Every Dead Thing

She looked up again. “Now that’s from Genesis, which derives from a similar source as Enoch. The ‘sons of God’ were the angels, who gave in to sexual lust against the will of God. The leader of the sinning angels, the devil, was cast into a dark hole in the desert and his accomplices were thrown into the fire for their punishment. Their offspring, ‘evil spirits upon the earth,’ went with them. The martyr Justin believed that the children of the union between angels and human women were responsible for all evil on the earth, including murder.

“In other words, lust was the sin of the devil. Lust for humanity, the ‘weakness of our kind.’ ” She closed the notebook and permitted herself a small smile of triumph.

“So this guy believes he’s a demon,” said Angel eventually.

“Or the offspring of an angel,” added Louis. “Depends on how you look at it.”

“Whatever he is, or thinks he is, the Book of Enoch is hardly likely to turn up on Oprah’s book choice,” I said. “Any idea what his source might have been?”

Rachel reopened the notebook. “The most recent reference I could find is a nineteen eighty-three New York edition: The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha: Enoch, edited by a guy called Isaac, appropriately enough,” she said. “There’s also an older translation from Oxford, published in nineteen thirteen by R. H. Charles.”

I noted the names. “Maybe Morphy or Woolrich can check with the University of New Orleans, see if anyone local has been expressing an interest in the obscure end of biblical studies. Woolrich might be able to extend the search to the other universities. It’s a start.”

We paid the bill and left. Angel and Louis headed off toward the lower Quarter to check out the gay night life while Rachel and I walked back to the Flaisance. We didn’t speak for a time, both of us conscious that we were on the verge of some intimacy.

“I get the feeling that I shouldn’t ask what those two currently do for a living,” said Rachel, as we paused at a crossing.

“Probably not. It’s best to view them as independent operators and leave it at that.”

She smiled. “They seem to have a certain loyalty to you. It’s unusual. I’m not sure that I understand it.”

“I’ve done things for them in the past, but if there ever was a debt, it was paid a long time ago. I owe them a lot.”

“But they’re still here. They still help when they’re asked.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely because of me. They do what they do because they like it. It appeals to their sense of adventure, of danger. In their own separate ways, they’re both dangerous men. I think that’s why they came: they sensed danger and they wanted to be part of it.”

“Maybe they see something of that in you.”

“I don’t know. Maybe they do.”

We walked through the courtyard of the Flaisance, stopping only to pat the dogs. Her room was three doors down from mine. Between our rooms were the room shared by Angel and Louis and one unoccupied single room. She opened the door and stood at the threshold. From inside, I could feel the coolness of the air-conditioning and could hear it pumping at full power.

“I’m still not sure why you’re here,” I said. My throat felt dry and part of me was not certain that it wanted to hear an answer.

“I’m still not sure either,” she said. She stood on her toes and kissed me gently, softly on the lips, and then she was gone.

I went to my room, took a book of Sir Walter Ralegh’s writings from my bag, and headed back out to the Napoleon House, where I took a seat by the portrait of the Little Corporal. I didn’t want to lie on my bed, conscious of the presence of Rachel Wolfe so near to me. I was excited and troubled by her kiss, and by the thought of what might follow.

Almost until the very end, Susan and I had enjoyed an incredible intimacy together. When my drinking truly began to take its toll on us, that intimacy had disintegrated. When we made love it was no longer totally giving. Instead, we seemed to circle each other warily in our lovemaking, always holding something back, always expecting trouble to rear its head and cause us to spring back into the security of our own selves.

But I had loved her. I had loved her until the end and I still loved her now. When the Traveling Man had taken her he had severed the physical and emotional ties between us, but I could still feel the remains of those ties, raw and pulsing at the very extremity of my senses.

Maybe this is common to all those who lose someone whom they have loved deeply. Making contact with another potential partner, another lover, becomes an act of reconstruction, a building not only of a relationship but also of oneself.

But I felt myself haunted by my wife and child. I felt them, not only as an emptiness or a loss, but as an actual presence in my life. I seemed to catch glimpses of them at the edges of my existence, as I drifted from consciousness to sleep, from sleep to waking. Sometimes, I tried to convince myself that they were simply phantoms of my guilt, creations born of some psychological imbalance.