Midnight Angels Read Free Page A

smile.
    “Good morning, Stephen,” he said. “And what major crisis do we need to put our heads together and overcome today? Or would you like me to guess?”
    “I could give you a few hints,” his student said, stifling a chuckle.
    “I’ll ask for a lifeline if I need one,” Edwards said. “But for now, I’m going to throw my weight behind my gut instincts and take lost or missing essays for eight hundred.”
    “It’s finished, sir, that I promise you. I may not know where I left it, but I know for sure it’s completed.”
    “Were you drunk or sober when you worked on it?” Edwards asked.
    “Sober,” Stephen said. “But I guess I went at it pretty heavy once I was done.”
    “Do you remember any of it?”
    “I remember all of it,” Stephen said. “It was pretty much all I worked on for four full days, sir.”
    “Then it’s not missing and you won’t walk out of here with an incomplete.”
    “I don’t understand, sir,” Stephen said. “I can’t hand in the essay today because I don’t have it with me.”
    “But you do have it with you,” Edwards said. “You just don’t have it written down.”
    Stephen’s blue eyes widened and he shook his head several times. “I don’t think I could do what I think it is you’re asking me to do, sir,” he said. “In fact, I could swear to it.”
    “What you mean is that you couldn’t do it this very moment. Which is perfectly understandable and not something I would even consider asking of you.”
    “Thank you, sir,” Stephen said, the red flush gone from his face. “You had me there for a second, I admit. Thought for sure you were going to ask me to recite my essay out loud as soon as class started.”
    “That would be a tactic more in keeping with the Philosophy Department,” Edwards said, walking from his side of the lectern and standing now next to Stephen, dwarfing the student in both height and build. “But I do expect you to recite it to me as well as to the class before our time is up. I’ll leave it to you to signal me when you’re ready.”
    “Professor, please,” Stephen pleaded. “I don’t think I’ll be able to remember everything I wrote.”
    “You won’t need to,” Professor Edwards said. “Just remember enough of it to convince me you were telling the truth, that somewhere on this campus or in this state there is a finished essay on Michelangelo with your name on it. I will accept the fact that papers can be lost or stolen. I will never accept being made to look like a fool. Have I made myself clear?”
    “Very clear, sir,” Stephen said.
    The boy turned slowly away, stopping in the middle row of the auditorium, and sat down, dejected.
    Edwards walked over to a large bay window that looked toward the north, the upper part of his right shoulder braced against a wall, the warm sun reflecting off the dirt-speckled glass. He stared out at the tree-lined walkways, students lounging on the lawn or sitting on benches, iPods latched to their ears, textbooks open and spread across bended knees. Professor Edwards loved the serenity of campus life, a safe bubble from the risks of the world that lay beyond the brick-lined campus entrance. Here, life could be dissected and discussed without fear of reprisals, and answers to even the most complex questions could be found—at least within the context of a spirited discussion. An environment dedicated to breaking down the lessons of the past and applying them to the problems of the present. As an academic, he found solace in this tranquil setting. And if that were the whole of his life, then Richard Dylan Edwards would indeed be a man who had found peace on this earth.
    BUT THE ACADEMIC WORLD did not command the youthful professor’s full attention. Edwards’s true calling, which more often than not put him in danger’s scope, was chasing down lost and stolen works of art and returning them to their rightful owners. His academic work offered cover for those clandestine