If Angels Fight Richard Bowes Richard Bowes has lived in Manhattan for over forty years. Among his novels are Warchild, Feral Cell, Minions of the Moon, and most recently the Nebula nominated From the Files of the Time Rangers. His most recent short fiction collection is Streetcar Dreams and Other Midnight Fancies from PS Publishing. Bowes has won the World Fantasy, Lambda, International Horror Guild, and Million Writers Awards.

Bowes has recent and upcoming stories in the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Electric Velocipede, Subterranean, Clarkesworld Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction and Fantasy, Fantasy Best of the Year 2009, Haunted Legends, The Naked City, and The Beastly Bride. Many of these stories are chapters in his novel in progress, Dust Devil on a Quiet Street.

1.

Outside the window, the blue water of the Atlantic danced in the sunlight of an early morning in October. They’re short, quiet trains, the ones that roll through Connecticut just after dawn. I sipped bad tea, dozed off occasionally and awoke with a start.

Over the last forty years, I’ve ridden the northbound train from New York to Boston hundreds of times. I’ve done it alone, with friends and lovers, going home for the holidays, setting out on vacations, on my way to funerals.

That morning, I was with one who was once in some ways my best friend and certainly my oldest. Though we had rarely met in decades, it seemed that a connection endured. Our mission was vital and we rode the train by default: a terrorist threat had closed traffic at Logan Airport in Boston the night before.

I’d left messages canceling an appointment, letting the guy I was going out with know I’d be out of town briefly for a family crisis. No need to say it was another, more fascinating, family disrupting my life, not mine.

The old friend caught my discomfort at what we were doing and was amused.

A bit of Shakespeare occurred to me when I thought of him:

Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king.

He was quiet for a while after hearing those lines. It was getting toward twenty-four hours since I’d slept. I must have dozed because suddenly I was in a dark place with two tiny slits of light high above. I found hand-and footholds and crawled up the interior wall of a stone tower. As I got to the slits of light, a voice said, “New Haven. This stop New Haven.”

2.

Carol Bannon had called me less than two weeks before. “I’m going to be down in New York the day after tomorrow,” she said. “I wondered if we could get together.” I took this to mean that she and her family wanted to get some kind of fix on the present location and current state of her eldest brother, my old friend Mark.

Over the years when this had happened it was Marie Bannon, Mark and Carol’s mother, who contacted me. Those times I’d discovered channels through which she could reach her straying son. This time, I didn’t make any inquiries before meeting Carol, but I did check to see if certain parties still had the same phone numbers and habits that I remembered.

Thinking about Marky Bannon, I too wondered where he was. He’s always somewhere on my mind. When I see a photo of some great event, a reception, or celebrity trial, a concert or inaugurationI scan the faces wondering if he’s present.

I’m retired these days, with time to spend. But over the years, keeping tabs on the Bannons was an easy minor hobby. The mother is still alive though not very active now. The father was a longtime Speaker of the Massachusetts House and a candidate for governor who died some years back. An intersection in Dorchester and an entrance to the Boston Harbor tunnel are still named for him.

Carol, the eldest daughter, got elected to the City Council at the age of twenty-eight. Fourteen years later she gave up a safe U.S. House seat to run the Commerce Department for Clinton. Later she served on the 9/11 commission and is a perennial cable TV talking head. She’s married to Jerry Simone who has a stake in Google. Her brother Joe is a leading campaign consultant in D.C. Keeping up the idealistic end of things, her little sister Eileen is a member of Doctors Without Borders. My old friend Mark is the tragic secret without which no Irish family would be complete.

Carol asked me to meet her for tea uptown in the Astor Court of the St. Regis Hotel. I got there a moment after four. The Astor Court has a blinding array of starched white tablecloths and gold chandeliers under a ceiling mural of soft, floating clouds.

Maybe her choice of meeting places was intentionally campy. Or maybe because I don’t drink anymore she had hit upon this as an amusing spot to bring me.

Carol and I always got along. Even aged ten and eleven I was different enough from the other boys that I was nice to my friends’ little sisters.

Carol has kept her hair chestnut but allowed herself fine gray wings. Her skin and teeth are terrific. The Bannons were what was called dark Irish when we were growing up in Boston in the 1950s. That meant they weren’t so white that they automatically burst into flames on their first afternoon at the beach.

They’re a handsome family. The mother is still beautiful in her eighties. Marie Bannon had been on the stage a bit before she married. She had that light and charm, that ability to convince you that her smile was for you alone that led young men and old to drop everything and do her bidding.

Mike Bannon, the father, had been a union organizer before he went nights to law school, then got into politics. He had rugged good looks, blue eyes that would look right into you, and a fine smile that he could turn on and off and didn’t often waste on kids.

“When the mood’s upon him, he can charm a dog off a meat wagon,” I remember a friend of my father’s remarking. It was a time and place where politicians and race horses alike were scrutinized and handicapped.

The Bannon children had inherited the parents’ looks and, in the way of politicians’ kids, were socially poised. Except for Mark, who could look lost and confused one minute, oddly intense the next, with eyes suddenly just like his father’s.

Carol rose to kiss me as I approached the table. It seemed kind of like a Philip Marlowe moment: I imagined myself as a private eye, tough and amused, called in by the rich dame for help in a personal matter.

When I first knew Carol Bannon, she wore pigtails and cried because her big brother wouldn’t take her along when we went to the playground. Recently there’s been speculation everywhere that a distinguished Massachusetts senator is about to retire before his term ends. Carol Bannon is the odds-on favorite to be appointed to succeed him.

Then, once she’s in the Senate, given that it’s the Democratic Party we’re talking about, who’s to say they won’t go crazy again and run one more Bay State politician for President in the wild hope that they’ve got another JFK?

Carol said, “My mother asked me to remember her to you.” I asked Carol to give her mother my compliments. Then we each said how good the other looked and made light talk about the choices of teas and the drop-dead faux Englishness of the place. We reminisced about Boston and the old neighborhood.

“Remember how everyone called that big overgrown vacant lot, ‘Fitzie’s’?” I asked. The nickname had come from its being the site where the Fitzgerald mansion, the home of “Honey Fitz,” the old mayor of Boston, once stood. His daughter, Rose, was mother to the Kennedy brothers.

“There was a marble floor in the middle of the trash and weeds,” I said, “and everybody was sure the place was haunted.

“The whole neighborhood was haunted,” she said. “There was that little old couple who lived down Melville Avenue from us. They knew my parents. He was this gossipy elf. He had held office back in the old days and everyone called him, ‘the Hon Hen,’ short for ‘the Honorable Henry.’ She was a daughter of Honey Fitz. They were aunt and uncle of the Kennedys.”

