Episode 028

Mercy confronts Jequon about who he really is.

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Mercy watched Jequon-or was it ‘Patrick?'-make his way outside to the front of boat where he stood with his back to them, staring off into the night.

Can't take the heat, get out of the galley.

It required tremendous restraint on her part not to say this aloud. She felt embarrassed for him. Here were two kind-hearted people who'd saved her life, invited them into their home, and showered them with hospitality as if they were honored guests instead of the total strangers they were (strangers who, by all accounts, were caught up in something shady)...and he didn't even have the common decency to socialize? to fill in a few blanks that might provide this saintly couple with some peace of mind to justify their bravery? He ought to be ashamed.

"I'm so sorry he's acting like this. You deserve better."

Karen reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. "You don't have to apologize for him sweetheart. I'm sure he's a little overwhelmed is all."

"Well I appreciate your understanding-and everything else you've done for us."

Frank stood and patted Mercy's shoulder on his way to the fridge. "You're more than welcome-and Karen's right-It's no skin off our back if Patrick needs some space. It can hit a man hard almost losing his girl. If something like that happened to Karen... Who knows how I'd react."

She bit down on the inside of her lower lip, remembering Jequon's fib about them being a couple; remembering how she'd played along. Why had he said that?

"Another beer?" Frank asked.

"Sure, thanks."

"Karen?"

"Uh…" she hesitated, peering out the curved front glass of the cabin at Jequon, Mercy supposed, before Frank's question finally registered and she turned and said, "I'd love one darling."

Frank unscrewed the caps from the bottles and sat back down at the table with their refills. "Something the matter, sweetie?" Frank asked.

"No, no-I'm just a little…curious… Mercy, when you were waiting for Patrick to finish your story, you said something to him about ‘classified' information…that he was ‘special' but not like a special agent, or something to that effect?"

Mercy knocked back half of her fresh Coors, answered, "Mm-hmm."

She still felt horrible about lying to the police, even on Cindy's behalf. Now, the way Karen had lowered her voice and begun to look perplexed, Mercy knew she'd have to admit to another lie, for reasons less justifiable, to the very people she'd lied (actually it was Jequon's lie, and she'd only gone along with, but it was inexcusable either way).

Frank covered his mouth and belched softly. "Excuse me," he said, then acknowledged Karen's implication: "Yeah, that threw me, too. I don't understand what business of Patrick's was so important at the Del that it couldn't wait…I mean, he had to know how distraught you were over your missing friend, right? And he told you what? that it was classified and he couldn't tell you about it? Huh…"

Mercy halved the beer remaining in her bottle. "Yeah, well…if it sounds like something doesn't add up, that's because he-we-haven't been completely honest with you. First off, until I heard his message on my voicemail, I'd never even heard of ‘Patrick,' let alone dated him. Second-"

Mercy stopped short when she noticed Frank's blush, and Karen frowning in the semi-embarrassed way women usually reserve for pelvic exams with a cute male doctor.

"I'm so, so sorry for lying to you. Please don't be mad at me. I just didn't know what to say when he-"

"-It's not that Mercy," Frank interrupted. "We're not mad, honest. It's just, well…"

"Patrick helped me dress you," Karen said, pausing to let it sink in. "And he helped me undress you, too. He said you were a couple."

"I see."

"Don't worry hon', I looked the other way," Frank added, noticeably relieved after he'd made his discretion clear for the record.

"Thanks for being a gentleman."

How did she feel about Jequon seeing her bare-ass naked? Nervous? Anxious?

She imagined him taking in her breasts, her butt, her carefully and—thank you Lord—recently trimmed love triangle…pictured him rushing to get her into warm, dry clothes, scrambling to save her life… And of all the urges she could have been experiencing at that moment-violation, outrage, embarrassment-Mercy felt curious: She wanted to ask Karen if Jequon had seemed to like what he'd seen of her (not that she'd actually let herself voice such a question; not in polite company).

Fortunately, she thought, Jequon's proven himself anything but polite…

 "Karen, if it's all the same to you, I'm going to pretend you didn't tell me that."

