A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (10 page)

“A friend,” Remy replied, and he could almost feel the man’s eyes scrutinizing him, searching for any sign that he wasn’t telling the truth. “Is he at the bandstand? ” Remy continued, reaching into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulling out a twenty-dollar bill.

The man slowly nodded.

Stepping closer, Remy bent down and held out the folded money to the transient. “Why don’t you buy some breakfast for you and your buddies,” he said. “Bagels and coffee would be good. It feels like that kind of day.”

Without a word, the homeless man’s hand snaked out from beneath the blanket and snatched the offering.

Remy rose and headed down the brick walkway toward the Parkman Bandstand. His thoughts again drifted to the past, memories of warm summer nights with Madeline, the music of Mozart and Beethoven wafting from the circular concrete structure while they sat upon a blanket, sipping wine from paper cups.

A bittersweet smile played at the corners of his mouth; this memory seemed even farther away than revolutions and the fall of empires. He made a mental note to call Cresthaven, just to hear his wife’s voice, as soon as he went home.

It was dark on the bandstand.

“Hey, Laz?” Remy called into the shadows as he climbed the steps to the stage. “It’s Remy. Are you up here?”

And then he smelled it, the sharp, metallic odor of spilled life. How many times had it filled his lungs in his countless years upon the planet?

He searched the darkness and found Lazarus on the floor, back pressed against the wrought iron railing that surrounded the structure, head slumped to his chest, arms splayed on either side of him. Then he noticed the bloody knife resting in his lap, and the dark, glistening puddles of crimson that had expanded outward from beneath the man’s slashed wrists.

“Son of a bitch,” Remy hissed in disgust.

He leaned his hip against the railing and crossed his arms, looking out over the Common for a sign of his dog as he waited. He caught sight of Marlowe in the distance, sitting before an elderly couple who appeared to be eating their breakfast on one of the park benches.

Remy brought his fingers to his mouth and let out an ear-piercing whistle. The Lab glanced over his shoulder at Remy, then turned his attention back to the poor couple. Of course, they had food, and if there was one thing to say about Labrador retrievers, it was that they certainly had healthy appetites.

“Marlowe,” Remy yelled. “Leave them alone and get over here.”

Clearly, the dog was torn, but finally he stood, wagged his tail, and headed for the bandstand.

“That whistle could rupture eardrums,” Lazarus suddenly said, and Remy looked at the crumpled figure still slumped upon the ground.

The blood that had pooled around his slashed wrists was gone, and he was closely examining the new lines of scar tissue that adorned his flesh, along with the remains of so many others.

“Any different this time?” Remy asked, pushing off the railing and walking over to Lazarus. He reached out a hand to help the man up from the ground.

Lazarus took hold of the offered hand in a powerful grip, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “Not really, ” he said, scratching at his short, black beard. “But you can never tell. . . . This could’ve been the time it stuck.”

Remy felt the same pangs of sympathy he had when he’d first met the man nearly two thousand years before. Stricken by leprosy, Lazarus had lain dead in his tomb for four days, until the Son of God raised him.

At first, the miracle had been a blessing, but soon after, Lazarus began to realize that he was no longer aging. And finally, as he watched everyone he loved wither and die, he began to think of the Lord’s gift as a curse.

Lazarus had been trying to kill himself for centuries, and who knew? Maybe someday he would succeed. But there was certainly no chance of that now, not with Israfil among the missing.

“Not this time, Laz,” Remy said, slowly shaking his head. “We got big troubles brewing.”

Lazarus leaned back against the metal railing, fishing through the pockets of his Navy pea coat. “Thought something might be up,” he said, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He tapped one from the pack and placed it in his mouth. “I can feel the change in the air—that’s why I thought it might work this time.” The unlit cigarette bobbed between his lips.

Both men glanced at the knife still lying on the ground, and Remy reached down to pick it up. It too was clean of blood.

“That’s not the change you feel, I’m afraid,” he said, flipping the blade in his hand to give it back to his friend, handle first. “Israfil has dropped off the radar.”

“No shit,” Lazarus said, carefully taking the blade and slipping it inside his coat with the pack of cigarettes.

“You’re not dying, and neither is anybody—or anything—else.”

Lazarus reached up and took the unlit smoke from his mouth. “Got a light?” he asked.

Remy shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Things’ll kill me anyway,” he chuckled, shoving the cigarette back inside his pocket. There wasn’t a hint of humor in the laughter, only a deep, tortured sadness.