Melville Avenue was and is a street where the houses are set back on lawns and the garages are converted horse barns. When we were young, doctors and prosperous lawyers lived there along with prominent saloon owners and politicians like Michael Bannon and his family.

Suddenly at our table in the Astor Court, the pots and plates, the Lapsang and scones, the marmalade, the clotted cream and salmon finger sandwiches appeared. We were silent for a little while and I thought about how politics had seemed a common occupation for kids’ parents in Irish Boston. Politicians’ houses tended to be big and semi-public with much coming and going and loud talk.

Life at the Bannons’ was much more exciting than at my house. Mark had his own room and didn’t have to share with his little brother. He had a ten-year-old’s luxuries: electronic football, enough soldiers to fight Gettysburg if you didn’t mind that the Confederates were mostly Indians, and not one but two electric train engines, which made wrecks a positive pleasure. Mark’s eyes would come alive when the cars flew off the tracks in a rainbow of sparks.

“What are you smiling at?” Carol asked.

And I cut to the chase and said, “Your brother. I remember the way he liked to leave his room. That tree branch right outside his window: he could reach out, grab hold of it, scramble hand over hand to the trunk.”

I remembered how the branches swayed and sighed and how scared I was every time I had to follow him.

“In high school,” Carol said, “at night he’d sneak out when he was supposed to be in bed and scramble back inside much later. I knew and our mother, but no one else. One night the bough broke as he tried to get back in the window. He fell all the way to the ground, smashing through more branches on the way.

“My father was down in the study plotting malfeasance with Governor Furcolo. They and everyone else came out to see what had happened. We found Mark lying on the ground laughing like a lunatic. He had a fractured arm and a few scratches. Even I wondered if he’d fallen on his head.”

For a moment I watched for some sign that she knew I’d been right behind her brother when he fell. I’d gotten down the tree fast and faded into the night when I saw lights come on inside the house. It had been a long, scary night and before he laughed, Mark had started to sob.

Now that we were talking about her brother, Carol was able to say, almost casually, “My mother has her good days and her bad days. But for thirty years she’s hinted to me that she had a kind of contact with him. I didn’t tell her that wasn’t possible because it obviously meant a lot to her.”

She was maintaining a safe zone, preserving her need not to know. I frowned and fiddled with a sliver of cucumber on buttered brown bread.

Carol put on a full court press: “Mom wants to see Mark again and she thinks it needs to be soon. She told me you knew people and could arrange things. It would make her so happy if you could do whatever that was again.”

I too kept my distance. “I ran some errands for your mother a couple of times that seemed to satisfy her. The last time was fourteen years ago and at my age I’m not sure I can even remember what I did.”

Carol gave a rueful little smile, “You were my favorite of all my brother’s friends. You’d talk to me about my dollhouse. It took me years to figure out why that was. When I was nine and ten years old I used to imagine you taking me out on dates.”

She reached across the table and touched my wrist. “If there’s any truth to any of what Mom says, I could use Mark’s help too. You follow the news.

“I’m not going to tell you the current administration wrecked the world all by themselves or that if we get back in, it will be the second coming of Franklin Roosevelt and Abe Lincoln all rolled into one.

“I am telling you I think this is end game. We either pull ourselves together in the next couple of years or we become Disney World.”

I didn’t tell her I thought we had already pretty much reached the stage of the U.S. as theme park.

“It’s not possible that Mark’s alive,” she said evenly. “But his family needs him. None of us inherited our father’s gut instincts, his political animal side. It may be a mother’s fantasy, but ours says Mark did.”

I didn’t wonder aloud if the one who had been Marky Bannon still existed in any manifestation we’d recognize.

Then Carol handed me a very beautiful check from a consulting firm her husband owned. I told her I’d do whatever I could. Someone had said about Carol, “She’s very smart and she knows all the rules of the game. But I’m not sure the game these days has anything to do with the rules.”

3.

After our little tea, I thought about the old Irish-American city of my childhood and how ridiculous it was for Carol Bannon to claim no knowledge of Mark Bannon. It reminded me of the famous Bolger brothers of South Boston.

You remember them: William Bolger was first the president of the State Senate and then the president of the University of Massachusetts. Whitey Bolger was head of the Irish mob, a murderer and an FBI informant gone bad. Whitey was on the lam for years. Bill always claimed, even under oath, that he never had any contact with his brother.

That had always seemed preposterous to me. The Bolgers’ mother was alive. And a proper Irish mother will always know what each of her children is doing no matter how they hide. And she’ll bombard the others with that information no matter how much they don’t want to know. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Bannon not doing that.

What kept the media away from the story was that Mark hadin all the normal uses of the termsdied, been waked and memorialized some thirty-five years ago.

I remembered how in the Bannon family the father adored Carol and her sister Eileen. He was even a tiny bit in awe of little Joe who at the age of six already knew the name and political party of the governor of each state in the union. But Michael Bannon could look very tired when his eyes fell on Mark.

The ways of Irish fathers with their sons were mysterious and often distant. Mark was his mother’s favorite. But he was, I heard it whispered, dull normal, a step above retarded.

I remembered the way the Bannons’ big house could be full of people I didn’t know and how all the phonesthe Bannons were the only family I knew with more than one phone in their housecould be ringing at once.

Mike Bannon had a study on the first floor. One time when Mark and I went past, I heard him in there saying, “We got the quorum. Now who’s handling the seconding speech?” We went up to Mark’s room and found two guys there. One sat on the bed with a portable typewriter on his lap, pecking away. The other stood by the window and said, ” … real estate tax that’s fair for all.”

“For everybody,” said the guy with the typewriter. “Sounds better.” Then they noticed we were there and gave us a couple of bucks to go away.

Another time, Mark and I came back from the playground to find his father out on the front porch talking to the press who stood on the front lawn. This, I think, was when he was elected Speaker of the Lower House of the Great and General Court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, as the state legislature was called.

It was for moments like these that Speaker Bannon had been created. He smiled and photographers’ flashes went off. Then he glanced in his son’s direction, the penetrating eyes dimmed, the smile faded. Remembering this, I wondered what he saw.

After it was over, when his father and the press had departed, Mark went right on staring intently at the spot where it had happened. I remember thinking that he looked kind of like his father at that moment.

One afternoon around then the two of us sat on the rug in the TV room and watched a movie about mountain climbers scaling the Himalayas. Tiny black and white figures clung to ropes, made their way single file across glaciers, huddled in shallow crevices as high winds blew past.

