Francis’ face was illuminated by the light of the roaring fire; twin images of the inferno reflected on the surface of his eyeglasses. “I can think of a few things,” he said. “Things you would give anything to make right.”
Remy didn’t press him. Francis was still making penance, and would be doing so for a good long time.
“He was a Nomad,” Francis said, glancing at his palm where he’d held the angel’s flesh. He wiped the hand on the side of his pants. “Can’t remember the last time I’ve see one of them.”
“They’re around,” Remy answered, still watching as the intensity of the flames began to die down. “Don’t come out in the open often, too busy contemplating their place in the grand scheme of things, or something like that.”
Francis grunted in understanding.
“I should probably try to contact Suroth,” Remy said reluctantly. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to. He didn’t care for anything that reminded him of what he’d left behind.
He felt something being forced into his hand and looked down. “What’s this?” he asked, holding the same roll of money he had used to pay Eddie for the angel’s eyes.
“Retrieved it before getting out of the building,” Francis explained. “It belongs to you now, for services rendered.”
“Forget it,” Remy said.
Francis jumped back, arms spread. “No arguments. You’ve taken time away from your own business to help me. You’ve earned it.”
As much as Remy hated to admit it, his friend was right. He had been delinquent from the agency for quite some time. Since Madeline’s death he’d barely worked at all, finding it hard to generate interest in just about anything. The money would come in handy to pay some bills.
“Thanks,” Remy said, putting the roll inside the pocket of his jacket.
“No, thank you.”
Clouds of white steam billowed up into the night air as the firemen were finally able to turn their hoses on the smoldering wreckage of the warehouse.
“Want to go for a drink?” Francis asked.
It would have been nice to go someplace else, to delay the inevitable, but Remy had somebody waiting for him back at the house.
“Marlowe probably needs to go to the bathroom,” he said, feeling warm pangs of affection for the black Labrador retriever fill him.
“How’s he doing?” Francis asked. “You know, with the whole Madeline thing?”
“He still asks about her from time to time,” Remy said. “But I think it’s just in a dog’s nature to accept the inevitable and move on.”
“And you?”
Remy looked at his friend, not sure what to say, his silence conveying more meaning than mere words could express.
Remy read the yellow Post-it note pressed to the window of the entrance to his Pinckney Street home. Homicide detective Steven Mulvehill had stopped by. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his friend.
He pulled the note down, crinkling it up and shoving it into his pocket. He dug for his keys, letting himself into the foyer, and smiled faintly at the sound of an excited dog barking on the other side of the door.
“Just a sec, buddy,” he said as he put the key in the lock and opened the door.
The black Labrador surged out into the hall, his toenails clicking like castanets on the tile floor as he danced around Remy.
“Hello to you too,” Remy said, bending down to accept the fervent attentions from Marlowe’s eager tongue.
“Miss you,” the dog said.
“And I missed you,” Remy told him. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”
“Yes, inside. Yes,” the animal agreed.
“Did Ashley take you for a walk?” Remy asked as he took off his jacket and hung it in the hall closet.
“Yes. Walk, yes. Ashley. Like Ashley.”
“She is something, isn’t she?” Remy didn’t know what he’d do without Marlowe’s teenaged sitter, and dreaded to think of the fix he’d be in when she went off to college.
He stood in the hallway, feeling like a stranger in the home that he had lived in for more than thirty years.
It was when he was standing still that the problems arose.
“Do you want an apple?” he quickly asked the dog.
“Yes! Apple,” Marlowe barked. “Want apple.”
“I knew that was a stupid question.” Remy moved toward the kitchen with the excited Labrador by his side. “And I think I’ll have some coffee.”
He had to do something, anything, or his thoughts would begin to wander. He would hear things, see things: echoes of the past. And he couldn’t stop them.
He saw her standing there, his beautiful Madeline. Her back was to him as she stood before the stove in her white terry-cloth robe. She was making a cup of tea, and by the way she was holding herself he could tell that something was wrong.
The conversation had gone something like . . .
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just a little sore today.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
She had slowly turned around, holding on to the stove for support, and her eyes had filled with tears.
“No.”
Marlowe whined and the past momentarily fled.
Remy was standing in front of the kitchen counter, apple in hand. The dog was staring intently, a puddle of drool on the floor beneath his mouth.
“I’m sorry, pal,” Remy said, reaching for a knife. He was cutting the apple into strips when the memories returned unbidden.
Again they were standing in the kitchen. She had her heavier jacket on, looking small and fragile within its folds. There was a suitcase at her feet, and she was looking around.
