Princes of Arkwright

by Trafford, Daniel

  6. APPEARANCES

  Tucker was now lying on his back in the dirt. The pieces of gravel dug into his elbows as he propped himself up slightly. It was not an easy task, for his limbs had committed mutiny and were no longer taking orders from his brain. His companion reached down to offer assistance, but Tucker winced at his near-touch, and drew back.

  “Archangel?” repeated Tucker, with just a hint of the usual intensity in his eyes.

  “Yes,” said Uriel.

  The world was swimming before him as in a dream. But the cold gravel made him just uncomfortable enough to abort the idea that he was dreaming before he even had it. Tucker was one of those people who equates pain and discomfort with reality. And he had experienced just enough of both to keep him grounded.

  “And what brings you to Arkwright, archangel?” he finally asked.

  “I have a job to do – and to protect you.”

  “To protect me?” said Tucker, suddenly back in possession of his arms and legs.

  “That’s a small part of it,” he replied. “I have a task to perform.”

  “And what is it?” asked the detective, now rising to his feet.

  “I do not yet know.”

  “I see,” said Tucker, pulling on his ear, as he often did when interrogating suspects. “And do archangels always just go around announcing who they are to everybody?”

  “Not everybody,” he said. “Just to some people.”

  “Do you think it’s wise to just go around telling people that?”

  “It is wise to keep the secrets of a king,” said Uriel. “But the works of the Lord should be made known.”

  “I don’t believe in God,” snapped Tucker, losing his last trace of fear. Uriel let out a quick laugh that sounded like a muted trumpet blast. “I do,” he said.

  Tucker’s only response to this was to walk around to the driver’s side of the car.

  “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll drive us back downtown – if that’s OK with you.”

  Uriel sat in the car and closed the door while Tucker started the engine. He was familiar with the area, having fished here several times, and had no trouble finding the highway.

  “So,” said Tucker, after a minute’s silence, and with a sardonic smile on his face. “How long have you been an archangel?”

  “Your questions will cease now, son of man,” said Uriel, turning his fiery gaze upon Tucker. The detective jumped a little at the authority in his companion’s voice. And they continued their short journey in silence. Tucker was determined to stay flat-footed on the ground, though he had no immediate explanation for the things he had witnessed. He had heard people say a lot of strange things over the years. Just last week, a junkie walked into the police station saying he had silver implants throughout his body that he wanted removed. But those people sounded nothing like the steady, confident voice of Uriel. Tucker pulled the car into the police station lot, relieved to get it back in one piece.

  “Well, I guess this is where we part company, angel,” said Tucker. “It’s been a long night and I’m barely up for the walk home.”

  “I will accompany you, son of man,” said Uriel; and the two began walking up Station Street.

  “Why do you keep calling me that?” asked Tucker. “I have a name, you know. It’s Tucker Bromley.”

  “Well, Tuckerbromley,” returned Uriel, “Why do you keep calling me ‘angel’? I have a name. It is Uriel.”

  “Right,” said Tucker. “My apologies.”

  As they approached St. Michael’s Church, Tucker stopped and looked at the imposing edifice.

  “Isn’t this where you stay?” asked Tucker, hoping to separate from his companion, since he really didn’t want Uriel to know where he lived.

  “What is this building?” he asked.

  “It’s a church,” said Tucker slowly. “Don’t you know what a church is?”

  Uriel opened his mouth to speak, but the sound was cut off by a cry for help. It was the voice of an elderly woman and seemed to come from a small alley next to the church. Tucker and Uriel ran to the head of the alley and saw the shadowy figure of a woman defending herself from an attacker. Tucker sprinted down the alley. As he got closer, he could clearly make out the features of the shabby man he almost hit with his car earlier that day. He was grabbing the old woman’s wrist while she was trying to fight him off with her cane. Tucker grabbed the man on both shoulders and pulled him away, throwing him against the wall of the church.