"Sorry, dear. I'm just concerned for you, that's all… Anyway, you were saying, before I interrupted you?"

"Oh—just that his name isn't ‘Patrick.' We met at a café in PB. After he'd convinced me he could help find Cindy, and that her disappearance was related to an organization he was trying to infiltrate, he told me to call him ‘Jequon,' just as we were leaving for Coronado. ‘Patrick Daly' was the fake identity he'd been using for his…his undercover operation, I guess-I mean, I don't really know who he is."

Frank stood up again, went to stand behind Karen, and massaged her neck and shoulders. "The question is, Mercy, do you trust him?"

"Good question. Maybe I shouldn't. I mean, before I met him, I'd never worn a disguise, I'd never driven an escape vehicle, and I'd never been shot at…never jacked a motorcycle, or jumped off a perfectly good bridge, or gotten hypothermia and almost drowned, either."

She left out never having kissed a man she barely knew. And she also left out some things she'd seen him do which defied explanation-things Mercy was afraid to admit she'd witnessed, even to herself, for fear she'd been hallucinating.

She continued, "And his allergic reaction to religion bothers me, too, which is ironic, because right before he called and offered to help me find Cindy, I was actually starting to question my faith.

"Back in '03 I lost my home in the Cedar fire. Not long after, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor on my parietal lobe that almost killed me. The doctors think they got all of it, but I'm only now finishing up the final round of chemo; I'll still have to get an MRI every year or two to be sure, but the point is, I survived…only to have Cindy taken from me-by a preacher for heaven's sake! And I'm like: ‘God, why are you letting this happen? Why bother granting me the strength and the patience to help Cindy get off the street? Why help me beat cancer just so I can live to see her taken?'

"When I saw on the news that she'd filed a restraining order against me-knowing full well that it was coerced, that she was still in danger, and that the police would stop looking for her-I think I came close to denouncing God.

"But then Jequon offered to help me, and when I saw him…the muscles, that swagger, those eyes…and when he promised me he'd help me find her, with such conviction-his voice like confidence personified—I felt like God had sent me a guardian angel. Like: ‘how could I have ever doubted Him?'

"So to answer your question, Frank, I want to trust him. You think I'm making a mistake?"

Karen shook her head.

"Ordinarily, someone lies to me, and that's it. I'm done with them. But the way he looks at you Mercy...it's hard to explain. I don't know how to describe it, except to say, it's how Frank looks at me, when I wake up and he's watching me sleep, and he doesn't care and just keeps looking at me, like a silent lullaby, until I smile and drift back off."

"And it seems to me," Frank added, "if he wasn't intending on keeping his promise to you, then he would've left you behind on the bridge. Practically speaking, he'd have a lot easier time getting away from those men without you in tow… There is one thing, though, you might want to ask him about."

"What's that?" Mercy asked.

Frank looked down at his feet, concentrating, choosing his words. "You realize we didn't just happen upon you two by accident, right?"

Mercy nodded. "I wasn't sure, but it makes sense. It would be difficult to see anyone swimming-uh, drowning that is-in the bay at night."

"Exactly," Frank went on. "We'd been visiting some friends at the Tidelands Park mooring balls, adjacent the Coronado end of the bay bridge. We were just untying from their boat, getting ready to depart, when we heard a commotion up on the bridge: a speeding motorcycle, squealing brakes, honking horns, and then, gunfire of all things. Next thing we know, two crazy people are swinging off the highpoint of the bridge by a cable that's way too short—and wonder of wonders—they survive the fall and start swimming. Since we were heading roughly that direction anyway, we thought we'd better see if you two needed rescuing."

Karen interrupted him. "Get to the point, Frank."

"Sorry, guess you already know all that… Anyway, my point is—and I'm not sure when you lost consciousness during all this—but I've never in my life—not even Michael Phelps at the Beijing Olympics—seen anyone move through the water that fast, or stay under the surface for so great a distance. It just didn't seem human. So, you might want to ask Jequon where he learned to swim like that."

