It was probably only coincidence, but as we passed an Episcopalian church, Temuel finally began to talk. I could see the lights inside, but since there was a janitorial service van parked in front, and I could hear the loud moan of a vacuum cleaner, I guessed the church was open for cleaning rather than for a late-night spiritual crisis.

“I’m glad to see you back, Bobby,” Temuel said. “I was worried about you.”

“Thanks. I was worried about me, too.”

“Were you able to deliver my message?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I told him the whole story of my time with Riprash—well, most of it: I hadn’t mentioned Walter Sanders yet, and I didn’t go into a lot of detail about my own itinerary before and after delivering Temuel’s message, but I’d been strangely touched by the Lifters and felt he deserved to hear about it. “Am I right in thinking you’ve traveled there yourself?” I asked.

“Yes, but I’m not free to talk about it.” That was unusual right there—a higher angel who didn’t give you the truth wrapped up in a lot of fortune-cookie vagueness. “Now, let me ask you a question, Bobby. The ideas these Lifters have—do you think Riprash will be able to spread the message?”

I had no idea whether the missionary work was a project of Temuel’s own conscience or whether it was part of a larger heavenly strategy, but I answered him as truthfully as I could. “The system is so weighted against him and his message that I can’t be real optimistic. But if anyone down there’s able to do something with it, Riprash is the guy. He’s strong as an ox, smarter than most of the other folk, and has a pretty good heart for someone condemned to an eternity in Hell.”

Temuel nodded, then looked down at his phone, which I realized he’d done several times. “Are you expecting a call?” I asked.

He gave a little laugh. “I’m just looking for cell phone signatures from Heaven-issued phones. I keep getting a ping from one pretty close by.”

I wasn’t used to this side of Temuel. It was like watching your sweet old grandpa turn into Q from the James Bond movies. And I’m guessing about that since I didn’t know my own grandfather any more than I knew Alexander the Great. “Do you think you’re being followed?” I asked him. “Watched?”

“I’m not worried about that so much as about bumping into one of your co-workers.”

I looked at him and tried not to laugh. “Um, but you look like some lady who runs a corner bodega. How are any of them going to recognize you?”

He gave me a slightly disappointed look, as though I’d failed a test. “It can’t hurt to be careful.”