It wasn’t long afterward that Mark, suddenly intense, led me and a couple of other kids along a six-inch ledge that ran around the courthouse in Codman Square.

The ledge was a couple of feet off the ground at the front of the building. We sidled along, stumbling once in a while, looking in the windows at the courtroom where a trial was in session. We turned the corner and edged our way along the side of the building. Here we faced the judge behind his raised desk. At first he didn’t notice. Then Mark smiled and waved.

The judge summoned a bailiff, pointed to us. Mark sidled faster and we followed him around to the back of the building. At the rear of the courthouse was a sunken driveway that led to a garage. The ledge was a good sixteen feet above the cement. My hands began to sweat but I was smart enough not to look down.

The bailiff appeared, told us to halt and go back. The last kid in line, eight years old where the rest of us were ten, froze where he was and started to cry.

Suddenly the summer sunshine went gray and I was inching my way along an icy ledge hundreds of feet up a sheer cliff.

After a moment that vision was gone. Cops showed up, parked their car right under us to cut the distance we might fall. A crowd, mostly kids, gathered to watch the fire department bring us down a ladder. When we were down, I turned to Mark and saw that his concentration had faded.

“My guardian angel brought us out here,” he whispered.

The consequences were not severe. Mark was a privileged character and that extended to his confederates. When the cops drove us up to his house, Mrs. Bannon came out and invited us all inside. Soon the kitchen was full of cops drinking spiked coffee like it was St. Patrick’s Day and our mothers all came by to pick us up and laugh about the incident with Mrs. Bannon.

Late that same summer, I think, an afternoon almost at the end of vacation, the two of us turned onto Melville Avenue and saw Cadillacs double-parked in front of the Hon Hen’s house. A movie camera was set up on the lawn. A photographer stood on the porch. We hurried down the street.

As we got there, the front door flew open and several guys came out laughing. The cameraman started to film, the photographer snapped pictures. Young Senator Kennedy was on the porch. He turned back to kiss his aunt and shake hands with his uncle.

He was thin with reddish brown hair and didn’t seem entirely adult. He winked as he walked past us and the cameras clicked away. A man in a suit got out of a car and opened the door, the young senator said, “Okay, that’s done.”

As they drove off, the Hon Hen waved us up onto the porch, brought out dishes of ice cream. It was his wife’s birthday and their nephew had paid his respects.

A couple of weeks later, after school started, a story with plenty of pictures appeared in the magazine section of the Globe: a day in the life of Senator Kennedy. Mark and I were in the one of him leaving his aunt’s birthday. Our nun, Sister Mary Claire, put the picture up on the bulletin board.

The rest of the nuns came by to see. The other kids resented us for a few days. The Cullen brothers, a mean and sullen pair, motherless and raised by a drunken father, hated us for ever after.

I saw the picture again a few years ago. Kennedy’s wearing a full campaign smile, I’m looking at the great man, open mouthed. Mark stares at the camera so intently that he seems ready to jump right off the page.

4.

The first stop on my search for Mark Bannon’s current whereabouts was right in my neighborhood. It’s been said about Greenwich Village that here time is all twisted out of shape like an abstract metal sculpture: past, present, and future intertwine.

Looking for that mix, the first place I went was Fiddler’s Green way east on Bleecker Street. Springsteen sang at Fiddler’s and Madonna waited tables before she became Madonna. By night it’s a tourist landmark and a student magnet but during the day it’s a little dive for office workers playing hooky and old village types in search of somewhere dark and quiet.

As I’d hoped, “Daddy Frank” Parnelli, with eyes like a drunken hawk’s and sparse white hair cropped like a drill sergeant’s, sipped a beer in his usual spot at the end of the bar. Once the legend was that he was where you went when you wanted yesterday’s mistake erased or needed more than just a hunch about tomorrow’s market.

Whether any of that was ever true, now none of it is. The only thing he knows these days is his own story and parts of that he can’t tell to most people. I was an exception.

We hadn’t talked in a couple of years but when he saw me he grimaced and asked, “Now what?” like I pestered him every day.

“Seemed like you might be here and I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

“Real kind of you to remember an old sadist.”

I’m not that much younger than he is but over the years, I’ve learned a thing or two about topping from Daddy Frank. Like never giving a bottom an even break. I ordered a club soda and pointed for the bartender to fill Daddy Frank’s empty shot glass with whatever rye he’d been drinking.

Daddy stared at it like he was disgusted, then took a sip and another. He looked out the window. Across the street, a taxi let out an enormously fat woman with a tiny dog. Right in front of Fiddler’s a crowd of smiling Japanese tourists snapped pictures of each other.

A bearded computer student sat about halfway down the bar from us with a gin and tonic and read what looked like a thousand-page book. A middle-aged man and his wife studied the signed photos on the walls while quietly singing scraps of songs to each other.

Turning back to me with what might once have been an enigmatic smile, Daddy Frank said, “You’re looking for Mark Bannon.”

“Yes.”

“I have no fucking idea where he is,” he said. “Never knew him before he appeared in my life. Never saw him again when he was through with me.”

I waited, knowing this was going to take a while. When he started talking, the story wasn’t one that I knew.

“Years ago, in sixty-nine, maybe seventy, it’s like, two in the afternoon on Saturday, a few weeks before Christmas. I’m in a bar way west on Fourteenth Street near the meat-packing district. McNally’s maybe or the Emerald Gardens, one of them they used to have over there that all looked alike. They had this bartender with one arm, I remember. He’d lost the other one on the docks.”

“Making mixed drinks must have been tough,” I said.

“Anyone asked for one, he came at them with a baseball bat. Anyway, the time I’m telling you about, I’d earned some money that morning bringing discipline to someone who hadn’t been brought up right. I was living with a bitch in Murray Hill. But she had money and I saw no reason to share.

“I’m sitting there and this guy comes in wearing an overcoat with the collar pulled up. He’s younger than me but he looks all washed out like he’s been on a long, complicated bender. No one I recognized, but people there kind of knew him.”

I understood what was being described and memory supplied a face for the stranger.

“He sits down next to me. Has this piece he wants to unload, a cheap thirty-two. It has three bullets in it. He wants ten bucks. Needs the money to get home to his family. I look down and see I still have five bucks left.”

I said, “A less stand-up guy might have wondered what happened to the other three bullets.”