"Huh. I must have been unconscious by then," Mercy fibbed.

In truth, she was somewhat relieved that Frank's observation confirmed her own, which meant she needn't worry that she'd been hallucinating, one of the first symptoms she'd experienced from grape-sized tumor she had removed. But her relief was dampened somewhat by the implication of Frank's corroboration: if Jequon really had been swimming as fast as a wave-runner, then maybe that steel spool he'd so casually tipped off the truck had been just as impossibly heavy as she'd thought it must be at the time… And when the angry trucker shattered a wooden bat across his temple and he'd acted like it was nothing more than a mosquito bite—that was also real.

Frank gave Karen's shoulders a final squeeze. "I should get us back to anchor. It's getting late and I'm sure you two could use some sleep after all you've been through. By the way, you're staying the night, and I don't want to hear a word of argument on the matter. I'll make a big breakfast for everyone in the morning. Send you off with a full stomach."

"You saw the extra bed in the guest cabin?" Karen added, equal parts question and reassuring reminder.

"Yes, and I hope you're not tired of hearing it, but thank you, thank you, thank you. After I find Cindy, I hope I can return the favor-maybe take you out to dinner someplace nice?"

"We'd love that! And it goes without saying, you ever want to come sailing with us-"

"-You know I'll take you up on it."

"And if there's anything we can do to help you find Cindy, we're a call away."

"Thanks so much… Well, I'd better go see what's up with Long Jequon Silver. Let him know we're staying the night. And please don't fuss after us anymore. We can show ourselves to bed. See you in the morning."

"Good night, Mercy."

"Good night," she said, and gave them both a hug before going outside to find Jequon.

#

On a map, the bay is shaped like a fat-handled scythe in profile, blade on the left. We've sailed little more than a mile northwest up the ‘shaft' since Karen offered tea, sticking to the center of the channel, which places us roughly at the intersection of ‘sharpened steel' and ‘sturdy wood' if I'm to continue with the instrument of Death analogy (and I see no reason not to, having cheated that hooded bastard three times in as many hours).

I'm not sure if Frank intends to round the corner past the North Island Naval Air Station on our left, and head out into open ocean, or if he'll maintain course and pilot the craft toward a rented slip at one of the many marinas on Shelter Island. I would assume the latter. Not many people enjoy sailing at night, an activity usually reserved for multi-day excursions, or trying to stay ahead of foul weather. Either way, I have time to breathe deep of the fog-laden breeze as I consider my options.

I'm in no hurry to get wet again. But at this point, maybe that's my best bet? Cut bait and go fish somewhere else.

‘I give you my word, Mercy...'

Do you?

Dear old damned Dad chiming in again; a real angel on my shoulder.

Or is that just your bruised ego talking, Jequon? dressing the wound of recent loss with a salve of ‘honor' you're not sure you have anymore? And what of your other promises?

‘By the honor of our fathers in darkness, I swear, I will not rest until I avenge our loss.'

That's the one.

So, Dad, blood being thicker than water, where does that leave me?

Leave ‘us.'

She knows I'm hiding something, but is coming clean really an option? I killed Uri (at least in part) for knowing more about my people than a human should. Then again, who's to say Mercy won't relieve me of the obligation after today's craziness? If she does, I'll lose her connection to Whitmore, but that's not as useful to me as it was before, now that she's been seen with me. Without my protection, the SOJ will kill her of course.

But why should you care? She's not a Naphil.

Dad playing devil's advocate.

Because: they won't just kill her, they'll torture her first, trying to get intel on me.

But she doesn't know anything about you…

Yet.

Again: why not bite her and be done with it?

I'm not sure.

Not sure? Or don't want to admit it?

Admit what?

Please. I raised you better than that.

Mercy appears at my side, sparing me from further schizophrenic lecturing.

"They invited us to stay the night. I accepted. Hope you're OK with that."

"That's fine," I say. "The less time we spend looking for a hotel, the more sleep we'll get. We're as safe here as anywhere for the time being."

