Dancing on the Head of a Pin

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “An advance, plus a bonus for your anticipated hard work. There is more where that came from, Mr. Chandler. It may seem pathetic to you, but I’ve come to realize that without these items my life seems suddenly meaningless.”

  Remy listened to the man as he refolded the check and placed it inside his own shirt pocket. “I’ll do everything I can,” he told the old man. “There are no guarantees, but I won’t stop working on the case until all possible leads have been exhausted.”

  “Very good, sir. I believe we understand each other perfectly.”

  Karnighan struggled as he attempted to stand.

  “No need to get up,” Remy told him. He approached the collector and again extended his hand. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Remy bid the man good-bye, leaving him to finish his coffee, when a question that he had been meaning to ask Karnighan again rose to the surface.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, stopping momentarily in the doorway of the study. “I was wondering, Mr. Karnighan, where was it that you heard about my agency?”

  The old man smiled, china cup in one hand, saucer beneath it in the other. “I really don’t remember, Mr. Chandler,” he said, taking a careful sip of his beverage. “But whoever it was, spoke very highly of your abilities.”

  It wasn’t quite the answer he was looking for, but it would do.

  He left the house and started toward his car, spying the guard dogs watching him from an open area that ran alongside the house. He wondered how Karnighan kept them from running away, or from getting into trouble with neighbors, when he noticed the thick collars around their necks. An electric fence, he guessed. A brief electrical shock would be transmitted through the collars if they wandered too far from the property.

  Then he had an idea and wandered back over to the animals.

  “Luthor, I’ve got a question for you,” he said to the pack leader.

  The dog came over to him, again looking for some attention, with which Remy obliged him. How could he refuse?

  “When your master’s things were stolen, do you remember seeing anything or maybe hearing something out of the ordinary?”

  “No,” the dog said, eyes closed with pleasure as Remy rubbed behind his ears. “That’s why bad dogs. Useless. Master say useless.”

  Daisy and Spike tried to muscle in on Luthor’s attentions, the pack leader turning his square head to growl at them. The pair whimpered sadly as they backed up.

  “That’s not true; you’re very good dogs,” he assured them. “Your master is just upset that somebody was able to get inside and take his things without you knowing. Are you sure you didn’t notice anything?”

  The dog pressed his cold, wet snout to Remy’s hand.

  “Yes,” the dog said in between snuffles. “Strange smell.”

  Daisy and Spike were now sniffing Remy’s pants, and he reached down to give them each a scratch before Luthor noticed.

  “What kind of strange smell? Can you describe it to me?”

  The rottweiler looked up, his dark brown eyes deep and soulful like Marlowe’s.

  “Like you,” the dog said, a spark of realization in his eyes. “Smell like you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Karnighan had done as he’d promised, delivering the paperwork by courier by the time Remy had left the office that afternoon.

  It hadn’t been such a bad day, catching up on phone messages and sorting out bills. Remy had left his office with a sense of accomplishment, more connected to his work than he’d felt in quite some time.

  But it didn’t end there; he’d returned home, got Marlowe fed and walked, made himself a quick bite to eat, and put a fresh pot of coffee on. In the old days, Madeline used to call this getting the bug. It happened when a case slowly began to worm its way into Remy’s life, when there was something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on that made it so he couldn’t—or didn’t want to, really—think of anything else.

  He believed the Karnighan case was going to go something like that.

  The man certainly had been telling the truth when he said that he’d kept detailed records. There were pages and pages of notes, and even photographs of the stolen weapons, some beautifully crafted, others crude and primitive in their execution. The notes were painstakingly detailed, describing the origins of each piece, the name of the craftsman, and in some cases, who had owned the particular dagger, sword, or spear over the span of centuries.

  Remy found himself lost in the pages and time periods, remembering snippets of his own past when weapons such as these were carried with as much ease as a designer purse or an iPod.

  He wasn’t sure how much time had passed as he flipped through the extensive records. It was a low-throated woof that interrupted his deep concentration. Noticing the stuffed monkey on the floor by his desk chair first, Remy angled himself around to see Marlowe waiting at attention, tail wagging eagerly.

  “Is this your monkey?” Remy asked, leaning over to snatch up the brown-furred primate from the floor. He held it out toward the dog, giving it a bit of a wiggle. Marlowe flinched, stomping his paws down on the hardwood floor.

  “Yes, monkey. Yes.”

  “Want me to throw it?” Remy asked. He knew that was exactly what the dog wanted, but he thought he’d play with the Labrador’s head a bit.

  He made a move as if the throw it, the dog taking off, waiting for the stuffed animal to fall, but it never did.

  “Hey!” Marlowe said, turning around to check him out.

  Remy still held the monkey and gave it another shake.

  “Tricked ya,” he said.

