Free Avenging Angels by Mary Stanton Page B

own office like a scared rat every time I go in and out.”
    Ron looked at her with interest. His blond hair feathered over his forehead and his light blue eyes were guileless. “Why not? At the moment, the Pendergasts are nothing to fool with. I don’t know if you noticed, but I was scuttling faster than you.”
    Bree started the engine. “It’s not dignified.”
    “You know what they say about pride,” Ron said, rather primly. “You may choose dignity over getting dragged somewhere awful by a rotting corpse, but I vote scuttle every time.”
    “You’re pretty smug, for an angel,” Bree said. “Do you suppose that’s why you and Petru snipe at each other?”
    Ron shrugged and then smiled. “Possibly,” he said. His smile, like all angels’, was impossible to resist. The smile sent warmth from the top of your head to your feet.
    “Don’t smile at me,” Bree warned. “I’m getting wise to your ways, Ron Parchese.”
    But she arrived at the Chatham County Courthouse in a much improved mood.
    Bree had been at the courthouse at all hours during the day, and it was always filled with a cross section of citizens of the state of Georgia. Young kids swaggered through in baggy pants and oversized T-shirts. Blue-uniformed policemen of the Town of Savannah rubbed shoulders with the brown-uniformed officers of Chatham County. Couples with children wandered the lower floors, peering at the office listings on the notice boards. Guys with straw hats and saggy coveralls ambled up to the coffee cart.
    And the lawyers were everywhere.
    Bree and Ron passed through the metal detector and got into the middle elevator. They rode to the sixth floor and then, after the last fellow passenger, a tired-looking cleaning lady, got off, headed up to the seventh. The doors swooshed open, and Bree faced the familiar gold medallion on the opposite wall that read:

CELESTIAL COURT OF APPEALS
    The Scales of Justice, cupped by a pair of feathery wings, were embossed in the center.
    She led the way down to the door marked RECORDS and pushed her way inside.
    The Hall of Records was an exact replica of an old monastery—although for all Bree knew it was a section of a monastery—with flagstone floors, torch sconces, and stained-glass windows topped by Gothic arches. Massive oak beams buttressed the soaring ceilings. Angels robed like monks stood in front of waist-high oak podiums, scratching on vellum with quill pens. There was a faint, winged rustling as Bree and Ron walked down the aisle to the big oak counter at the back. Hundreds of cubbyholes filled with rolls of parchment lined the far wall. Goldstein, his bald head glinting in the torchlight, twiddled his fingers in greeting as they approached.
    “Still resisting the computer age, I see,” Ron said. He leaned on the waist-high counter and shook his head.
    “I like it,” Goldstein said. “And you think I’d get any kind of productivity out of these guys under fluorescent lights? Phooey.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and a silvery feather floated upward. “So, what can I do for the two of you this fine morning?”
    “Russell O’Rourke,” Bree said. “I’d like a copy of the Request for Appeal.”
    “O’Rourke.” Goldstein frowned and then tugged at his ear. “O’Rourke. Doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid, but let me check.” He bent down, rummaged under the counter, and emerged with a leather-bound book. He flipped the pages over with a thoughtful air. “Russell O’Rourke,” he said, with a slight emphasis on the cognomen. “I don’t see a Russell O’Rourke. Nope.” He slammed the book shut.
    “But he contacted me yesterday,” Bree said.
    Goldstein raised one eyebrow. What was time, to an angel?
    “He did get in touch,” Bree said firmly. “He killed himself several months ago at his desk, at his place in New York. The desk ended up in a job lot at an auction house here in Savannah. I ended up at the auction. I put my hands on the desk and bingo, there