“I saw it as an opportunity. As I look back I see, maybe, it was a test. I offer the five and the stranger sells me the piece. So now I have a gun and no money. All of a sudden the stranger comes alive, smiles at me, and I feel a lot different. With a purpose, you know?

“With the buzz I had, I didn’t even wonder why this was. All I knew was I needed to put the piece to use. That was when I thought of Klein’s. The place I was staying was over on the East Side and it was on my way home. You remember Klein’s Department Store?”

“Sure, on Union Square. ‘Klein’s on the Square’ was the motto and they had a big neon sign of a right angle ruler out front.”

“Great fucking bargains. Back when I was six and my mother wanted to dress me like a little asshole, that’s where she could do it cheap. As a kid I worked there as a stock boy. I knew they kept all the receipts, whatever they took in, up on the top floor and that they closed at six on Saturdays.”

As he talked, I remembered the blowsy old Union Square, saw the tacky Christmas lights, the crowds of women toting shopping bags and young Frank Parnelli cutting his way through them on his way to Klein’s.

“It’s so simple I do it without thinking. I go up to the top floor like I have some kind of business. It’s an old-fashioned store way back when people used cash. Security is one old guy wearing glasses. I go in the refund line and when I get up to the counter, I pull out the gun. The refunds ladies all soil their panties.

“I clean the place out. Thousands of bucks in a shopping bag and I didn’t even have to go out of my way. I run down the stairs and nobody stops me. It’s dark outside and I blend in with the crowd. As I walk down Fourteenth, the guy from the bar who sold me the gun is walking beside me.

“Before he looked beat. Now it’s like the life has been sucked out of him and he’s the living dead. But you know what? I have a locker at Gramercy Gym near Third Ave. I go in there so I can change from my leathers into a warm-up jacket and a baseball cap. Like it’s the most natural thing, I give the guy a bunch of bills. He goes off to his family. I don’t ever see him again.

“I’m still drunk and amazed. That night I’m on a plane. Next day I’m in L.A. Both of those things for the first time. After that I’m not in this world half the time. Not this world like I thought it was anyway. And somewhere in those first days, I realized I wasn’t alone inside my own head. A certain Mark Bannon was in there too.”

I looked down the bar. The student was drinking his gin, turning his pages. The couple had stopped singing and were sitting near the window. The bartender was on his cell phone. I signaled and he refilled Frank’s glass.

“It was a wild ride for a few years,” Daddy Frank said. “We hitched up with Red Ruth who ran us both ragged. She got us into politics in the Caribbean: Honduras, Nicaragua, stuff I still can’t talk about, Ruth and me and Bannon.

“Then she got tired of us, I got tired of having Mark Bannon on the brain and he got tired of me being me. It happens.”

He leaned his elbow on the bar and had one hand over his eyes. “What is it? His mother looking for him again? I met her that first time when she had you find him. She’s a great lady.”

“Something like that,” I said. “Anyone else ask you about Mark Bannon recently?”

“A couple of weeks ago someone came around asking questions. He said he has like a news show on the computer. Paul Revere is his name? Something like that. He came on like he knew something. But a lot smarter guys than him have tried to mix it up with me.”

“No one else has asked?”

He shook his head.

“Anything you want me to tell Marky if I should see him?”

Without taking his hand away from his eyes, Daddy Frank raised the other, brought the glass to his lips, and drained it. “Tell him it’s been thirty years and more and I was glad when he left but I’ve been nothing but a bag of muscles and bones ever since.”

5.

As evening falls in the South Village, the barkers come out. On opposite corners of the cross streets they stand with their spiels and handbills.

“Come hear the brightest song writers in New York,” said an angry young man, handing me a flyer.

A woman with snakes and flowers running up and down her arms and legs insisted, “You have just hit the tattoo jackpot!”

“Sir, you look as if you could use a good … laugh,” said a small African-American queen outside a comedy club.

I noticed people giving the little sidelong glances that New Yorkers use when they spot a celebrity. But when I looked, the person was no one I recognized. That happens to me a lot these days.

Thinking about Mark Bannon and Frank Parnelli, I wondered if he just saw Frank as a vehicle with a tougher body and a better set of reflexes than his own? Did he look back with fondness when they parted company? Was it the kind of nostalgia you might have for a favorite horse or your first great car?

It was my luck to have known Mark when he was younger and his “guardian angel” was less skilled than it became. One Saturday when we were fourteen or so, going to different high schools and drifting apart, he and I were in a hockey free-for-all down on the Neponset River.

It was one of those silver and black winter Saturday afternoons when nothing was planned. A pack of kids from our neighborhood was looking for ice to play on. Nobody was ever supposed to swim or skate on that water so that’s where a dozen of us headed.

We grabbed a stretch of open ice a mile or so from where the Neponset opens onto the Nantasket Roads, the stretch of water that connects Boston Harbor to the Atlantic Ocean. Our game involved shoving a battered puck around and plenty of body checks. Mark was on my team but seemed disconnected like he was most of the time.

The ice was thick out in the middle of the river but old and scarred and rutted by skates and tides. Along the shore where it was thin, the ice had been broken up at some points.

Once I looked around and saw that some kids eight or nine years old were out on the ice in their shoes jumping up and down, smashing through it and jumping away laughing when they did. There was a whir of skates behind me and I got knocked flat.

I was the smallest guy my age in the game. Ice chips went up the legs of my jeans and burned my skin. When I got my feet under me again, the little kids were yelling. One of them was in deep water holding onto the ice which kept breaking as he grabbed it.

Our game stopped and everyone stood staring. Then Mark came alive. He started forward and beckoned me, one of the few times he’d noticed me that afternoon. As I followed him, I thought I heard the words “Chain-of-Life.” It was a rescue maneuver that, maybe, boy scouts practiced but I’d never seen done.

Without willing it, I suddenly threw myself flat and was on my stomach on the ice. Mark was down on the ice behind me and had hold of my ankles. He yelled at the other guys for two of them to grab his ankles and four guys to grab theirs. I was the point of a pyramid.

Somehow I grabbed a hockey stick in my gloved hands. My body slithered forward on the ice and my arms held the stick out toward the little kid. Someone else was moving my body.

The ice here was thin. There was water on top of it. The kid grabbed the stick. I felt the ice moving under me, hands pulled my legs.

I gripped the stick. At first the kid split the ice as I pulled him along. I wanted to let go and get away before the splitting ice engulfed me too.

But I couldn’t. I had no control over my hands. Then the little kid reached firm ice. Mark pulled my legs and I pulled the kid. His stomach bounced up onto the ice and then his legs. Other guys grabbed my end of the stick, pulled the kid past me.