“What are you doing?” he asked, coming to stand beside her. Remy took her in his arms and gently kissed the side of her head.
“I’m committing it to memory,” she said. “I don’t want to ever forget what it looked like.”
“Don’t be silly; you’ll be back before you know it,” he told her, squeezing her close.
The disease had progressed faster than they had expected, the amount of care she now required more than he could provide.
“They’ll get you on the straight and narrow, and you’ll be home before you know it.”
He’d known it was a lie, and so had she. But she hadn’t let on, allowing him his fantasy.
“The straight and narrow can’t come fast enough,” she said, leaning in to kiss the side of his neck.
He returned to the present, watching his dog gulp down the cut-up slices of apple he had placed inside the animal’s bowl. A chill danced up and down his neck, and he raised a hand to his throat. He could still feel her kiss, the last they’d shared in their home.
The dog was done with his snack in record time, and returned to wipe his slobber on Remy’s leg. “That’s a good boy,” Remy told him, thumping the animal’s side like a drum.
“Good apple,” Marlowe said, then belched loudly.
And suddenly Remy heard the ghostly sound of her laughter drifting throughout the lonely house; a million tiny little things would send them into fits of hysteria—Marlowe’s burps being one of Madeline’s personal favorites.
So many memories, triggered like the fall of dominoes inside his brain. It was if he were caught inside some elaborate trap, his every action springing a recollection that left him emotionally mutilated.
Does it ever get easier? He was certain that it must, but didn’t know how much more he could take. He’d always imagined himself made of sterner stuff.
He made a pot of coffee, even though his desire for the hot beverage seemed to have waned dramatically of late.
Mug in hand, he gestured to Marlowe, lying attentively in the center of the kitchen floor. “Want to come sit with me?” he asked, not waiting for a response as he headed into the dark living room.
He set the steaming cup down on a side table and sat in his chair. He did not put any lights on, preferring the darkness.
&nbs
p; Marlowe padded into the room, jumped up onto the sofa, and plopped down with a heavy sigh, snout between his paws.
Remy thought about watching television, or trying to read a few chapters in the book he’d started a few nights ago, but television after all these years bored him to tears, and he couldn’t even remember the title of the book. Sleep was out of the question. Since Madeline’s death, a night’s sleep had become something of a rarity, and because he really didn’t need it, his bed—the bed that he and his wife had shared—remained empty.
So he did what he’d been doing just about every night since Madeline’s death. He sat in the dark, listening to the quiet snoring of his dog, and allowed the memories to wash over him.
Remy was at the office early the next morning. It had been at least two weeks since he’d last been there.
Since narrowly averting the Apocalypse, the world had become a much darker place. He had hoped that humanity, overjoyed by the fact that they had been given a second chance to embrace life, would have tried to make things better, but in fact they didn’t even seem to notice. He was sure that on some level they were aware that something was up, that something had come pretty close to screwing up a lot more than a golf date, or that sixth trip to Disney. But the end of the world didn’t happen, and life continued just as it had before.
But whether they noticed or not, the world had become a little bit darker. The approaching end of the world had churned things up—like the bottom of a deep, dark lake, the slimy silt, mud, and sediments stirred by a powerful storm above.
Things not of this world, which had chosen—in some instances it had been chosen for them—to make the Earth their home, had become aroused by the closeness of the cataclysm, and were greatly disappointed when it had not occurred.
Leave it to Remy to spoil a potentially good time.
He stood in the lobby of the Beacon Street building that housed his agency, trying to get the accumulated mail out of his box. Swearing beneath his breath, he tugged on the wedged catalogues, flyers, and bills, trying not to damage them too badly as he extracted them.
He stuffed the stack beneath his arm and climbed the stairs to his second-floor office, thinking about the angel he and Francis had found last night, and his final words cursing himself and some mysterious others for committing an unforgivable sin.
What that sin was exactly Remy had no idea, and it ate at him, or, more precisely, it gave him something other than his troubles to think about. He would need to ask the Nomad leader when he saw him. The sudden reminder of the meeting dropped around his shoulders like a weighted scarf. Maybe I’ll just forget it, Remy thought. The Nomads will learn of their comrade’s death sooner or later.
The air inside the office was stale and unmoving. Throwing the mail down upon the desktop, he went to the window and opened it to release the stagnant smell. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the once-lovely fern given to him by an appreciative client, now withered and brown. He picked up the pot and studied the plant’s remains, searching for any sign of green, hoping for an indication that the plant could be saved, but there was none.
Remy sighed as he dumped the plant in the wastebasket. He was painfully aware that the once-thriving plant had died because of his neglect, a neglect that could very easily be affecting not only his office plants, but his business, as well as what remained of his personal life.
