Dancing On the Head of a Pin rc-2

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “What was the name of that guy you asked me about?” Francis asked, changing the topic.

  “Alfred Karnighan,” Remy said, happy to oblige.

  “Karnighan,” Francis repeated. “I think I had some dealings with him a few years back at a private auction. He’s a collector. Both of us had our eyes on an especially sweet medieval battle-axe, if I’m not mistaken. What’s up with him?”

  “Got a phone call from him yesterday,” Remy explained. “Says he wants to hire me. I don’t know the specifics yet, but it involves stolen property. I’m meeting with him tomorrow morning.”

  Francis nodded his approval.

  “So that’s it? He’s a collector. Anything more you can tell me?”

  “Nothing more to say, really,” Francis said with a shrug. “The guy deals in rare antiquities, with a special appreciation for weapons. You can see how we would’ve crossed paths.”

  Remy could, ancient weaponry one of the only things the former Guardian angel actually seemed to take enjoyment from. That and Jeopardy; the fallen angel loved Jeopardy.

  “The guy’s got bucks,” Francis stated. “If I were you, I’d charge him double.” And then he was out of his seat.

  “What’s up?” Remy asked.

  “Looking after my charge.”

  Francis moved past him to a table where a less-than-pleasant man was giving Linda a hard time. Evidently the bartender had decided to cut him off and he was taking it out on his waitress.

  Bad idea.

  It was when the guy, his face flushed from too much alcohol and anger, picked up his empty glass and shattered it on the tabletop that the invisible Francis made his move, sinking his fingers into the soft, fleshy area around the man’s thick neck.

  Remy winced in sympathetic pain as the drunken man suddenly leaned violently forward with a scream, his face bouncing off the table. The shrieking continued as he lurched to his feet, tipping over his chair as he tried to pick bloody pieces of glass from his face. Linda, along with some of the other Piazza waitstaff, had retreated to the safety of the restaurant doorway. The manager and what appeared to be the bartender were now dealing with the injured man. In the distance, a police siren wailed.

  Realizing that he was likely in trouble, the big man grabbed a cloth napkin from a nearby table and wiped at his mess of a face. Tossing the stained white cloth to the ground, he tried to force his way past the café employees.

  Francis stuck out his foot, and the fleeing man tripped, his drunken bulk plowing into a recently vacated table, still covered with dirty lunch dishes. The crash was tremendous, the man falling to the ground, the table and all its contents landing atop him.

  At least he had the good sense not to get up again.

  Francis returned to their table as the police pulled up. Remy shook his head, trying to hide his smile of amusement.

  “It’s an absolute sin when a man can’t hold his liquor,” Francis said, watching as two officers picked the bleeding man up from the patio floor, and escorted him to the waiting cruiser.

  “Good thing he wasn’t driving.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Remy had been to this place before.

  The air was rich with the smell of the sea, aroused by the passing storm, the moist sand cool between his toes. He was on a beach at the Cape—in Wellfleet. This was where the Apocalypse had been thwarted, where he had joined with the Angel of Death to realign the balance of nature—of life and death.

  Where he had refused God’s request to return to Heaven.

  He sensed their approach, as he’d done that cataclysmic day when the world almost came to an end, and turned to face them.

  Thrones.

  They were God’s messengers, bringing His word to those deemed worthy enough to listen.

  “The Creator asks for your return to the City of Light—for the honor to sit at His right hand,” they had said that day, in voices that sounded like the planet’s largest orchestra tuning their instruments at once.

  And Remy had told them no.

  Now here he was before them again, their pulsing radiance like three miniature suns, though the surface of the sun, he was pretty sure, was not covered in multiple sets of scrutinizing eyes.

  The Thrones silently stared at him, their resplendent forms rolling in the air before him.

  “Greetings, emissaries of Heaven.” Remy finally spoke to them in the language of his ilk.

  The Thrones remained silent.

  “To what do I owe this latest visitation?”

  And suddenly his mind was filled with the sound of their voices, his face contorting in pain as the cacophony assailed his senses.

  “We were called, and we have answered.”

  Remy was startled. “You are mistaken. I did not summon you.”

  “No, you did not,” the Thrones replied.

  He was about to question them further when he felt his Seraphim nature stirring, beginning its ascent from the dark recesses of his being. Finally he understood who had summoned the Thrones and why. With all his might he tried to push it back down, to quell the powerful and destructive nature. What he was… what he was capable of scared Remy, and he would do all he could to keep that part of himself locked away. In the past he had been strong enough.

  But now it seemed impossible.

  Remy began to scream, his human guise turning to so much ash as the Seraphim exerted control.

  As Remiel exerted control.

  “Why have you summoned us, Seraphim?” the Thrones asked the armored angel now kneeling before them.

  “I want to go home,” Remiel said, lifting his gaze to them, bathing in the light of their resplendence.

  “I wish to return to Heaven.”

  Remy awoke with the sound of the Seraphim’s request echoing in his ears.

  It was still dark outside, and he lay atop the comforter. This was his first night back in the bed that he had shared with his wife, and he could not yet bear the thought of lying beneath the covers.