"We need to talk," she says, letting me know her earlier hint wasn't merely a request. "But not out here. It's too cold." She's added a hooded windbreaker to the three layers of sweats and sweaters but it's still not enough to keep her from shivering against me as she faces into the wind.

I don't say anything. Nod my head and bite my lip; subtle movements, a minnow jostling a bobber.

"Well, when you're ready, I'll be in the guest bed. Don't make me wait up too long."

"I won't."

She gives me a half-hearted squeeze around the waist and heads back inside. Frank bids her goodnight as she passes below him. By now it's clear we'll be docking somewhere in the vicinity of Shelter Island; Frank confirms it as I follow after Mercy.

"Sleep well, Jequon. We'll be to anchor in no more than ten minutes."

"Thanks, Frank. Goodnight."

I don't like the fact he's using my real name. It means Mercy contradicted my explanation for going by ‘Patrick' after I went outside. What else did they question about me?

Karen's still at the table as I enter the cabin, but now she's reading a paperback by candlelight: PERSUADER by Lee Child.

"How do want your eggs for breakfast, Jequon? Frank's cooking in the morning."

"Hardboiled."

She grins, sort of. "Sleep tight."

"Thanks. You too."

My whole world is three things: Don't leave. Don't bite. Give answers?

 

CHAPTER 28

 

I make a left and descend the two steps into the guest quarters in the portside hull. The lights are off but my night vision's as good as any housecat's, and I remember the layout from Frank's tour regardless. I creep quietly past the large queen bed toward the twin sized mattress tucked into the forward berth. Mercy's not snoring as I pass by, but I she has her eyes closed. Maybe I'll luck out and she'll have succumbed to exhaustion.

"Where are you going? We need to talk. Now."

Oh well.

"Alright. Let's talk."

I sit down on the edge of the bed. Search her face for some indication of her emotional state. She's all the way over against the wall, gazing out a porthole up at the night sky, a total blank.

She hands me a pillow. "Please, lie down."

I take it and lay it on top of the bedspread at her feet. Cross my hands behind my head and get comfortable. I don't want to be presumptive.

She huffs a little, like a young girl hearing ‘no' when she asks for a pony ride at the fair. "Well at least get under the covers. I need all the warmth I can get."

I pull the blanket free from the underneath of the mattress at the foot of the bed and climb in fully clothed. She still has a layer on herself. One bed, one beautiful woman, one Naphil—and nobody's naked. What has my life become?

"So what's on your mind?" I ask.

She turns her attention from the porthole to the upholstered ceiling. "It's funny. I get paid to talk to people all day, and I'm really good at it, but I never realized until now just how hard it is to initiate the conversation—to go to someone, and put your trust in them, and hope they're going to be able to make sense of everything."

"I could pretend to be one of your clients if it makes this easier."

"No. That's not really the problem anyway. The problem is…well, several things. First off, you're not a special agent which means you lied to me. Not a deal breaker in and of itself, because everyone lies pretty much all the time. It's all a matter of degree."

I get the feeling it's not my turn yet and stay quiet.

"In my experience, there are two kinds of liars. Most people, when they lie about who they are, exaggerate. They inflate their credentials to appear special or to pull off some kind of con. When you find out who they really are behind all their bullshit, you're usually disappointed that you bought into the stories of a such a lowlife."

"You think I'm a lowlife? That I'm conning you?"

"No. I don't. Which scares me a little. Scares me a lot, actually."

"Why do I scare you?"

"Because you're the other kind of liar. That rare breed who lies to blend in and to to downplay. You lie because you're hiding something. What scares me is: what kind of crazy shit are you hiding that makes ‘secret agent' seem bland by comparison?"

"You think I'm hiding something?"

She says, "I don't ‘think,' I know."

"I don't think you know either." I say.

"Are you trying to provoke me? Because if you are, we can just end this conversation now, and I'll have Frank call a cab, and I'll go home, and you can go to hell."

"Calm down. What happened to your sense of humor?"

"It either died of fright, froze to death, or drowned. Take your pick."

"Point taken… So, what do you think I'm hiding?"