  “You see, these are the things we humans have to deal with, Uriel” he said, casting a glance back over his shoulder. Uriel’s face was expressionless as he approached the bent form of the elderly lady. Suddenly he pulled back his arm and landed a violent punch squarely on the old woman’s face. She let out a shriek and fell backward as Tucker and the shabby man watched with mouths wide open. Both were paralyzed with horror as Uriel fell on the woman, landing blow after blow on her tiny, frail body. Tucker relinquished his grasp on the shabby man, who bolted, muttering to himself as he escaped. Uriel finally relented and the crying woman began crawling away.

  “Uriel, what the hell are you doing?” yelled Tucker, still shaking at the sight. “What is wrong with you?”

  The detective started after the old woman, but the voice of Uriel commanded, “Wait!”

  Tucker stopped, but kept his eyes fixed on the old woman, who continued to crawl away. She hobbled on her hands and knees. After a few seconds, she seemed to be moving a little faster. Then, still on all fours, she sped off, scurrying across the yard and up the church wall like a cockroach. Tucker shivered and tried to speak, but he could only manage a whisper.

  “Uriel, what is this?”

  In response, the angel reached out and touched Tucker on the arm. The old lady transformed. She was shiny, maroon and scaly, with cloven feet and backward-jointed knees. From the top of her head grew two horns that curved back under her ears. As Tucker watched the creature with horror, she stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. Her face was twisted and disfigured. Two slits served for nostrils beneath her beady red eyes, and her teeth were oddly shaped fangs that grew past her lips and pointed in all directions. The next moment, she had scurried along the top of a wall surrounding the churchyard. When she reached the part of the wall closest to the river, she disappeared over the opposite side.

  As Tucker watched this Kafkaesque transformation, he had slowly retreated until his back was squarely against the church wall, clinging to it in desperation. He tried to let out a sound, any sound, but his voice was choked and he could barely breathe. Uriel walked toward Tucker, the moon shining brightly on the angel’s face. His face remained expressionless, and his heavy eyelids looked more tired than ever.

  “That, son of man,” said Uriel, with the air of a schoolmaster, “was a demon. It is something we angels have to deal with.”

  Once again, Tucker collapsed and whimpered. It was a few minutes before he was able to recover. A cloud moved in front of the moon, and the darkness of the alley was palpable. The wind whistled around the church’s twin spires, and Tucker groped his way back toward Station Street. The angel walked beside him as if he saw just as well in the dark as in the light.

  As Tucker reached the sidewalk and the safe glow of a streetlamp, he sat down on a low brick wall, tightly clutching the iron fence that surrounded the front churchyard.

  “It’s true,” said Tucker. “It’s all true. I was so sure. I thought there was no way. I didn’t …”

  “That is very interesting, Tuckerbromley,” said Uriel, still peering into the darkness of the church alley. “You have witnessed the majesty of God, been saved by his hand, and conversed with a prince of the presence. But it is only now that you have met a scurrying little subdemon that you are ready to forswear your beliefs and offer a profession of faith. Humanity is sick-making.”

  Throughout this lecture, Tucker had been studying the angel with growing admiration. He stood up, looking up and down Station Street, but couldn
’t spot another soul.

  “I was just about to arrest that man and charge him with felonious assault on the elderly. I would have testified that I saw him do it with my own eyes, and he was completely innocent.”

  “Appearances are sometimes deceiving,” said Uriel.

  “And to think, that little old lady was a demon,” said Tucker his eyes wide open as he replayed the scene in his mind. “Are all old ladies demons?”

  “Do not be stupid, Tuckerbromley,” said the angel, grabbing Tucker’s arm and pulling him farther up Station Street.

  “Hold on,” Tucker protested. “I don’t think I can walk right now.”

  Uriel let out a gasping sigh of impatience and said, “Here, eat one of these.” As he spoke these words, he produced a sleeve of saltines from nowhere, for Tucker had observed the angels empty hands just a second before.

  “Saltines!” said Tucker, reaching for a cracker. “I love these things,” he added with his mouth full. “I keep buying them and losing them.”

  “I know,” said Uriel. “These are from one of the boxes you lost.”