  Marlowe stared at him from the foot of the bed, his animal eyes glinting red in a flash of headlights as a lone car drove up Pinckney Street.

  “It’s all right,” Remy tried to reassure the dog, as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He studied his hands to make sure that the human flesh was still present, and not the pale, luminous skin of the Seraphim. “Just a dream is all.”

  He threw his legs over the side, somewhat surprised that he had actually managed to put himself in a semirestful state. It had been a while, though he could have done without the dream.

  Or should it be called a nightmare?

  Marlowe hauled up his bulk, stumbled across the mattress, and plopped down beside him. “Okay?” he asked, flipping Re-my’s hand, demanding to be petted.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Remy sat for a while in the early-morning darkness, scratching behind the dog’s ears, thinking about his dream.

  Is it possible? he wondered. On some subconscious level did he really wish to return to Heaven? He’d certainly thought about it from time to time, when things weren’t going well. He’d thought about it mostly since Madeline had died.

  But is that what he really wanted? Had he really played at being human long enough?

  “Hungry,” Marlowe grumbled, leaning his head against Re-my’s leg as he was rubbed behind the ear. “And have to pee.”

  “Let’s get you fixed up, then.” Remy stood, grateful for the distraction, as the dog jumped from the bed and ran down the stairs to the first floor.

  The air outside was crisp, the tail end of winter not wanting to surrender to the inevitable spring. Marlowe ran to the far end of the small yard, and then bounded back inside to eat.

  It was the same routine every morning, almost mechanical in the performance of the tasks: fresh water down, a cup of food in the bowl, a pot of coffee to brew.

  Remy hit the switch on the coffeemaker and leaned against the counter, watching the animal scoff down his breakfast. It’s like he h
asn’t eaten in a week, he thought—and then wondered how many thousands of times he’d thought that very same thing as he leaned against the kitchen counter in the early morning.

  Over the centuries, when he had met with others of his kind who visited the world of man, they often talked about the monotony of it all, the tedium of humanity’s day-to-day existence.

  He’d never seen it that way. He’d found a unique excitement in the simple act of living amongst them—as one of them. And that excitement had only become all the more enthralling when Madeline had become a part of his life.

  But now she’s gone.

  “Out?” Marlowe asked, standing by the door again.

  “Sure,” Remy answered, his thoughts continuing down a troubling path.

  Marlowe finished his business and settled down with a carrot, as Remy poured himself a cup of coffee. He was just about to climb the stairs to his bedroom when he heard Marlowe speak.

  “Heaven?” the Labrador asked.

  Remy stopped and turned toward the animal that stood staring from the kitchen doorway. “What’s that, pal?”

  “Go to Heaven?”

  Remy set his coffee mug down on the steps and went to the dog. He often forgot how closely he and the animal had become linked during the years they’d shared each other’s company. What Remy experienced in his dream state, was oftentimes shared by the dog.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he explained as he squatted down in front of his friend, massaging him behind the ears. “That was just a crazy dream.”

  The dog grunted softly with pleasure as Remy continued to rub.

  “Marlowe go?” the Labrador then asked.

  Remy sighed, finishing up by thumping the dog’s side with the flat of his hand. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

  He returned to the stairs and picked up his coffee. As he began to climb, he glanced over his shoulder to see Marlowe watching him with serious, dark eyes.

  Eyes that didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

  A lumber-truck rollover on Route 128 had traffic backed up all the way into the city, but despite the delay, Remy still found himself on Route 2 to Lexington by ten past nine.

  He didn’t listen to the radio, preferring the noise inside his head to morning deejays, Top 40 pop tunes, the news, and the weather.

  Remy had a lot to think about.

  On the one hand was his concentrated effort to return his life to some semblance of normalcy. Madeline was gone, and that sucking void could never be filled, but he had to try something. He had to find the special things in the human life he’d built for himself, and grab hold to prevent them from being drawn into the black hole as well. He had to continue to live, even though his wife had not.

  It was what human beings did every day.

  But then there was an alternative, the flipside that he did not really care to entertain, hoping that it was just a passing thing—a part of his prolonged grief. The idea that he could return to Heaven.

  He thought of what it had been like there before the war, and wondered if there was even an inkling of a chance that it could be that way again. Remy already knew the answer.

  The Seraphim inside stirred with the thought.

  Nearing his exit, Remy pushed the troubling thoughts aside, switching his focus to the job at hand. He picked up the printout from Mapquest and gave the directions a quick perusal.

  He threw his blinker on, getting over into the right-hand lane so that he would be ready for the next exit.

  Not all that familiar with Lexington’s layout, he’d used one of the online services and printed out directions and a map to Karnighan’s home. He’d been in the town only once, the last time being more than ten years ago, when he and Madeline had been out shopping for antiques—well, Madeline, really—and they’d gone to one of the stores in the downtown area of the historic location.