I stood and Mark was standing also. The little boy was being led away, soaked and crying, water sloshing in his boots. Suddenly I felt the coldthe ice inside my pants and up the sleeves of my sweaterand realized what I’d done.

Mark Bannon held me up, pounded my back. “We did it! You and me!” he said. His eyes were alive and he looked like he was possessed. “I felt how scared you were when the ice started to break.” And I knew this was Mark’s angel talking.

The other guys clustered around us yelling about what we’d done. I looked up at the gray sky, at a freighter in the distance sailing up the Roads toward Boston Harbor. It was all black and white like television and my legs buckled under me.

Shortly afterward as evening closed in, the cops appeared and ordered everybody off the ice. That night, a little feverish, I dreamed and cried out in my sleep about ice and TV.

No adult knew what had happened but every kid did. Monday at school, ones who never spoke to me asked about it. I told them even though it felt like it had happened to someone else. And that feeling, I think, was what the memory of his years with Mark Bannon must have been like for Daddy Frank.

6.

As soon as Frank Parnelli started talking about Paul Revere, I knew who he meant and wasn’t surprised. I called Desmond Eliot and he wasn’t surprised to hear from me either. Back when I first knew Des Eliot he and Carol Bannon went to Amherst and were dating each other. Now he operates the political blog, Midnight Ride: Spreading the Alarm.

A few days later, I sat facing Eliot in his home office in suburban Maryland. I guess he could work in his pajamas if he wanted to. But, in fact, he was dressed and shaved and ready to ride.

He was listening to someone on the phone and typing on a keyboard in his lap. Behind him were a computer and a TV with the sound turned off. The screen showed a runway in Jordan where the smoking ruins of a passenger plane were still being hosed down with chemicals. Then a Republican senator with presidential ambitions looked very serious as he spoke to reporters in Washington.

A brisk Asian woman, who had introduced herself as June, came into the office, collected the outgoing mail, and departed. A fax hummed in the corner. Outside, it was a sunny day and the trees had just begun to turn.

“Yes, I saw the dustup at the press conference this morning,” he said into the phone. “The White House, basically, is claiming the Democrats planted a spy in the Republican National Committee. If I thought anyone on the DNC had the brains and chutzpah to do that I’d be cheering.”

At that moment Des was a relatively happy man. Midnight Ride is, as he puts it, “A tool of the disloyal opposition,” and right now things were going relatively badly for the administration.

He hung up and told me, “Lately every day is a feast. This must be how the right wing felt when Clinton was up to his ass in blue dresses and cigars.” As he spoke he typed on a keyboard, probably the very words he was uttering.

He stopped typing, put his feet up on a coffee table, and looked out over his half-frame glasses. His contacts with the Bannons go way back. It bothers him that mine go back further.

“You come all the way down here to ask me about Mark Bannon,” he said. “My guess is it’s not for some personal memoir like you’re telling me. I think the family is looking for him and thinks I may have spotted him like I did with Svetlanov.”

I shook my head like I didn’t understand.

“Surely you remember. It was twenty years ago. No, a bit more. Deep in the Reagan years. Glasnost and Perestroika weren’t even rumors. The Soviet Union was the Evil Empire. I was in Washington, writing for The Nation, consulting at a couple of think tanks, going out with Lucia, an Italian sculptress. Later on I was married to her for about six months.

“There was a Goya show at the Corcoran that Lucia wanted to see. We’d just come out of one of the galleries and there was this guy I was sure I’d never seen before, tall, prematurely gray.

“There was something very familiar about him. Not his looks, but something. When he’d talk to the woman he was with, whatever I thought I’d recognized didn’t show. Then he looked my way and it was there again. As I tried to place him, he seemed like he was trying to remember me.

“Then I realized it was his eyes. At moments they had the same uncanny look that Mark Bannon’s could get when I first knew him. Of course by then Mark had been dead for about thirteen years.

“Lucia knew who this was: a Russian art dealer named Georgi Svetlanov, the subject of rumors and legends. Each person I asked about him had a different story: he was a smuggler, a Soviet agent, a forger, a freedom fighter.”

Eliot said, “It stuck with me enough that I mentioned it the next time I talked to Carol. She was planning a run for congress and I was helping. Carol didn’t seem that interested.

“She must have written the name down, though. I kept watch on Svetlanov. Even aside from the Bannon connection he was interesting. Mrs. Bannon must have thought so too. He visited her a few times that I know of.”

Marie Bannon had gotten in touch with me and mentioned this Russian man someone had told her about. She had the name and I did some research, found out his itinerary. At a major opening at the Shafrazi Gallery in SoHo, I walked up to a big steely-haired man who seemingly had nothing familiar about him at all.

“Mark Bannon,” I said quietly but distinctly.

At first the only reaction was Svetlanov looking at me like I was a bug. He sneered and began to turn away. Then he turned back and the angel moved behind his eyes. He looked at me hard, trying to place me.

I handed him my card. “Mark Bannon, your mother’s looking for you,” I said. “That’s her number on the back.” Suddenly eyes that were very familiar looked right into mine.

Des told me, “I saw Svetlanov after that in the flesh and on TV. He was in the background at Riga with Reagan and Gorbachev. I did quite a bit of research and discovered Frank Parnelli among other things. My guess is that Mark Bannon’s … spirit or subconscious or whatever it iswas elsewhere by nineteen-ninety-two when Svetlanov died in an auto accident. Was I right?”

In some ways I sympathized with Eliot. I’d wondered about that too. And lying is bad. You get tripped by a lie more often than by the truth.

But I looked him in the face and said, “Mark wasn’t signaling anybody from deep inside the skull of some Russian, my friend. You were at the wake, the funeral, the burial. Only those without a drop of Celtic blood believe there’s any magic in the Irish.”

He said, “The first time I noticed you was at that memorial service. Everyone else stood up and tiptoed around the mystery and disaster that had been his life. Then it was your turn and you quoted Shakespeare. Said he was a ruined king. You knew he wasn’t really dead.”

“Des, it was 1971. Joplin, Hendrix. Everyone was dying young. I was stoned, I was an aspiring theater person and very full of myself. I’d intended to recite Dylan Thomas’s ‘Do Not Go Gentle’ but another drunken Mick beat me to that.

“So I reared back and gave them Richard the Second, which I’d had to learn in college. Great stuff:

“‘Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king;

The breath of worldly men cannot depose

The deputy elected by the Lord’

“As I remember,” I said, “the contingent of nuns who taught Mark and me in school was seated down front. When I reached the lines:

”’ … if angels fight,

Weak men must fall … ‘

“They looked very pleased about the angels fighting. Booze and bravura is all it was,” I said.