It was decided just like that. No more bullshit. He would go and see the Nomads. First he’d straighten out the office, return phone calls and e-mails; then he’d try to find Suroth and his flock.
But it was just so damn hard to care about anything anymore.
Madeline had been the primary reason why he lived as a human—she was his anchor to humanity—and with her gone . . .
His thoughts again started to wander, and he saw her the day he’d revealed his true self to her. It was early morning, as the sun came up over the Atlantic Ocean on Nahant Beach. They had been out dancing, and there wasn’t a soul around. He remembered the expression on her face when he said that he had something he wanted to show her.
Remy smiled sadly with the memory, certain that what he had revealed had never even entered her realm of possibility. How often did the guy you were dating reveal that he was an angel of the host Seraphim? Not often, he imagined. He hated these thoughts of the past, but at the same time embraced them like a long-lost friend.
Or lover.
The sudden banging on his office door removed him from the moment, and his anger surged. He could actually feel his true nature writhe in preparation, as if it expected to be unleashed.
Not good. Not good at all.
“Yeah,” Remy said as the door swung open and one of the subjects of his recent neglect ambled in, bags in hand.
“Look who decided to come to work today,” the gruff homicide detective said as he placed the two bags he was carrying on the corner of Remy’s desk and returned to the door to close it. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
There would be time for the memories later, whether Remy wanted them or not.
“No, it’s good. Sorry I missed you last night.”
Mulvehill started to rummage through one of the bags. “Had a bottle of Glenlivet with our names on it, but since you weren’t around, I had to cross yours off,” he said, removing a large coffee and placing it in front of Remy. “I felt really bad, but I didn’t want it to spoil.”
He removed one for himself and smiled. He lifted the plastic lid and took a sip from the scalding liquid. “Your loss, I guess.”
“My loss,” Remy repeated as he removed the cover from his own coffee.
His friend looked as he always did, tousled black hair, five-o’clock shadow, clothes wrinkled as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and with Steven, that very well could have been the case. He lived the job, not really having much else.
Mulvehill removed his light spring jacket and hung it on the coat rack by the door. “So where were you last night? Working a case?”
He pulled out the seat in front of Remy’s desk and sat down, but before he relaxed, he reached for the other bag.
The dying angel appeared within Remy’s brain, the empty eye sockets like twin whirlpools trying to suck him down, further into despair.
“Yeah, pretty much wrapped it up last night.”
“Cheese Danish?” Mulvehill offered, pastry in hand. “I got an apple one in here too.”
“No, thanks,” Remy said. “The coffee is all I want.”
Mulvehill shook his head in mock disgust. “And you wonder why I’m not as svelte as I used to be.” He took an enormous bite from the pastry, crumbs raining down onto the front of his shirt and pants. He then wrinkled the top of the wax paper bag closed, and placed it on the floor beside his chair.
“I’ll save the other one for later,” he told his friend, retrieving his coffee cup from the desk. “Playing catch-up?” he asked, motioning with the Danish toward the pile of mail.
“Yeah,” Remy answered, flipping through some of it. “Amazing how quick it piles up.”
The cop nodded, slowly chewing. There was an uneasy silence starting to develop, something completely unfamiliar to their friendship, and Remy had an idea as to where the conversation would be going next.
“How are you doing?” Mulvehill finally asked.
Remy nodded, slowly turning the paper cup on his desktop. “I’m doing all right,” he said, trying to sound convincing.
“Yah think?” Mulvehill responded, shoving the last of the Danish into his mouth, and brushing the crumbs from the front of his shirt onto the floor.
“Yeah, I think,” Remy answered, unable to hide the beginning of annoyance in his tone.
“Haven’t seen you in weeks. Every time I stop by the office or your house you’re not there. I just wouldn’t have a clue if you were doing good or not,” Mulvehill explained, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs.
“I’ve been trying to keep busy,” Remy said.
He coul
d feel the detective’s eyes scrutinizing him, searching for signs that things were not okay at all. Remy doubted that he would need to look all that closely.
“Why don’t you cut the shit and tell me the truth.”
Remy glared at his friend, the power of Heaven writhing at his core. It wanted to be free—it wanted to destroy what offended it.
“Do you want to hear that I’m miserable?” he asked. “That when she died a large piece of myself died with her? Is that what you want to hear?”
“I want to hear the truth,” Mulvehill responded. “Call it a side effect of my job. Since Maddie passed you’re not the same; there’s something not right.”
Dancing on the Head of a Pin Page 3