Tears surprised me by splattering wetly against the Bible. Even my tears were a sham. There was no grief for Daniel in them. I cried for myself, for my own death. Tears I should have wept a year ago rolled down my face in an unstoppable tide.

A part of me died when the dark veil of excommunication fell, shroudlike, over my days. Yet, even before that, I was never whole. I forever sought to fill the void in my heart with action or distraction. First, by immersing myself in the LINK, almost to the point of addiction, and, then later, by throwing myself into my career. My life was the opposite of Michael's: only marking time and place, a heavy, slogging clay bereft of the lightness of spirit.

People were standing again, and I struggled to my feet. Daniel's Bible slipped out of my lap, but I caught it before it landed on the floor. I leaned heavily on the cloth-draped chair in front of me. Under my weight, the Bible bent to the contour of the seat.

Like the Bible, I lacked a hard back or something in me that would not bend under pressure. I lost Daniel the first time because I didn't have anything solid to hang on to – no faith, no trust. Instead, during the trial, I relied on the facts, and what I so nobly believed to be the truth. The truth, I was beginning to understand, was more than just the sum of the facts. If I'd had faith, I could have made the leap beyond the facts, to something solid, unchanging.

When I chose not to betray Michael and Jibril to the FBI, the LINK had miraculously reactivated. "By an act of faith, it is done." Too bad my act of faith had come too late for Daniel.

Michael tugged on my arm. I looked up from my reverie to see that I was the only one still standing. I quickly dropped into the seat. I considered LINKing into a translator so that I could better follow the service. My fingers touched the filament, but stopped. Like Michael, I rarely allowed myself the luxury of uninterrupted thought. I consciously resisted the urge to plug in and lose myself in the motions of someone else's ritual.

Instead, I flipped open the Bible, hoping to find something Daniel had marked as meaningful. Being a Red Letter version of the New Testament, all of the words of Jesus were highlighted in the text. Parchment-thin, the pages were made with low-grade recycled newsprint. I flipped randomly, hoping to find the notes Daniel had promised were inside. There was nothing except the printed word. I flipped more frantically, but still found nothing.

Rhythmical sounds of Hebrew drifted through the auditorium. When Daniel told me he had notes hidden in the Bible, I'd hoped for a journal of thoughts in the margins, or even cryptic, insane scrawl. There must be something I wasn't seeing. Then I noticed dog-ear folds marked certain pages. Maybe, given time and energy I could put together Daniel's puzzle.

"Faith," I whispered to myself. "Have faith."

The service had apparently ended, as people were standing up and quietly making their way out of the theater. I cradled the Bible in my arm. Even though I suspected it was useless, it was all I had left of Daniel. I followed the others numbly, letting the tide of people push me along. I wasn't even conscious of Michael following me until he took my hand.

"You okay?" he asked. "You look shell-shocked."

I gestured weakly with the Bible. "Do you believe in the idea of a holy madman?"

"Why?"

"Daniel's Bible. He seemed so lucid when we met, but ... just Iook at it, you'll see." I offered the Bible to Michael.

Pulling away from the shuffling crowd, we stopped near the holo-pictures again. Michael leafed through the pages. I scanned the room, as I waited for Michael's solemn agreement of Daniel's insanity.

"This is a great gift," Michael said, handing the Bible back to me.

"Yes, yes. But there were supposed to be notes in there from Daniel," I said, flipping the book open again to show Michael the empty pages.

"Have faith." Michael put a hand on my shoulder. "Things may yet reveal themselves. We should join the others and give Rebeckah our condolences."

"Sure," I said, though I didn't really feel like being with other people. I followed Michael through a series of smaller and smaller hallways that snaked toward the back of the theater. As we passed an open door, I looked in. Piles of material and rows of finished costumes hung on racks, untouched by the glass. That not-unpleasant musty smell hung in the air, as we continued through to the back stage.

The Malachim had transformed the prop shop into a reception area. A couple of Gorgons were still setting up chairs and smoothing out tablecloths. There were others, like Matthew, who were non-Jews, but friends, and part of the Malachim cause, all doing their part. Rebeckah had gathered a family around her, and I suddenly realized the depth of her sacrifice.

The smell of roasting potatoes made my mouth water. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. I settled into line behind Michael to get some food. Once my plate was full, I continued following him to a table. I was so anxious to eat that it took me a beat to recognize Raphael as he stood up with open arms to greet us.

"Rafe!" Michael said, putting his plate down to clasp Raphael in his arms. As the two men held on to each other, the world seemed to stop. The sounds of the gathered Malachim hushed, and a noise like wind around gables whispered in my ears. A welcoming feeling crept through my toes, warming me. When they separated, my heart ached almost physically. The room filled with the echoes of chatter again.

A chirping noise broke my concentration. At the second ring, I realized it was my phone. I put my plate down.

Over Michael's shoulder, Raphael eyed me curiously. Very few people used phones anymore. "Excuse me," I said, turning away to answer it.

A hand on my shoulder prevented me from moving away. Michael asked, "Are you sure you should?"

"This thing is a lot less traceable than a LINK-up. Besides," I said, as the phone rang again, "I'm curious."

He raised his eyebrows at me, but let me go.

Pushing the video and voice button, I said, "Hello?"

"Hey, Dee, it's me." Mouse's voice was almost a whisper, and he gave a little embarrassed wave to the screen. The video was a grainy black and white. On the wall behind him, I could see graffiti splashed in a crazy conglomerate of halftones.

"Are you in a public access booth?" I was startled, I didn't know any of those were still functional. "How?"

"Hot-wired." He shrugged, as if it were something he did every day. Ironically, the image chose that moment to waver. "I'm embracing my roots: phone phreak."

I smiled. "I'm impressed."

With a nod of agreement, Mouse took the compliment in stride. "Nice uniform. You convert?"

I shook my head. I opened my mouth to explain how I ended up with the Malachim, but when I thought of Rebeckah, no words came.

"Uh-huh," Mouse said, interested, but not pushing it. "So, did you ever catch up with that escaped fox?"

Danny. Of course, Mouse wouldn't know. "Have you talked tp your page yet?"

"No. And, that's the other thing: I come back on-line, and everything is in chaos. No page in sight. Worse, someone breached my inner sanctum. My hub, Dee, my hub. I swear, if some two-bit hacker spiked me, I'll burn him."

I mustered all my courage and said, "Maybe you should send Phanuel after him."

The card I played made an almost audible snap hitting the table. Mouse's expressive face turned to stone. The only part of him that moved was his eyes, and they danced. Letting out a long, thin breath, he said, "I see." His voice was even and measured. "We should meet in person, don't you think?"

Excerpt from the New York Times, August 23, 2076