Partly that was true. I’d always loved the speech, maybe because King Richard and I share a name. But also it seemed so right for Mark. In the play, a king about to lose his life and all he owns on Earth invokes royal myth as his last hope.

“When I was dating Carol I heard the legends,” Des told me. “She and her sister talked about how the family had gotten him into some country club school in New Jersey. He was expelled in his third week for turning the whole place on and staging an orgy that got the college president fired.

“They said how he’d disappear for weeks and Carol swore that once when he came stumbling home, he’d mumbled to her months before it happened that King and Bobby Kennedy were going to be shot.

“Finally, I was at the Bannons with Carol when the prodigal returned and it was a disappointment. He seemed mildly retarded, a burnout at age twenty-five. I didn’t even think he was aware I existed.

“I was wrong about that. Mark didn’t have a license or a car anymore. The second or third day he was back, Carol was busy. I was sitting on the sun porch, reading. He came out, smiled this sudden, magnetic smile just like his old man’s and asked if that was my Ford two-door at the end of the driveway.

“Without his even asking I found myself giving him a lift. A few days later I woke up at a commune in the Green Mountains in New Hampshire with no clear idea of how I’d gotten there. Mark was gone and all the communards could tell me was, ‘He enters and leaves as he wishes.’

“When I got back to Boston, Carol was pissed. We made up but in a lot of ways it was never the same. Not even a year or two later when Mike Bannon ran for governor and I worked my ass off on the campaign.

“Mark was back home all the time then, drinking, taking drugs, distracting the family, especially his father, at a critical time. His eyes were empty and no matter how long everyone waited, they stayed that way. After the election he died, maybe as a suicide. But over the years I’ve come to think that didn’t end the story.”

It crossed my mind that Eliot knew too much. I said, “You saw them lower him into the ground.”

“It’s Carol who’s looking this time, isn’t it?” he asked. “She’s almost there as a national candidate. Just a little too straight and narrow. Something extra needs to go in the mix. Please tell me that’s going to happen.”

A guy in his fifties looking for a miracle is a sad sight. One also sporting a college kid’s crush is sadder still.

“Just to humor you, I’ll say you’re right,” I told him. “What would you tell me my next step should be?”

The smile came off his face. “I have no leads,” he said. “No source who would talk to me knows anything.”

“But some wouldn’t talk to you,” I said.

“The only one who matters won’t. She refuses to acknowledge my existence. It’s time you went to see Ruth Vega.”

7.

I was present on the night the angel really flew. It was in the summer of ‘59 when they bulldozed the big overgrown lot where the Fitzgerald mansion had once stood. Honey Fitz’s place had burned down just twenty years before. But to kids my age, “Fitzie’s” was legendary ground, a piece of untamed wilderness that had existed since time out of mind.

I was finishing my sophomore year in high school when they cleared the land. The big old trees that must have stood on the front lawn, the overgrown apple orchard in the back was chopped down and their stumps dug up.

The scraggly new trees, the bushes where we hid smeared in war paint on endless summer afternoons waiting for hapless smaller kids to pass by and get massacred, the half flight of stone stairs that ended in midair, the marble floor with moss growing through the cracks, all disappeared.

In their place a half-dozen cellars were dug and houses were built. We lost the wild playground but we’d already outgrown it. For that one summer we had half-finished houses to hide out in.

Marky and I got sent to different high schools outside the neighborhood and had drifted apart. Neither of us did well academically and we both ended up in the same summer school. So we did hang out one more time. Nights especially we sat with a few guys our age on unfinished wood floors with stolen beer and cigarettes and talked very large about what we’d seen and done out in the wide world.

That’s what four of us were up to in a raw wood living room by the light of the moon and distant street lamps. Suddenly a flashlight shone in our faces and someone yelled, “Hands over your heads. Up against the wall.” For a moment, I thought it was the cops and knew they’d back off once they found out Marky was among us. In fact it was much worse: the Cullen brothers and a couple of their friends were there. In the dim light I saw a switchblade.

We were foul-mouthed little twerps with delusions of delinquency. These were the real thing: psycho boys raised by psycho parents. A kid named Johnny Kilty was the one of us nearest the door. Teddythe younger, bigger, more rabid Cullen brotherpulled Johnny’s T-shirt over his head, punched him twice in the stomach, and emptied his pockets.

Larry, the older, smarter, scarier Cullen, had the knife and was staring right at Marky. “Hey, look who we got!” he said in his toneless voice. “Hands on your head, faggot. This will be fucking hilarious.” Time paused as Mark Bannon stared back slack-jawed. Then his eyes lit up and he smiled like he saw something amazing.

As that happened, my shirt got pulled over my head. My watch was taken off my wrist. Then I heard Larry Cullen say without inflection, “This is no good. Give them their stuff back. We’re leaving.”

The ones who held me let go; I pulled my T-shirt back on.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Teddy asked.

“I gotta hurt you before you hear me?” Larry asked in dead tones. “Move before I kick your ass.”

They were gone as suddenly as they appeared, though I could hear Teddy protesting as they went through the construction site and down the street. “Have you gone bird shit, stupid?” he asked. I didn’t hear Larry’s reply.

We gathered our possessions. The other guys suddenly wanted very badly to be home with their parents. Only I understood that Mark had saved us. When I looked, he was staring vacantly. He followed us out of the house and onto the sidewalk.

“I need to go home,” he whispered to me like a little kid who’s lost. “My angel’s gone,” he said.

It was short of midnight, though well past my curfew when I walked Marky home. Outside of noise and light from the bars in Codman Square, the streets were quiet and traffic was sparse. I tried to talk but Marky shook his head. His shoes seemed to drag on the pavement. He was a lot bigger than me but I was leading him.

Lights were on at his place when we got there and cars were parked in the driveway. “I need to go in the window,” he mumbled, and we went around back. He slipped as he started to climb the tree and it seemed like a bad idea. But up he went and I was right behind him.

When the bough broke with a crack, he fell, smashing through other branches, and I scrambled back down the trunk. The lights came on but I got away before his family and the governor of the Commonwealth came out to find him on the ground laughing hysterically.

The next day, I was in big trouble at home. But I managed to go visit Mark. On the way, I passed Larry Cullen walking away from the Bannons’ house. He crossed the street to avoid me.

