Wonders Never Cease
W
ONDERS
N
EVER
C
EASE
O
THER
B
OOKS BY
T
IM
D
OWNS
Ends of the Earth
Less Than Dead
First the Dead
Head Game
PlagueMaker
Chop Shop
Shoofly Pie
W
ONDERS
N
EVER
C
EASE
T
IM
D
OWNS
© 2010 by Tim Downs
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-59554-309-7
eISBN : 9781418552053
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 RRD 5 4 3 2 1
For my beautiful Joy
My reason to get out of bed every morning and my
reason to return every night
And for Cyndee Pelton and Madeleine Gaba-Nebres at
Loma Linda University Children's Hospital
Our very own angels in disguise
“Man is neither angel nor beast, and it is unfortunately the case that anyone trying to act the angel acts the beast.”
âB
LAISE
P
ASCAL
,
Pensées
Contents
I
was six years old when I saw my first angel, and nobody was too thrilled about it. Not my mom, that's for sureâshe almost freaked. But she had a lot going on in her life right about then, so it's hard to blame her. Now, Kempâhe thought I'd gone postal, but then he never thought much of me anyway. Maybe that's always the way it is with somebody else's kids. Kemp only wanted my mom, after all. That's all he signed up for; I just came with the deal. But a kid who sees angelsâthat was more than he bargained for. Maybe I shouldn't blame him eitherâbut I do.
I was attending an Episcopal school in Los Angeles when it happened. Funny thing is, they freaked too. Now, this is an angel we're talking aboutâI thought I might get extra credit. But no, they found it just as hard to believe as everybody else. Hard to figure, isn't it? At least I thought so.
That's right, California. Believe me, that doesn't help when you're telling a story like this. Los Angelesâisn't that supposed to be the “city of angels”? Not anymore, I guess. Maybe I should tell people it happened in New York or Bostonâsomeplace where people are too smart for things like this to happen. Sorryâthese were California angels, and I'm just telling you the way it was.
Now you don't know me and I don't know you, but I know what you're probably thinking right nowâ'cause I've told this story a dozen times, and every time it goes pretty much the same way. The minute I say the word “angel,” you get a funny look on your face. You wonder if you heard me right; you stop smiling; you start to blink. You cock your head to one side and take a closer look at me, like maybe there's a couple of screws backing out of my forehead and my frontal lobe is about to eject.
It's true what they say, you know: If you talk to God, you're religious; but if you hear from God, you're schizophrenic.
No need to apologize. I've seen that look before and I'm used to it.
It took me about a year to collect all the pieces of this story. A lot of it I saw myself, but parts of it I didn't know about 'til later. I don't have any way to convince you, and frankly I don't care if you believe me or not. All I can do is tell you what happened, and then you have to decide. I don't know, maybe you can't believe unless you see it for yourself. But I know what I sawâand I believe it.
This is how it happened.
Beverly Hills, California
S
o, tell me. What did you think of the script?”
“I loved it. I devoured it. It was genius.”
She was lying. In twenty years of acting, Olivia Hayden had never read an entire screenplay from cover to cover. Liv didn't like to readâit bored her. Whenever the studios sent over a script she simply passed it on to her agent, Morty Biederman.
She always let Morty digest the thing and evaluate her part, then run off the pages containing her dialogue and send them back to her, reducing the 120-page screenplay to a manageable few sheets of Courier 12-point text. Liv always told the tabloids that she didn't like to read because she was dyslexic, because that's what Tom Cruise had told them and it seemed to work for himâand Liv could stand a little more sympathy from the rags these days.
The young director let out a sigh of relief. “I was afraid you might not like it.”
“It's brilliant,” she said with just the right touch of breathless awe.
When the director glanced down at his feet in modesty Liv used the opportunity to quickly look him over.
I wonder if this
kid has a driver's license
? she thought, shaking her head ever so slightly. The guy couldn't have been more than twenty-fiveâhe probably had his UCLA Film School diploma still rolled up in his back pocket. But hey, the kid had a script and he had a studio backing him, and a part is a part.
Is that a pimple
?
Man
,
I'm old enough to be his . . . older sister
.
“You know, I cowrote this script,” the director said.
“Astonishing. A multidimensional talent.”
Liar
. Who did he think he was fooling? Morty had already filled her in. The kid had just stumbled onto a decent story concept, then hired himself a second-string writer to hammer out a treatment and first draft. He probably bought the script outright and then pasted his own name on the cover to negotiate a better deal as a writer-director hyphenate, inflating his salary and granting him casting privileges. That's the only reason Liv was sitting there: If this kid wasn't casting the film she wouldn't even be talking to him. She rarely spoke to a director before a deal was signed, and writersâwell, everybody in Hollywood knows that writers are basically pond scum.
“I can't tell you how thrilled I was to find out you were available,” he said.
“You were lucky,” Liv said. “I happen to be between films right now.”
Way between
. Ten years ago she wouldn't have taken a second glance at a half-baked script like this, but it was a lead role, after all, and good parts were getting hard to find.
“What's the title again?” she asked.
“
Lips of Fury
.”
She winced. “Catchy.”
“I think some of the dialogue still needs a little tweaking,” he said.
“Don't you dare change a thing. It's perfect the way it is.”
Why bother
? She never argued about a script before she was on the set anyway. Once production started the clock would be ticking and money would be flowing like waterâthen she would have leverage and she could rip the script to shreds.
They sat together at the bar at Kate Mantilini's on Wilshire Boulevard, perched on round gray barstools with tall rigid backs that were designed for appearance onlyâ
like everything
else in this town
, she thought. It was almost morning, though Kate's typically closed by midnight. That's the way Liv planned it; the director had requested the meeting, but Liv had insisted on choosing the time and place. The ridiculous hour wasn't chosen simply to ensure privacy, though Kate's had its share of celebrity patrons and annoying fans; the hour was intended to remind this kid who she was: She was Olivia Hayden, and Kate Mantilini's or any other eating establishment in Hollywood would stay open just as long as she wanted it to. Liv Hayden was used to getting she wanted, and the sooner this kid learned that lesson, the easier it would be when it came to negotiations. Not negotiations over moneyâMorty always handled that. The negotiations she was interested in were the ones that took place on the set: when she wanted to shoot a scene without rehearsals, or when the director was demanding a third take when she preferred to head back to her trailer for a nap. She wanted things the way she wanted them, and she didn't want to have to flirt and pout to get her way each time. She had paid those dues by the time she was thirty; Liv was fast approaching forty-five now, and she didn't have the patience or the energy to play those games anymore.
The director grinned at her. “I'm really looking forward to working with you on this film, Ms. Hayden. I welcome your inputâyour opinion means a lot to me. I mean, an actor of yourâstature.”
Stature
. The word stung, but Liv kept a smile plastered on her face.
Stature
â
durabilityâlongevity
âthey were all just euphemisms for the same brutal reality:
age
. It was no picnic being a forty-plus box office icon in Hollywood, especially for a woman. Oh, sure, male actors complained about the ravages of time too, but it was different for men. Less than a week ago she was lunching with Nic Cage at The Ivy when he started whining about hairlines and face-lifts and she shoved his corn chowder into his lap. She reminded him that Brando was the size of a Macy's balloon when they paid him $3.7 million to do Supermanâbut let an actress pack on an extra twenty and the only role she'll get is doing commercials for Jenny Craig.
It's
not the same
, she told him.
Women in Hollywood have to do
everything men do, but we're supposed to do it crammed into
a size four
.