  “Stop stealing my crackers!” said Tucker, not waiting to swallow and spraying saltine all over the sidewalk in front of him.

  “Stop leaving them in the bar,” said Uriel as they approached the road where Tucker turned to go to his apartment. The detective was just about to say that they needed to turn, but it seems the angel already knew.

  “I leave you now, Tuckerbromley,” he said. “I trust you can traverse the remaining few hundred yards without perishing. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  “I do?” yelled Tucker, as the angel started to cross the bridge. “Where?”

  “The same place you sought me the first time, Tuckerbromley.”

  “In the bar?”

  “In the bar.”

  Tucker turned around and began walking up Lexington Avenue to his apartment. He turned to catch one last glimpse of the archangel, but he had disappeared. Tucker strained his eyes, but Uriel was nowhere to be found.

  “Well, he certainly is mysterious,” said Tucker, out loud.

  “Dum da dum dum!” sang out his cell phone. He flipped it open and said, “Hello?”

  “Oh my God!” said a familiar angelic voice. “Are you OK? I couldn’t wait any longer to call you. I was so worried about you!”

  “Victoria,” stammered Tucker. He had completely forgotten about her, and was surprised to find out she hadn’t forgotten about him. “I’m fine.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Well, it was a pretty bad kidney stone attack, but I’m feeling much better now.”

  “But those jerks were following you. I thought they were going to kill you.”

  “No, we lost them pretty fast.”

  “Aren’t you going to arrest them?”

  “Well, I can’t,” said Tucker, trying to think back to the events in the bar, which seemed a year ago. “They never actually did anything. I can’t charge them with assault, because they never touched me. They never even actually threatened me.”

  “But they were going to. I saw them chasing you.”

  “Well, I can’t arrest people for what they’re going to do,” said Tucker. “This isn’t China.”

  Victoria laughed.

  “I’m sorry I gave you a scare, cutie,” said Tucker, feeling braver than he usually did talking to women. “I should make it up to you. Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

  “Well, I’m taking my daughter to the Autumn Carnival.”

  “Oh jeez,” said Tucker. “Is that tomorrow? Hey, why don’t you two come with me. It’s sponsored by the police. I can get you on all the rides for free.”

  Tucker felt another sharp twinge in his chest as Victoria was silent for a moment.

  “Well, OK,” she said, at last, allowing Tucker to finally exhale. “It would probably be a good idea for Lenore to meet a nice guy for a change. I’ll meet you about 1 o’clock?”

  “Sounds good,” said Tucker. “Wait! Where are we meeting?”

  “How about the bar? I’m going there anyway. My check wasn’t ready today.”

  “Perfect,” said Tucker. “I’ll see you then. Good night.”

  He flipped his phone closed without waiting for Victoria’s goodbye, and wondered how he was ever going to get to sleep tonight.

  7. ALYSON KATHERINE McLAUGHLIN

  Tucker awoke to a loud buzzing sound. For a moment, he didn’t know what day it was, and couldn’t remember going to sleep the previous night.

  “Archangels,” he muttered. “Victoria … What the hell is that noise?”

  He jumped out of bed to investigate. The buzzing seemed to be coming from outside his apartment door. He opened it to see Wayne standing on the other side, wearing bicycle shorts and a brown sweater with a sunflower on it. In his hand he held a battery-operated coffee bean grinder – the obvious source of the racket.

  “Wayne,” said Tucker, squinting at his neighbor, “what the hell are you doing?”

  “Um… grinding coffee beans.”

  “I can see that,” said Tucker. “Why are you doing it outside my door?”

  “Well I needed the higher altitude,” Wayne replied, as though it should have been obvious in the first place.

  “Right,” said Tucker, slowly. “Well, do you have to do it so early in the morning? I was sleeping.”

  “Do you always sleep in a shirt and tie?” asked Wayne, scanning the detective’s outfit. Tucker looked down to see that he was still dressed as he had been the day before – right down to the badge on his belt. “Besides,” said Wayne. “It’s not morning. It’s 12:30.”