Mark was in bed with a broken wrist and a bandage on his leg. The light was on in his eyes and he wore the same wild smile he’d had when he saw Larry Cullen. We both knew what had happened but neither had words to describe it. After that Mark and I tended to avoid each other.

Then my family moved away from the neighborhood and I forgot about the Bannons pretty much on purpose. So it was a surprise years later when I came home for Christmas that my mother said Mark Bannon wanted to speak to me.

“His mother called and asked about you,” she said. “You know I’ve heard that Mark is in an awful way. They say Mike Bannon’s taken that harder than losing the governorship.

My father looked up from the paper and said, “Something took it out of Bannon. He sleepwalked through the campaign. And when it started he was the favorite.”

Curiosity, if nothing else, led me to visit Mark. My parents now lived in the suburbs and I lived in New York. But the Bannons were still on Melville Avenue.

Mrs. Bannon was so sad when she smiled and greeted me that I would have done anything she asked.

When I saw Mark, one of the things he said was, “My angel’s gone and he’s not coming back.” I thought of the lost, scared kid I’d led home from Fitzie’s that night. I realized I was the only one, except maybe his mother, who he could tell any of this to.

I visited him a few times when I’d be up seeing my family. Mostly he was stoned on pills and booze and without the angel he seemed lobotomized. Sometimes we just watched television like we had as kids.

He told me about being dragged through strange and scary places in the world. “I guess he wasn’t an angel. Or not a good one.” Doctors had him on tranquilizers. Sometimes he slurred so badly I couldn’t understand him.

Mike Bannon, out of office, was on committees and commissions and was a partner in a law firm. But he was home in his study a lot and the house was very quiet. Once as I was leaving, he called me in, asked me to sit down, offered me a drink.

He wondered how his son was doing. I said he seemed okay. We both knew this wasn’t so. Bannon’s face appeared loose, sagging.

He looked at me and his eyes flashed for a moment. “Most of us God gives certain … skills. They’re so much a part of us we use them by instinct. We make the right move at the right moment and it’s so smooth it’s like someone else doing it.

“Marky had troubles but he also had moments like that. Someone told me the other day you and he saved a life down on the river when you were boys because he acted so fast. He’s lost it now, that instinct. It’s gone out like a light.” It seemed he was trying to explain something to himself and I didn’t know how to help him.

Mark died of an overdose, maybe an intentional one, and they asked me to speak at the memorial service. A few years later, Big Mike Bannon died. Someone in tribute said, “A superb political animal. Watching him in his prime rounding up a majority in the lower chamber was like seeing a cheetah run, an eagle soar … “ ” … a rattlesnake strike,” my father added.

8.

A couple of days after my meeting with Des Eliot, I flew to Quebec. A minor border security kerfuffle between the U.S. and Canada produced delays at both Newark International and Jean Lesage International.

It gave me a chance to think about the first time I’d gone on one of these quests. Shortly after her husband’s death Mrs. Bannon had asked me to find Mark’s angel.

A few things he’d told me when I’d visited, a hint or two his mother had picked up, allowed me to track one Frank Parnelli to the third floor of a walk-up in Washington Heights.

I knocked on the door, the eyehole opened and a woman inside asked, “Who is it?”

“I’m looking for Ruth Vega.”

“She’s not here.”

“I’m looking for Mark Bannon.”

“Who?”

“Or for Frank Parnelli.”

The eyehole opened again. I heard whispers inside. “This will be the man we had known would come,” someone said, and the door opened.

Inside were statues and pictures and books everywhere: a black and white photo of Leon Trotsky, a woman’s bowling trophy, and what looked like a complete set of Anna Freud’s The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child.

A tiny old woman with bright red hair and a hint of amusement in her expression stood in the middle of the room looking at me. “McCluskey, where have you been?”

“That’s not McCluskey, Mother,” said a much larger middle-aged woman in a tired voice.

“McCluskey from the Central Workers Council! Where’s your cigar?” Suddenly she looked wise. “You’re not smoking because of my big sister Sally, here. She hates them. I like a man who smokes a cigar. You were the one told me Woodrow Wilson was going to be president when I was a little kid. When it happened I thought you could foretell the future. Like I do.”

“Why don’t you sit down,” the other woman said to me. “My niece is the one you’re looking for. My mother’s a little confused about past and present. Among other things.”

“So McCluskey,” said the old woman, “who’s it going to be next election? Roosevelt again, that old fascist?” I wondered whether she meant Teddy or FDR.

“I know who the Republicans are putting up,” she said. It was 1975 and Gerald Ford was still drawing laughs by falling down stairs. I tried to look interested.

“That actor,” she said. “Don Ameche. He’ll beat the pants off President Carter.” At that moment I’d never heard of Carter. “No not Ameche, the other one.”

“Reagan?” I asked. I knew about him. Some years before he’d become governor of California, much to everyone’s amusement.

“Yes, that’s the one. See. Just the same way you told me about Wilson, you’ve told me about Reagan getting elected president.”

“Would you like some tea while you wait?” asked the daughter, looking both bored and irritated.

We talked about a lot of things that afternoon. What I remembered some years later, of course, was the prediction about Reagan. With the Vega family there were always hints of the paranormal along with a healthy dose of doubletalk.

At that moment the door of the walk-up opened and a striking couple came in. He was a thug who had obviously done some boxing, with a nicely broken nose and a good suit. She was tall and in her late twenties with long legs in tight black pants, long red hair drawn back, a lot of cool distance in her green eyes.

At first glance the pair looked like a celebrity and her bodyguard. But the way Ruth Vega watched Frank Parnelli told me that somehow she was looking after him.

Parnelli stared at me. And a few years after I’d seen Marky Bannon’s body lowered into the ground, I caught a glimpse of him in a stranger’s eyes.

That was what I remembered when I was east of Quebec walking uphill from the Vibeau Island Ferry dock.

Des knew where Ruth was, though he’d never actually dared to approach her. I believed if she wanted to stop me from seeing her, she would already have done it.

At a guess, Vibeau Island looked like an old fishing village that had become a summer vacation spot at some point in the mid-twentieth century and was now an exurb. Up here it was chilly even in the early afternoon.

I saw the woman with red hair standing at the end of a fishing pier. From a distance I thought Ruth Vega was feeding the ducks. Then I saw what she threw blow out onto the Saint Lawrence and realized she was tearing up papers and tossing them into the wind. On first glance, I would have said she looked remarkably as she had thirty years before.

I waited until I was close to ask, “What’s wrong, Ms. Vega, your shredder broken?”