"Nice try, but I'm done giving you outs," she says.

"I wish you would just trust me on this. Some things…look, there's no going back."

"I can either trust your opinion that I can't handle your ‘deep, dark secret'—and really, Jequon, you think I haven't heard it all before in fifteen years of psychotherapy?—or you can come clean and I can trust you—but not both."

"No disrespect, but I promise you, you haven't heard anything in counseling that even remotely approaches the truth about me."

"Try me."

"Let me rephrase that: you haven't heard anything like it from a sane person—and there's the rub—because of your training, the first thing you're going to assume after hearing my story is that I'm delusional."

"How a-boot you don't think for me, eh?"

"Deal. But if I'm going to share this with you, you have to promise one thing."

"Name it."

"You have to promise me that you will never, ever, under any circumstances—including but not limited to: imprisonment, prolonged torture, or threat of death—tell anyone what I reveal. Can you make that kind of promise?"

She props herself up on her elbows and smirks me in the eye, "Cue the quivering violins. Geez."

"Mercy, I'm as fucking serious as cancer here: can you promise me or not?"

She looks away, a little wounded by my tone perhaps. "Yeah. I think so."

"You have to be sure. Because if this got out… Tell me: on Cindy's life, you'll tell no one what I share with you?"

"I swear."

"On her life?"

"Yes."

"Say it. Say, ‘I swear on Cindy's life I'll tell no one.'"

She grunt-growls under her breath, as if she just dropped a hymnal on her toe. "I swear on her life I won't tell anyone."

"I'll hold you to it."

"For the love of God, Jequon! Will you freakin' spit it out already?"

"Not for the love of God—that's for damn sure—but for the love of my father, yes. And before you get all apologetic on me, let me assure you, that wasn't a jab at your faith, it was a jab at Him," I say, pointing upward with my middle finger to clarify the antecedent of my pronoun.

"I'm listening."

Suddenly it feels about a thousand degrees inside these coveralls; the bedspread smothering me like a giant pancake fresh off the skillet.

Starting in familiar territory seems like the best way to approach this. "You read the Bible much, Mercy?"

"Not as much as I probably should. I go through spurts. I've probably read it cover-to-cover once or twice in my lifetime, though as I get older, I tend to just dip in at random when I need a little inspiration—mostly from the New Testamentl."

"This is an Old Testamentl story. One few believers are aware of. You ever heard of the ‘Nephilim?'"

"Hmm. Can't say I'm familiar with the term."

"I'm not surprised. The Nephilim are mentioned by name only once in the entire Church sanctioned version of the Christian Bible. Twice, maybe three times in total, if you count a couple oblique references. See if this rings a bell:

"The Nephilim were on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of men, and they bore children to them. Those were the mighty men who were of old, men of renown.

"That's from Genesis, Chapter 6, Verses 1 through 4."

"Sounds like a lot of the things in the Bible: relics of a different culture and an earlier time. Metaphor. An attempt to make a point about something the author didn't fully comprehend the way we're able to today, what with science and more sophisticated tools.

"I just lump stuff like that in the Old Testamentl together with polygamy, eating restrictions, and animal sacrifice. Maybe that's why I stick mainly to the New Testamentl. That's the important part, for Christians anyway."

 Spoken like a true Christian.

"That's not an uncommon way of looking at it among modern Christians. But for the sake of argument, I want you to consider that the Bible—in particular the Old Testamentl—isn't as ‘metaphorical' as most present-day believers assume. Can you do that?"

"Jequon, don't patronize me. OK? I'm more than capable of following a hypothetical line of reasoning."

"Look, I didn't mean to imply otherwise… Anyway, assume the Bible isn't so metaphorical, that it's actually a literal account of what its authors encountered or were instructed by God to record. And also assume that certain religious texts that could have ended up in the official Canon didn't, because leaders of the early Church voted them down for one reason or the other: maybe they questioned a particular volume's authenticity, or maybe the work didn't jive with the prevalent doctrine and dogma of their day…Or maybe, certain so-called ‘apocryphal' works challenged the authority of the Church, or contained ideas and accounts which Church leaders felt were too frightening to share with their flock."