  Tucker reached into his pocket for his cell phone, not trusting Wayne even for the time of day. “Holy crap!” he shouted. “I’m supposed to meet Victoria in half an hour.”

  “Who’s Victoria?” asked Wayne, as Tucker slammed the door in his face.

  He washed and shaved as quickly as he could, giving himself a nasty case of razor burn in the process. His head was spinning with thoughts of the archangel. “That didn’t happen,” he kept repeating to himself, knowing full well that it did, as Victoria was sure to remind him in less than half an hour. He put on the first clothes he came across in his closet. They consisted of a pair of jeans and a white dress shirt. He thought it might be a little cold outside, so he grabbed a gray tweed sports jacket and ran out the door.

  It was a crisp, overcast autumn day and Tucker was glad he grabbed the jacket. The maple trees seemed much redder than they had just the day before. He even caught the scent of leaves burning – a violation of municipal ordinance, he thought, not allowing himself the joy of the scent.

  He headed toward Station Street in a jog, fearing that Victoria would leave without him if he was even a second late. When he reached the intersection where he had last seen Uriel the night before, he stopped to look at the bar on the other side of the bridge. There was no sign of Victoria. He looked at his cell phone. It read 12:31. He broke into a run and had almost reached the bar when the heavy door swung open and Victoria stepped out. Tucker gave a little sigh that only he could hear when he caught sight of her. She was wearing jeans that were the same faded blue as those Tucker had on, though considerably tighter. She wore a clingy flower-print lilac sweater with a headband of the same color. Holding her by the hand was a little girl, about 9 or 10 years old, with long brown hair and wearing a navy blue jumper.

  “Lenore,” said Victoria, bending over to put her head at the same level as her daughter’s, “this is Mr. Bromley. He’s coming with us to the carnival.”

  Lenore looked up at Tucker for a few moments, assessing him with knitted brows and saying nothing.

  “He’s a police officer,” added Victoria.

  “How come you’re not wearing a uniform?” Lenore asked at last, cocking her head to one side.

  “Well, today is my day off,” said Tucker, towering over the girl, but looking her directly in the eye. “Besides, I’m a detective.
I don’t wear a uniform anymore. I get to wear ordinary clothes.”

  “You’re a detective?” said Lenore, her eyes widening. “You’re like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Lenore reads a lot,” said Victoria, her facial expression alternating between proud and embarrassed. “She loves Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I love Sherlock Holmes too,” said Tucker, “what’s your favorite mystery?”

  “Umm,” said Lenore, putting her hand to her chin and looking up at the sky as though the answer was written in the clouds, “‘The Red-headed League’ is my favorite.”

  “Ah,” said Tucker, showing his dimpled smile. “Jabez Wilson and the Encyclopedia Britannica. That’s a good one. I like the ‘Hound of the Baskervilles’ the best.”

  “I haven’t read that one yet,” said Lenore. “It’s too long.”

  “You will. Some day,” said Tucker. “If you want to, you can be my Dr. Watson today.”

  “Really?” said Lenore, her eyes getting bigger still.

  “Sure,” he said, turning to Victoria. “Well, are we ready?”

  “Not quite,” she said. “There’s somebody else joining us.”

  “Who?”

  “Aly Kat.”

  “Oh,” said Tucker, with a fake smile plastered on his face. “Isn’t that nice.”

  “Oh, look” said Victoria. “Here she comes.”

  Tucker turned around and caught his first glimpse of Aly since high school. She was a few inches taller than Victoria, with milky white skin and long, luxurious dark-red hair. A proud goth chick in high school, she always balked at dying her hair black, though she had often thought about it. She made up for it by adopting a wardrobe that was various shades of ebony. She must have outgrown the habit slightly, for today she was wearing a short red plaid skirt. She still had her ubiquitous black eyeliner, and the rest of her clothes were safely black, including knee-high boots and a flimsy sweater, showing off ample cleavage that Tucker had certainly never noticed in high school.

  “Hey, pinhead!” she said, pointing to her face. “I’m up here.”

  Tucker stammered out a few incoherent words of protest before settling on “Hello, Madam.”