room.

"Some of these things are collectors' items," she observed. "Even without their... unique provenance."

"All of them are well cared for. I am not selling any of them. I certainly don't need the money. Neither am I currently in the mood to donate any more of my belongings to museums."

Melody definitely caught the "more" in that sentence, and made a note to pursue that later. Right now, though, she had something else on her mind.

"There's something I keep forgetting to ask you about, so I'm going to now," said Melody. "Where does your personal funding come from?"

"The house actually belongs to the town," said Aaron, easily. "I don't pay property tax, since I don't own the property. The citizens of Haven insist on providing this home, my utilities and even my food. So, my costs are close to nil. What little personal money I do need comes from donations and rewards."

Melody was far from finished, but just then came a knock on the door. Startled, she glanced at the clock ticking sedately over the kitchen doorway, and was a bit surprised.

"Wow, the time just flew," said Melody, as she followed Aaron to the front door, suspecting - correctly - that the source of the knock was Blackpool. "I'm still not finished with my questions."

"I don't have anything scheduled for tomorrow," said Aaron, nodding in greeting to the other empowered man.

The trio quickly agreed on a time for Melody's return visit.

* * *

Michael Schmierer watched patiently as the sky grew dark and the lights came on in the huge house. He knew the pattern of lighting use by now. As the evening progressed the illumination in the structure repeatedly shifted, in a largely predictable pattern. If the typical routine was followed tonight, they would go from those lights which were on being mostly downstairs, to about an even amount downstairs and upstairs, to the lights which were on being mostly upstairs, then nearly all the upstairs lights on with the downstairs completely dark, then only in a few rooms upstairs illuminated, then all would go dark. Mike made himself comfortable in the driver's seat of his car - which appeared empty and parked for the night in a wide spot on the shoulder across the road from the isolated mansion - and waited.

Many investigators - whether police or private - found this part of the job tedious. Mike, in contrast, welcomed these quiet nights, keeping watch, cameras, recorder and shotgun mic ready. Letting most of his mind go idle while he focused on watching for, well, whatever might be suspicious.

CornFed claimed his attraction to and suitability for such activities was due to having the instincts of an ambush hunter. Mike liked that idea.

His current job involved watching the country home of a wealthy California family which was famous - or infamous - for its eccentrics. For example, the current head of the family was a UFO enthusiast. The man had spent millions on "evidence" such as crudely doctored photos and scraps of material supposedly from "flying saucers" and "probes" (some of which looked like exotic sex toys). On the other hand, the man legitimately had some images and items which could not be conventionally explained. Mike's job wasn't to evaluate Gaspard's hobby, which the man could well afford. The PI was there to watch for signs of criminal activity. Over the past few weeks there had been multiple breakins at both public and private collections of this type.

Most of these invasions had happened at widely scattered locations all over North America, with a few in other regions. Several of the collections had been hit right after some mention in popular media. This particular one, which was known as the Gaspard Hoard, had been featured in a 3V show on unusual hobbies just four days before. This night was Mike's third on watch.

He really should have picked a different place to park each night. Unfortunately, the only suitable spot was the outside of a curve in the road, on a wide section of the gravel shoulder. It did have the advantage of a lot of screening vegetation at either end of the space, greatly reducing the visibility of anything there. As well as being in deep shadows in during most of the day, due to large, old trees looming overhead. In fact, the private property on which the mansion stood was situated between a forest and an upscale neighborhood.

The owner and gatherer of the collection, William Gaspard, wasn't concerned about the breakins. Mike had the feeling that such worldly worries held little interest for him. Besides, he had alarms and an automatic phone connection with a respected security company... which guaranteed an in-person presence within an hour! However, W. Gaspard's wife and oldest son had hired Mike as extra security. After all, the collection occupied a wing of their home!

The culprit didn't seem interested in the theft of the most valuable objects, though a few things had been taken. Market value of the items chosen for removal seemed irrelevant. Mostly the collections had been rummaged through but left otherwise intact. Whoever was doing this was also very good at avoiding conventional security. Perhaps through training; perhaps through a power. Unfortunately, they also weren't perfect. A few times the culprit had been interrupted in their strange pursuit. People had been hurt trying to stop him, some seriously. Two of those attacked by the burglar had died from their injuries. So, this was a potentially very serious situation. He - possibly she - was at least very skilled, and likely had powers which made them physically potent.

The husband/father knew his wife and son had hired Mike; the detective had made a point of meeting with Gaspard père, and representatives of the security agency which was supposed to respond if anything tripped the alarms. Mike had assured all of them that he wouldn't go onto the property unless he saw an immediate and clear need to. Since his watch point had a good view of the entire wing where the collection was located, if anything did happen Mike had a good chance of seeing it. He also had a car phone. As well as the phone number for the local sheriff's office.

Mike felt that the odds of anything happening here were very low, but he got paid for his time even if all stayed quiet. He actually hoped he wouldn't earn any hazard pay.

With the surroundings dark enough, now, that spotting him would be difficult, Mike rolled the driver's position window most of the way down. Onto the remaining tongue of glass went a padded clamp. Onto that went his big pair of night glasses. He was getting paid for this, after all, so he better do his job, and do it well.

* * *

"You're awfully quiet," said Blackpool - or John - as he and Melody go into bed that evening.

"I'm thinking about the future," said the reporter.

"You mean you're once again thinking about having children," said her husband, tone carefully neutral.

"Is that so surprising? Unlike Aaron and a few others we're both aging normally. I hate to bring up that old cliché about biological clocks..."

"I just don't think things are stable enough right now," said John, firmly.

"Aaron says they've never been stable," said Melody, wryly, as she pulled the sheet over her. "Seriously, though, if we wait for the perfect time, that's not likely to ever come."

"You have a good point," said John, with a sigh, as he fluffed his pillow. "I just don't know if I'm ready."

He could tell she wanted this. He gathered her hands in his, and kissed her fingertips.

"Yes, I will think about this. Seriously. I promise." He sighed as he held her. "Anyway, right now we both need sleep. You're going back to Haven tomorrow to finish your interview, and I'm your transportation."