The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 162: Talk, Text and Data

Chapter 162: Talk, Text, and Data

In the wee hours of the first day of April, Adam had texted to a bleary-eyed Crowley:

                "They're telling us in church that God killed the first Nephilim in a flood,"

With a groan, the demon shook the angel awake and said," You want to handle this one?"

                Aziraphale put on his readers and read the text, then handed the phone gingerly back. "You transcribe for me. I hate that thing."

                "He's asking if God's gonna hurt his friends, angel."

                "I know that. But that poppy-cock they teach in the Sunday schools. Do they cite the passages to the children?"

                "Sometimes," the demon yawned.

                "Do they frame it in a historical context, with footnotes?"

                "Doubtful, but you never know. Most of that stuff is just used to teach a lesson anyway."

                "Where to begin?"

                "Change your approach, angel," Crowley mumbled, snuggling back in the covers with the phone in his hand. "Personal experience."

                The angel blinked. He thought. Then he shook the demon and made him write:

"No one knows the Mind of God. She speaks to us in the quiet places, and in the wilds, and in the desperate hours. In the kindness of strangers, in the fury of a friend. But She reveals Her Mysteries according to Her will. Her ways are Holy and Just."

                A moment passed. Adam texted:

"What?"

                Crowley smiled at the angel, waiting.

                The returned text said:

"The Almighty hasn't bothered to personally appear and smite any Nephilim that I've ever heard."

                Adam wrote back:

"Kool, Uncle Angel. Just checking."

                They read it and the demon started to snicker. "How did he know those were my words?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley wiped his eyes," Your pontificating has become a trademark, angel. Ahh, whot time is it?"

"Time to get up," the angel lamented, as if the hour was unimportant, and picking up the notebook again. His eyes were becoming as black rimmed as Crowley's. "Another day, another adventure."

"Could you possibly sound less enthusiastic?"

The angel held the notebook to his chest. "God is always watching. But it's Heaven I worry about."

"Woll, since the Almighty keeps Her Own company, I doubt She's gonna tattle on us."

"Crowley, I think I'm going back to the books."

The demon rose up, concerned. "Are you hitting a dead end?"

"No, but, this is getting us nowhere. I'll revisit the holy sites, but I need to try something else for a while." He rose and went downstairs to make some breakfast, and Crowley fell back against the pillows, his mind beginning to spin.

The network of friends and family associated with a Mr. Anthony J (not J.) Crowley and a Mr. A.Z. Fell exploded in a matter of months from a handful of people from a cottage in Tadfield to a global latticework of nearly 50. Mostly because of a shared history, a shared bloodline.

                Others were friends of friends, joining a crusade with an unknown outcome. Among these was Dr. Pamala Dunbar, who fought her way back from isolation to help acquire data on these children. She became the human liaison in places where the angel and demon couldn't go, like with the sethkin.

                At the time she was writing a magical realism novel about social injustice. After a few weeks with these kids, she was afraid it would turn into a research paper that would never the light of day.

                "I wrote this exact scene last week!" she explained to Newt over the phone. "These kids are...unreal."

                "Is it a matter of patient confidentiality?"

                "Fundamentally, yes! I can't print any of this!"

                "Well," Newt laughed lamely, "except the stuff you send me."

                He heard a pause, and a long-lacquered nail tapping a desk. "You're being real careful with this stuff, right?"

                "Ah, of course!"

                "Cause I have your address. I can track you down."

                The laughter was turning nervous," You're-ah-some joker, there. With your threats, and, all."

                "Um-hmm. You wanna see how funny I can get?"

"Um, no...mam."

"Then you treat this information with the greatest of care. Like walking a tightrope with a baby in your arms." Click.

                Newt stared at his phone; a bit hurt. "Does no one have faith in me? I have a mind like a steel trap."

"He has a mind like a camera," Anathema explained to Tracy as she helped her set up her new herb garden. "Total recall. Scans tons of printed text and remembers all of it over a year later. It's way weird, even for me."

                "And he and Aziraphale worked out a system?" Tracy asked, sorting out some seeds.

                "They amazing study partners. Newt collects the data the angel gives him, and with that he helps him choose another possible lead. And it's not just that. I've never seen anything like it. They bounce ideas off each other and before you know it they come up with a new strategy. Have them watch crime shows together and they just might pick the killer before you're on suspect number 3."

                "But they're uncomfortable with each other," Tracy mused.

                "Hmmm, yes. But they love information."

The network grew. The Doctor worked with Newt. Newt brought in Gary. Gary used his contacts, who didn't ask questions. And when the angel redirected back to his books, more began to show up on his doorstep. People were sending him things.  Wooden crates were opened in restricted warehouses with no names, their contents past through hands and over borders. Tomes held in temples, editions never seeing the light of day, and they came into his stunned possession. Maybe he had a passing acquaintance with the texts, as an oral tradition, as a limited run that escaped his grasp, as a thing he'd only heard of.

                But the worshipper of books discovered his own new heaven with their arrival. He nearly swooned.

                And this was the way, long after he poured over all of them and still had no true leads, that book they all needed found its way to his shop...