“McCluskey from the Central Workers Council,” she said, and when she did, I saw her grandmother’s face in hers. “I remember that first time we met, thinking that Mark’s mother had chosen her operative well. You found her son and were very discreet about it.”

We walked back to her house. It was a cottage with good sight lines in all directions and two large black schnauzers snarling in a pen.

“That first time was easy.” I replied. “He remembered his family and wanted to be found. The second time was a few years later and that was much harder.”

Ruth nodded. We sat in her living room. She had a little wine, I had some tea. The décor had a stark beauty, nothing unnecessary: a gun case, a computer, a Cy Twombly over the fireplace.

“The next time Mrs. Bannon sent me out to find her son, it was because she and he had lost touch. Frank Parnelli when I found him was a minor Village character. Mark no longer looked out from behind his eyes. He had no idea where you were. Your grandmother was a confused old woman wandering around her apartment in a nightgown.

“I had to go back to Mrs. Bannon and tell her I’d failed. It wasn’t until a couple of years later that Svetlanov turned up.”

“Mark and I were in love for a time,” Ruth said. “He suggested jokingly once or twice that he leave Parnelli and come to me. I didn’t want that and in truth he was afraid of someone he wouldn’t be able to control.

“Finally being around Parnelli grew thin and I stopped seeing them. Not long afterward Mark abandoned Parnelli and we both left New York for different destinations. A few years later, I was living in the Yucatan and he showed up again. This time with an old acquaintance of mine.

“When I lived with Grandmother as a kid,” Ruth said, “she was in her prime and all kinds of people were around. Political operatives, prophetesses, you name it. One was called Decker, this young guy with dark eyes and long dark hair like classical violinists wore. For a while he came around with some project on which he wanted my grandmother’s advice. I thought he was very sexy. I was ten.

“Then he wasn’t around the apartment. But I saw him: coming out of a bank, on the street walking past me with some woman. Once on a school trip to the United Nations Building, I saw him on the subway in a naval cadet’s uniform.

“I got home that evening and my grandmother said, ‘Have you seen that man Decker recently?’ When I said yes, she told me to go do my homework and made a single very short phone call. Decker stopped appearing in my life.

“Until one night in Mexico a knock came on my door and there he stood looking not a day older than when I’d seen him last. For a brief moment, there was a flicker in his eyes and I knew Mark was there but not in control.

“Decker could touch and twist another’s mind with his. My grandmother, though, had taught me the chant against intrusive thoughts. Uncle Dano had taught me how to draw, aim, and fire without even thinking about it.

“Killing is a stupid way to solve problems. But sometimes it’s the only one. After Decker died I played host to Mark for about an hour before I found someone else for him to ride. He was like a spark, pure instinct unfettered by a soul. That’s changed somewhat.”

When it was time for my ferry back to the city, Ruth rose and walked down to the dock with me.

“I saw his sister on TV the other night when they announced she would be appointed to the Senate. I take it she’s the one who’s looking for him?”

I nodded and she said, “Before too long idiot senators will be trying to lodge civil liberty complaints after martial law has been declared and the security squads are on their way to the capital to throw them in jail. Without Mark she’ll be one of them.”

Before I went up the gangplank, she hugged me and said, “You think you’re looking for him but he’s actually waiting for you.”

After a few days back in New York memories of Vibeau Island began to seem preposterous. Then I walked down my block late one night. It was crowded with tourists and college kids, barkers and bouncers. I saw people give the averted celebrity glance.

Then I spotted a black man with a round face and a shaven head. I did recognize him: an overnight hip-hop millionaire. He sat in the back of a stretch limo with the door open. Our eyes met. His widened then dulled and he sank back in his seat.

At that moment, I saw gray winter sky and felt the damp cold of the ice-covered Neponset. On old familiar ground, said a voice inside me and I knew Mark was back.

9.

Some hours later passengers found seats as our train pulled out of New Haven.

“Ruth said you were waiting for me,” I told Mark silently.

And Red Ruth is never wrong.

“She told me about Decker.”

I thought I had selected him. But he had selected me. Once inside him I was trapped. He was a spider. I couldn’t control him. Couldn’t escape. I led him to Ruth as I was told.

He showed me an image of Ruth pointing an automatic pistol, firing at close range.

I leaped to her as he died. She was more relentless than Decker in some ways. I had to promise to make my existence worthwhile. To make the world better.

“If angels fight, weak men must fall.”

Not exactly an angel. Ego? Id? Fragment? Parasite?

I thought of how his father had something like an angel himself.

His body, soul, and mind were a single entity. Mine weren’t.

I saw his memory of Mike Bannon smiling and waving in the curved front windows of his house at well-wishers on the snowy front lawn. Bannon senior never questioned his own skills or wondered what would have happened if they’d been trapped in a brain that was mildly damaged. Then he saw it happen to his son.

Once I understood that, he showed me the dark tower again with two tiny slits of light high above. I found hand-and footholds and crawled up the interior stone walls. This time I looked through the slits of light and saw they were the eyeholes of a mask. In front of me were Mike and Marie Bannon looking very young and startled by the sudden light in the eyes of their troublingly quiet little boy.

When the train approached Boston, the one inside me said, Let’s see the old neighborhood.

We took a taxi from Back Bay and drove out to Dorchester. We saw the school we’d gone to and the courthouse and place where I’d lived and the houses that stood where Fitzie’s had once been.

My first great escape.

That night so long ago came back. Larry Cullen, seen through the eyeholes of a mask, stood with his thin psycho smile. In a flash I saw Mark Bannon slack-jawed and felt Cullen’s cold fear as the angel took hold of his mind and looked out through his eyes.

Cullen’s life was all horror and hate. His father was a monster. It should have taught me something. Instead I felt like I’d broken out of jail. After each time away from my own body it was harder to go back.

Melville Avenue looked pretty much the way it always did. Mrs. Bannon still lived in the family house. We got out of the car and the one inside me said, When all this is over, it won’t be forgotten that you brought me back to my family.

In the days since then, as politics have become more dangerous, Carol Bannon has grown bolder and wilier. And I wonder what form the remembering will take.

Mrs. Bannon’s caregiver opened the door. We were expected. Carol stood at the top of the stairs very much in command. I thought of her father.

“My mother’s waiting to see you,” she said. I understood that I would spend a few minutes with Mrs. Bannon and then depart. Carol looked right into my eyes and kissed me. Her eyes flashed and she smiled.

In that instant the one inside my head departed. The wonderful sharpness went out of the morning and I felt a touch of the desolation that Mark Bannon and all the others must have felt when the angel deserted them.