"The Book of Revelationcontains some pretty intense imagery. They didn't suppress that."

"True, but the Apocalypse of John describes terrible things that might happen in the future—nothing believers needed to fear in their present life; it's a trait common to many of the carrots and sticks the Church uses to…" (manipulate) "...persuade people: the promise of heaven, the threat of hell... But I'm getting sidetracked. Back to the Nephilim.

"Other holy texts, which for whatever reason didn't make it into the Canon, provide a much more detailed account."

"Refresh my memory: the Nephilim are…what exactly?"

"You mean who: The phrase, ‘sons of God,' from the verse I recited to you in Genesis, refers to angels. The Nephilim—the ‘mighty men who were of old, men of renown'—are their sons. By the way: you might recall this verse immediately precedes the account of Noah and the Great Flood. That's not by accident, though I'm getting a little ahead of myself… A more complete account of the Nephilim, and their angelic fathers, the Watchers, exists in the Book of Enoch."

"The Book of Enoch...where have I heard that before?"

"Probably the Discovery Channel if you have cable. Several copies were found among the Dead Sea Scrolls."

"Yep. That's it exactly. It was around the same time THE DA VINCI CODE became so popular. For awhile, everything thing on the educational channels featured a mysterious scroll or a secretive cult. I gobbled it up like everyone else. I love that stuff—though I'd take Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones over Tom Hanks any day—or Matt Damon; he  could have pulled off a symbologist—and he's a lot easier on the eyes," she says, now breaking into song, "‘you and me baby, we ain't nothin' but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.'"

"You done?"

"Yes. Sorry. You were telling me about the account of the Nephilim in the Book of Enoch. Go on."

I clear my throat. "As I was—" 

"—I'm sorry. Can I say just one more thing? and then I'll shut up."

"Why not."

"You're easy on the eyes, too."

"Thanks, Mercy. So are you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really. You're a very beautiful woman."

"Thank you. Sorry about that. Please, continue."

"In the Book of Enoch, the…What? What is it?"

"I'm sooo sorry. I know I promised to let you finish and that I'm acting like a crazy person, but I can't help but ask: what did you think of my rose?"

"Your rose? I'm not sure I follow?"

"Karen told me you saw me naked."

"She did… "

"So? Did you find the petals beautiful too?"

"Mercy, in all honesty—and even though the situation was as far from arousing as it could possibly be—I couldn't help but notice what an attractive woman you are. All of you. Now, can I finish what I was saying?"

"I'm sorry. Please, yes. I promise to be good now."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Positive?"

"Yes. You were about to tell me the story of the Watchers and their half-human, half-angel offspring, the Nephilim, as portrayed in the Book of Enoch—and then, if I'm not mistaken—you were going to calmly explain to me how, you, Jequon—he of no last name—are in fact, a Naphil."

"How did you?—I mean… Are you mocking me?"

"I'm absolutely not mocking you. I just don't need to sit through a day-long workshop on alternative interpretations of the Bible to recognize a guardian angel when I see one—well, half of one anyway—but I'm not complainin'—and right when I was beginning to question my faith, too. Talk about perfect timing.

"Before today, if you told me you were straight-outta-Canaan, I'd label you a rather high-functioning case of Bi Polar Disorder, stuck in a manic phase and displaying signs of psychosis—get me the number for the psych ward.

"But after seeing you shrug off a baseball bat to the face like a mosquito bite; swim like you were born in Atlantis…well, accepting that Nephilim walk the Earth isn't too much of a stretch. People believe in all sorts of things: aliens, the Loch Ness monster…sasquatches, vampires."

vampires? Now I'm pissed.