  “No trick ya,” Marlowe grumbled, coming back to stand before him. He tried to pull the monkey from his hand. Remy let him get a grip before he started to pull. The Labrador growled in play, enjoying a good tug-of-war as much as retrieving things.

  This went on a bit, the animal pulling with all his might, his growls getting louder and more excited as he tried to yank the stuffed animal from Remy’s hands.

  With the help of the stuffed monkey, Remy drew the Labrador closer, leaning his own face in toward the growling animal. “This is a blast, but I’ve got to get back to work,” he told his best friend.

  Marlowe released the toy, jumping back, ready to fetch.

  “No, play,” he said, his tail wagging furiously. Now that he had gotten a taste, he didn’t want to stop.

  “Maybe later,” Remy said, throwing the monkey into the corner of the room. Marlowe leapt across the floor, his nails clicking and clacking on the hardwood as he went in pursuit of his prey.

  Remy turned back to the notes, surprised to see that he had actually made two separate piles.

  “More play now!” Marlowe demanded, attempting to shove the stuffed animal beneath the arm of the chair and into his lap. “Monkey! Crazy monkey! Throw! Pull!”

  “What did I say?” Remy grabbed the monkey from the dog and tossed it over his shoulder, never taking his eyes from the two stacks. The dog took off again after the toy as Remy began to examine the piles. One contained most of the information on the weapons, but the other he had no recollection of ever seeing, never mind making a separate stack.

  He sensed that Marlowe had returned and ignored him, pulling the smaller stack that he had made over for a closer look. It contained the information on four specific weapons. He removed the photos, lining them up in front of him on the desk—Japanese katana, a medieval battle-axe, an intricately etched Colt 45, and the beautiful simplicity of twin daggers.

  What was it about these particular weapons that seemed to so interest him?

  Marlowe sighed, dropping his seventy pounds to the floor beside Remy’s chair with the stuffed monkey, depressed that he’d been rejected.

  “Sorry, buddy,” Remy apologized. “But I’ve got to figure this out.”

  He picked up the photograph of the Japanese sword, staring at it before carefully reading the notes that accompanied the fearsome blade. According to the information, the katana was created in the year 15
65 by master sword maker Asamiya.

  “I know that name,” Remy muttered, leaning back in his chair. Marlowe lifted his head, thinking that maybe it was time to play again. “Where do I know that name?”

  It wasn’t long before he remembered.

  Remy wasn’t sure how many years ago it was, but he was certain that it was no more than three or four. Francis had returned from one of his out-of-state assignments with something that he couldn’t wait to show to his friend. The special something had been a Japanese sword crafted by Asamiya, supposedly the greatest Japanese sword maker who had ever lived.

  He looked at the photo of the sword a bit longer before stacking it with the other information and placing everything back inside the envelope in which it had been delivered. What he had to do, then, was obvious. If anybody could give him some insight on these weapons, it was Francis.

  He pushed his chair back and stood up, reaching over to turn off his desk lamp.

  Marlowe was already standing, limp monkey dangling from his mouth, the anticipation of more playtime twinkling in his dark brown eyes. But what Remy was about to ask the animal was even better than playtime.

  “Do you want to go for a ride?”

  The response was as he expected.

  A ride in the car trumped chasing a stuffed monkey hands down.

  It wasn’t common knowledge, but there was an entrance to Hell on Newbury Street.

  It had been there for nearly forever, even before there was a Newbury Street, when the Back Bay was underwater. And Remy was sure that the fissure had existed even long before that. There was no specific reason why it was there, no violent series of events so horrible that it had ripped the very fabric of reality. Nothing so dramatic. It was just that all over the planet there were places where the barriers between this world and the worlds beyond it were quite a bit thinner, and doorways between these planes of existence had been established.

  As luck would have it, Remy had found a parking space at a meter that still had close to an hour left on it. He didn’t figure he’d be that long, but he popped a few quarters into the meter anyway. One never could tell when a legion of meter maids could descend, dispensing their forty-dollar greetings. The seventy-five cents was much more palatable.

  “I’m a good dog,” Marlowe said to him as they stood beside the car, Remy sliding the chain collar attached to the leash around the animal’s neck.

  “I know you are, but you still have to wear the leash when you’re in the city,” Remy explained.

  “Good dog, won’t run away.”

  “I know you won’t run away, but some people are afraid of good dogs and don’t appreciate you trying to say hello.” Remy placed the file folder of his latest case beneath his arm.

  “Say hello,” the dog said, wagging his tail at a man in a very expensive suit who walked by talking on a cell phone.

  “I doubt that man would like slobber on his suit. C’mon.” Remy gave the leash a slight tug and the two of them headed down Newbury. “Let’s go see what Francis is doing.”

  “Say hello, Francis?” Marlowe asked, looking up at Remy as they navigated the somewhat busy sidewalk.

