I found Pete playing bocce ball with Matthew, Andrew, and John. The Apostles were still very much a guy's club. They were a mixed group – not exactly like today's boybands, but a similar vibe. One thing you won't read about in Scriptures is that they could always make The Son laugh. Considering that he knew his destiny, you can see how much we Archangels loved them.

"Hey, Mike!" he yelled.

"Whassup?" I play-acted, and everyone laughed.

"I'm beating these guys mercilessly," he bragged, which brought a snort from Matthew and a belly laugh from John.

"I thought you'd given up on ball games," I commented, winking at John.

"That's not what I remember hearing in the baths!" John chuckled.

Pete hefted the ball and let it fly and won the round when it landed a good three feet ahead of his opponents.

"Why the visit?" he said, straightforward as always. That's the thing I love about him – very little small talk and gets right to the point from the get-go.

"A mission - to bring back the missing Archangels and to find the Holy Family. It's bad enough that angels are feeling depressed, but word is spreading that Pops abandoned us – and that threatens Heaven itself. I could use your help in case I encounter some Major Demons."

In moments he was aloft beside me. "About time, friend. Is it true what I've been hearing – some of the Vuelda victims rejected Heaven?"

We began our long descent. "Tell me, Pete – what can you tell me about young human girls these days? The female of the species has never been an area of interest for me."

"Your Major Demons," he replied, "are no match for them. They'd flee before engaging."

"I figured as much. This Vuelda victim blew Raguel off as if his arguments meant nothing. As if..."

"Wait – this is Raguel we're talking about," Pete stated, "The Master of negotiation!"

"She asked to speak to Pops in person and of course he had to..."

"Rag bullshitted her, didn't he?" cried Pete, his mouth open.

"He didn't lie, Peter. Angels can't lie."

"Great Father of Creation, Michael – he tap-danced the facts at her! No wonder she stormed out! I would have, too." Pete had stopped his descent and hung there, immobile, as a large cloud passed through him. The look on his face – he was crestfallen.

I placed a hand on his shoulder and gently said, "How can we tell a newly arrived innocent soul that Pops Almighty no longer resides in Heaven? Do you know..."

Pete shook off my hand and didn't let me finish. "...I know that a sin of omission is a sin, nonetheless. Do you know how many billions of humans think that God is gone? That he doesn't care about them? I know you dislike crowds of humans, Mike – 'too many thoughts bouncing around madly, endlessly, without a destination' – but I suggest you go to a small-town church on a Sunday and just listen. You'd understand why being misleading to a kid makes me so upset."

I understood his point, but I was angry. Pete flew backwards about 5 feet when he saw my flaming sword manifest in my hand, which knocked some sense into me. The sword vanished. "I'm sorry, friend. For a moment I didn't want to believe that we were being cruel or misleading. I was so used to blaming Pops for everything that I didn't take responsibility for my own actions."

"Maybe," said Pete over the roar of a passing 767, "Just maybe that was part of the reason why He left?"

Archangels are hard to locate when they don't want to be found. We have no heartbeats to track, no odor to sniff, no footprints or fingerprints to leave. What we do have is a presence, a vibe that is uniquely our own. Thanks to that, and a remembered conversation we had a few centuries ago, Pete and I were flying above New Orleans.

We manifested in an Alleyway, appropriately dressed in what could be called 'club attire' and walked down Elysian Fields Avenue, turning left onto Chartres then right onto Frenchman Street. Our destination: one of the city's famous jazz clubs called The Spotted Cat. A handsome guy was seated at the piano. He had a small ensemble that included a drummer, a saxophonist, a cellist, a guitarist, a trombonist; and a trumpet player named Gabe Avec Ailes. Together they were called the Santoro Seven.

It was the first time I'd heard Gabriel play music written by humans. He's the only one of us who'd been given music as a specific talent. As an archangel, he's meant to command attention and to inspire. That night he brought out the best in his fellow musicians.

He saw us, and the smile he gave was probably the most radiant smile I've ever seen. The music cast a spell over the room; Pete and I drank too many Sazerac cocktails and the whole set was - forgive me – heavenly. When they took a break, Gabriel sat at our table.

"Peter, it's been a while. Michael – keeping in shape, I see. Peter, I think, you're along for the ride, right?"

Peter nodded. "Look," I began, "Heaven is..."

"Let me guess why you're here." And suddenly he began to tear up. "I heard them, that morning. It was like Hiroshima or Nagasaki – so fast! I know He heard them. I hope He suffered along with them!"

"Gabriel, no!" Peter chastised, "Don't say that! That's horrible."

"Any more horrible than the killing of tens of thousands in the Crusades?" Gabriel was openly weeping. "How many more lessons must His favorite creations learn before they destroy the planet and everyone on it?" Santoro came over to ask him if he was all right, and Gabriel reassured him that he was with family.

"Me, Raguel and Chamuel - we're going to find Pops. We need a way to get messages to each other. Will you come back to Heaven and help us?" I watched many emotions play across his elegant, ageless face.

"Cher'- we're family. Family plays together, even though some Daddy-os are sour notes or leave the gig before it's played. I've got one to finish right now, and then I'll go help sweet Chamuel boss around the angelic ranks. But as for sending messages..." Gabe pulled out a rectangular object. "Let me introduce you to cell phones."