  Lexington was probably best known for its history, being home to many historical buildings, parks, and monuments dating from colonial and revolutionary times. Driving a ways, he glanced out the driver’s window to a triangular patch of green that he understood to be the Lexington Battle Green, which, according to the history books, was considered the birthplace of American liberty. On that spot more than two hundred years ago, the first shots of the American Revolution were fired. Remy tried to recall where he was at that time but couldn’t really remember—somewhere in the Middle East maybe.

  He was looking for Florian Drive and found it without any difficulty, steering down the paved driveway that led to an open metal gate. As he drove through the gateway, he noticed a wobbling plastic sign stuck in a patch of grass to the right of the driveway advertising Heavenly House Painters; a cartoon angel with white robes and a yellow halo brandishing a paintbrush hovered with feathery wings below the company logo.

  Normally he would’ve been amused by something like this, but of late nothing really seemed to penetrate the fog of gloom that surrounded him.

  The driveway ended in a spacious cul-de-sac, a fountain, not yet turned on for the season, in its center. The house was big, expensive looking, and with some scaffolding still in place around the side, it appeared to be having some work done to it. With the Heavenly House Painters sign out front, it all made sense.

  He got out of the car, pocketing his keys, and walked toward the front door. He’d just about reached the front steps when he heard the heavy, excited sound of panting, and toenails clicking upon concrete. From the corner of his eye he saw the three large dogs tearing around the side of the house, heading straight for him, low rumbling growls escaping from deep in the rottweilers’ broad chests.

  They didn’t appear to be in the least bit happy to see a stranger on their doorstep, so Remy figured some introductions were in order.

  “Stop,” he commanded, in their canine tongue.

  The obvious pack leader came to a sudden halt, the two others stopping as well.

  “Intruder,” the leader barked. “Intruder. Intruder.”

  “Intruder. Intruder. Intruder,” the other two barked in agreement. “Stop, intruder. Stop!”

  “I’m not an intruder,” Remy explained to the animals. “I’m here to see your master.”

  The leader stopped his vocalization and started to sniff the air toward Remy. “Invited?” he asked tentatively.

  The others sniffed as well.

  “Yes. Your master and I have some business to discuss.”

  “Business?”

  The leader padded closer, smelling the ground around his feet. “Smell dog,” he said, moving closer to his pants leg.

  “Yes, I have a dog. His name is Marlowe. What is your name?”

  “Luthor,” said the leader. “Name Luthor.”

  “That is a very strong name, Luthor,” Remy praised the animal. “And might I say what a good job you and your pack are doing protecting the master’s house.”

  The nubby tails on all three of the rottweilers started to wag.

  “I Daisy,” said one of the others.

  “I Spike,” said the last.

  Remy extended his hand for Luthor and his pack to sniff. “My name is Remy.”

  Luthor placed its large head beneath Remy’s hand, hungry for affection. Remy sensed a sudden change in the animal’s powerful demeanor.

  “Not good. Bad. Useless.”

  The dog’s body began to shiver with nervousness. The other two members of the pack had crowded around him as well, starving for the same affection that their leader was receiving.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Remy told them. “I think you’re all very good dogs.”

  “No. Bad dogs. No good.”

  They pushed one another out of the way, each of them wanting to be petted and praised. He had an idea where their self-esteem problem was coming from, especially since he had been summoned here to help with the investigation of a theft.

  He was doing his best to give the guard dogs the attention they were craving when the front door to the hous
e suddenly opened.

  The dogs’ heads all turned to look at the man standing in the doorway.

  “Mr. Karnighan?” Remy asked. “Hi, I’m Remy Chandler.”

  The man was very old, leaning upon a cane carved from dark cherrywood that reminded Remy for some reason or another of solidified blood.

  “It appears they like you, Mr. Chandler,” the old man sneered, his voice hinting of a strength now passed. He slowly lifted his cane and pointed it at the dogs.

  Remy noticed them flinch.

  “It seems that they like everyone, which is why I am currently in need of your services.”

  The old man’s expression softened as he tore his gaze away from the animals.

  “I’m Alfred Karnighan,” he said, hobbling farther outside the door, his hand extended. Remy met the man partway, shaking hands with him.

  “If I can tear you away from your new friends, why don’t you come inside so that we can discuss business,” Karnighan said with a hint of sarcasm.

  He made a brief clucking sound and motioned with his hand toward the animals. Heads hung low, the dogs trotted off, as Karnighan returned his attention to him, now gesturing with the cane for Remy to go inside.

  The inside of the home was like a museum.

  Remy walked slowly alongside the elderly man, taking in objects of art tastefully displayed around him as they progressed through the house.

  “You have some very nice things,” Remy said as they passed a beautiful piece that he recognized as being by Monet, not a foot away from a glass case that displayed a porcelain vase that could have quite easily been from some ancient Chinese dynasty.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chandler, but I consider these items merely knickknacks in comparison to what has been taken from me.”

  “These are some very expensive knickknacks, sir,” Remy commented.

  The room that they passed through next was in disarray, the floor covered with thick drop cloths. The smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the air.

  “Please excuse the mess,” Karnighan apologized. “I’m having some renovation work done. Since I’m not traveling as much as I used to, I’ve decided to make my home more pleasing to the eye.”