  “You can say hello all you want to him. Francis likes slobber.”

  The former Guardian angel’s brownstone had been built in 1882. Francis had actually supervised its construction himself and had lived there ever since, acting as doorman and parole officer between the prison realm of Hell and Earth.

  It was his job to guard this passage, allowing only those fallen who had served their time in the pit to pass. Some really did try to live good lives, hoping that someday they would be allowed to return to Heaven, while others seemed to be permanently altered by their time in the pit, gravitating toward a life of crime as a Denizen.

  Marlowe stopped at the tree in front of the brownstone, before angel and dog started up the steps. Remy pulled open the heavy wooden door, allowing the dog into the entryway first. He was about to push the buzzer to let Francis know that he had arrived, when the door into the building opened from the inside.

  A man was backing out of the door, holding a box in both hands, a long duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He turned to leave the building and nearly fell over Marlowe, whose tail was wagging so hard it made his whole body shake.

  The man gasped, throwing himself back against the door, so frightened that he nearly dropped the large cardboard box.

  Remy reached over, grabbing hold of Marlowe’s collar and pulling him away. “Sorry about that,” he apologized, forcing the dog to stand at his side as he reached to hold open the door to the brownstone. “He thinks everyone is his friend.”

  “Say hi!” Marlowe barked happily.

  The man glared at them, eyes filled with both fear and anger. The look was one Remy had seen before, of someone who had once known the glory of Heaven but had been subjected to the tortures of Hell.

  Which way will you go? Remy thought, as the man quickly left the building without a word. Will you seek the forgiveness of God, or the company of those tainted by the netherworld?

  “Not nice,” Marlowe said.

  “No, he wasn’t,” Remy answered as the two entered the lobby.

  Francis lived in the building’s expansive basement, and that’s where Remy headed, opening another door to the left of the lobby. Marlowe excitedly passed through first, his nails clicking on the wooden stairs as he descended.

  “Careful,” Remy called after him.

  “See Francis,” the dog woofed. “Get cheese.”

  Isn’t it just like a Labrador, Remy thought, holding on to the banister as he walked down the steps. Only excited to see you if there’s a promise of food somewhere in the equation.

  Marlowe had already disappeared through a doorway at the end of the stairway, and Remy expected to hear Francis respond to the dog’s appearance, but he heard nothing.

  Remy entered the apartment. The place was simple in its furnishings, an old leather couch by the wall, a recliner not too far from the ancient furnace that squatted like a monster in the center of the living room area. Gray metal heating ducts snaked from its squat body across the ceiling, exiting up to the multiple residences above. A blocky armoire across from the recliner hid the big-screen TV. A framed movie poster from The Wild Bunch hid a door to a closet where Remy knew his friend kept a large majority of the weapons he used during his freelance work.

  The coffee table was covered with Sudoku books and sundry other puzzle magazines. Most angels loved puzzles, but Remy couldn’t stand the things. His wife had been the puzzle person in their household. He felt that sad feeling in the pit of his belly again, remembering how she’d spend what seemed like hours at the grocery store magazine racks searching for just the right puzzle magazine.

  Marlowe barked from one of the back hallways.

  “Did you find Francis?” Remy asked as he maneuvered around the coffee table.

  The Labrador stood before another door, his body rigid, tail wagging. This door was weathered, the paint peeling as if it had been exposed to the constant changes of New England weather.

  “In there,” Marlowe said, body rigid, head bent to sniff at the crack at the bottom of the door.

  “You might want to get away from there,” Remy suggested.

  The door began to tremble in its frame, shaking so hard, so violently, that pieces of peeling paint started to flake to the floor. Remy reached out to grab Marlowe’s collar, pulling him back, the door suddenly opened, giving them both a glimpse of the infernal realm.

  From what Remy could see, it hadn’t changed a bit.

  If Heaven was a place of awesome beauty and wonder, then Hell was its polar opposite.

  Marlowe yelped in fear as a warm wind tinged with the scent of hopelessness wafted from the realm beyond the open door.

  “Go,” Remy told the frightened animal, who had lost control of his bladder, leaving a puddle of urine on the wood floor in front of the door.

  Marlowe ran off as Remy stared out acros
s a bridge made from the bodies of the most unrepentant of the fallen angels. Their moans and cries for mercy made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and the Seraphim nature crave to be unleashed so that it could end the suffering of its brethren.

  He would have preferred to turn his back on the sights before him, but the realm of Hell demanded to be looked upon, to be feared and respected.

  Geysers of molten lava exploded up from the blighted land far below, the intense glow from the liquid rock illuminating the nightmarish landscape. It was said that there lived bands of fallen angels, those who chose not to complete their penance upon the Earth, preferring to live out the remainder of their contrition upon the wastelands of Hell.