He’d never seen anything like it. Lines of force flew across the map’s face, swirled around and ducked under each other, only to become tangled somewhere else. Stars shot across it. Several mortal shapes glowed with celestial energy. They collided at a single space, then flew apart, like miniature supernovas. One point pulsed a bright heavenly gold. Qaphsiel knew exactly what it was: the box. And it was moving. That meant he was right and the box was still in L.A. On the other hand, it meant that the Abaddon and Caleximus worshippers were also right. Qaphsiel bit his lip. He’d missed his chance so many times before, but this was different.

He wished there were some other angels nearby that he could show the map to. He missed them all, but Raphael most of all. Qaphsiel slept by the old tiger cages in the zoo because they reminded him of his friend. Raphael had invented tigers. Gabriel had just come up with zebras and everyone in Heaven was on a stripes kick.

He looked at the sky and wondered what they were doing in Heaven right then. He’d be back soon. He’d never been surer in four thousand years.

Just follow the box, blow this dump, and head back home. Simple as that.

Qaphsiel looked back at the map and watched the golden pinpoint move, marveling at its beauty.

And then it went out. One minute it was there, shiny like a beacon home, and then it was gone again to only God knew where, and that guy had never been any help at all in the first place.

Dismally, Qaphsiel folded the map the way he had thousands of times before and stuffed it back inside the sleeping bag. The good news was that there were still lines of force around Hollywood. He’d just go back to his original plan and follow them until they led somewhere. Everything was going to be fine, he told himself. Just fine. He lay back down.

“Fuuuuuuuuck!” he yelled at the stars.

But eventually he got back to sleep.

EIGHTEEN

WOOLRICH’S OFFICE WAS UPSTAIRS IN THE MANAGEMENT wing in the headquarters of the Department of Peculiar Science. While the rest of the building was outfitted in the typical cubicle hell of any business office, the upper floors looked more like an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club. The walls were papered in warm colors, and expensive carpets covered the floors. At each turn of the hall was an antique chair and table that no one ever used, but it gave the place a bit of extra, if existential, class. It was also very quiet upstairs. While the rest of the building was a constant clamor, the management floor was a quiet haven, a bureaucratic chapel of silence. That’s how they liked to think of it, Nelson knew. But he didn’t buy it.