"You know what? Get the hell off of me. You just don't fucking get it! I wish you were mocking me. Because this cutesy, matter-of-fact, blasé bullshit reaction is far more troublesome. You know what else it is? It's fucking indicative of everything that's wrong with modern Western civilization. You're acting like a Goddamned childless twenty-year-old who still loves going to theme parks, and gets their picture taken at the gate on the way out wearing those ridiculous looking ears. This isn't a fucking CSI re-run, Mercy—unless you're just like everyone else born after 1965: so adept at suspending disbelief, you forget what it is to call bullshit. I mean, your leaders get caught in lies to justify real wars that kill real people for no real reason, and everyone just shrugs it off like a genre convention of reality."

"You done with the sermon? For someone who doesn't like religion you'd make a good preacher."

"Good one. Congratulations! You've mastered the fine art of being a sarcastic bitch. You learn that reading volume four of the latest tough-girl-turned-vampire-slayer-discovers-she's-actually-half-lychanthrope-which-explains-her-dog-collar-fetish-and-canine-esque-ability-to-sense-the-undead-among-us mystery?

"Go ahead. Cry. It's good for you. Because you need to wake the fuck up and take this seriously. It's deadly serious. I've lost ___ of my people in the last forty-eight hours, and those are just the ones I know about. And those ‘secretive cults' you just ‘love' learning about? Well, the real deal is so secretive you won't see ex-members getting interviewed on CNN, if you know what I mean—and they have your friend Cindy. We're not role-playing here. I am a 10,177 year-old reminder your God makes mistakes, and you need to be suitably freaked out about that."

"Why are you yelling at me? I thought you'd be relieved I believe you."

 "Trust is more than making sure someone's story checks out. It's about being able to rely on someone when your life's at stake," I say, the implication unfortunately wasted on her at this pun-t.

"With all due respect, Jequon, you don't think I realize the—ahem—gravity of the situation?"

Despite me telling her to get the hell off me, her foot is still massaging my thigh.

"No. I don't think you do. You're still playing footsie with me for fuck's sake."

She pulls the phantom menace away. "Oh. I didn't even realize I was…"

"Exactly. You didn't even notice. Doesn't that seem a little odd to you?" But I don't want to get sidetracked on that topic just yet. "A little skepticism is healthy, you know? Someone flips that easy, kinda makes you question the strength of their convictions. You haven't even heard the whole story yet. Little early to be professing your belief, eh?"

"All I know is Cindy's in big trouble and the police won't help me and you offered. And in the short time I've known you, you've proven far more capable than any standard issue cop at handling, well, pretty much anything. Maybe I came off a little hard-assed earlier, calling you a liar, demanding you come clean, and all that. But if I'm honest? I just wanted any reason to trust you. Tell me anything—tell me you're a Terminator sent back in time to run for the Governor of California, for all I care. Just help me find Cindy.

"Whatever you need to tell me—no matter how outlandish, insane, or unsavory—if it doesn't interfere with you keeping your word and helping me find Cindy—I'm cool with it."

I want to trust what she's saying as badly as she wants to trust me. Which makes trusting each other dangerous.

"I know I've been acting a little…childish around you. And I'm sorry. I really am. I can't explain it. You make me…I don't know. I've never been around a man so…so magnetic."

"A prime example of something you need to understand before going forward."

"So help me understand. Can we start over?"

Everything but my gut knows better, and it knew what I'd do the second she kissed me.

"With some ground rules, yes."

"Anything."

"First off, it's getting late, and we're both exhausted, and there's no way I'm going to cover everything. But if you're satisfied I'm not crazy, then I'd prefer to skip the textbook version and just hit on the bullet points."

"Deal."

"Second, you're going to have questions, but please save them to the end."

"I can do that."

"OK. So before, when I was quoting from the Bible,  I was only trying to come at this from an angle you'd be familiar with, and come at it slowly. And while the account given in the Book of Enoch is roughly accurate, save for what the Church has suppressed or outright fabricated, there's scriptural support—apocryphal or otherwise—for most of what I'm going to tell you. But for the sake of brevity, you'll need to take my word for it for now."

"Sure."

"And I'm not going to make any effort from now at being fair and balanced. Because I'm not. I'm biased to the core. You OK with that?"

"Yes."

"Good. So, ten thousand plus years of Nephilim history, physiology, and culture, in a nutshell," I say, and dive in.