Lazarus was tired of living, and Remy had even gone so far as to promise the man that if ever there came an opportunity to find the solution to his problem, he would help him—free of charge. It was the least he could do, for Lazarus had helped him out on a number of cases. He had a real knack for hearing things on the street, which was why Remy had sought him out this morning.

“So the Angel of Death is missing,” Lazarus said, running his hands through his long, matted black hair. “That’s bad, man . . . real bad.”

Remy nodded. “I had a visit from the family and everything.”

“No shit,” Lazarus said again. “Seraphim?”

“Nathanuel and the boys came by the office, coerced me into finding our wayward angel.”

Lazarus leaned out over the railing of the bandstand, lifting his face to the early morning light. “I knew something was up,” he said, eyes closed, sniffing at the air. “Smells all wrong. Out of balance. Now it makes sense.”

“I was hoping you might have heard something,” Remy said, before the jangling of Marlowe’s collar interrupted the two men. Remy turned as the dog bounded up the stone steps. “There he is,” he said, a smile that he couldn’t have stopped even if he had wanted to spreading across his face.

Marlowe’s tail wagged as he headed toward Remy. “Catch anything?” he asked, rubbing the panting dog’s neck.

Lazarus clapped his hands together and squatted down as the dog trotted over to him. “How’s my boy?” He rubbed and patted Marlowe as the Lab twisted and turned, making sure Lazarus hit all the hot spots, before finally stopping as the man began to scratch that spot just above his tail.

“How come I always end up scratching your ass?” Lazarus asked.

“Like it,”
the dog answered, as he wiggled his hindquarters, claws clicking on the cement floor of the bandstand.

“What did he say?” Lazarus asked Remy.

“He says that he likes it.”

“Then that’s good enough for me,” the immortal said, scratching with both hands now.

“As I was saying before we were interrupted for more important things,” Remy said sarcastically, his dog looking up at him with hooded, pleasure-filled eyes, “I was hoping that you might’ve heard something.”

Lazarus gave the dog a final pat before rising to his full height, knees cracking noisily. “Nothing,” he said. “But I’ll see if I can’t flip over a few stones. Might be able to find something.”

“I appreciate it,” Remy said, reaching into the pocket of his sweats again and coming out with some more folded bills, which he handed to the man.

“Ditto,” Lazarus said, slipping the money into his own pocket. “I’ll be in touch.”

Remy looked to his dog, who was now lying beside Lazarus’ feet. “You hanging with Lazarus today, or are you coming with me?”

Marlowe tilted his head curiously.
“Going now?”

“Yeah, you coming?”

“Coming,”
Marlowe answered, climbing to his feet and following Remy, Lazarus already forgotten.

They had just reached the brick path when Remy heard Lazarus call out to him. He turned to see the immortal man leaning over the metal railing.

“Have you talked to
them
yet?”

“Them?” Remy asked, before realizing who it was that Lazarus meant. “Oh, them,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Might not be such a bad idea. They usually have a good handle on what you Heavenly types are up to. You know, birds of a feather and all that shit.”

Remy nodded. “Yeah, birds of a feather,” he repeated, turning away with a wave.

Remy and Mulvehill sat on either side of a small metal table outside Starbucks at the corner of Cambridge and New Chardon streets. Remy sipped his coffee, watching Mulvehill over the brim of his cup.

“Are you all right?” he asked, as his friend reached for his own cup, not quite able to hide the tremor in his hand.

“I’m fine,” Mulvehill said, making an annoyed face. “Why wouldn’t I be? I hear this kind of shit everyday.” He carefully sipped at the hot coffee. “Could use something a little stronger than cream in this, though.”

Remy remained silent, tearing a piece from a cinnamon-raisin bagel and feeding it to Marlowe, who was lying at his feet under the table.

“Last night,” Mulvehill finally began, “I caught a case—guy took an aluminum baseball bat to his five-year -old daughter. Beat her so badly that nearly every bone in her body was shattered, and even though there wasn’t any logical reason for it, she was still alive. Crying for her mommy, and still alive.” He shook his head. “Christ, I need a cigarette. Goddamn city—pretty soon it’ll be illegal to smoke in your own house.” Instead, he took a long drink from his coffee cup.

“How the fuck could the Angel of Death walk away from his job?” Mulvehill asked, leaning forward and dropping his voice.

Remy ripped another hunk of bagel away and fed it to the drooling dog. “I don’t know,” he replied. “But the Seraphim have their suspicions.”

“Suspicions?” Mulvehill asked. “What? Better benefits package? More time off?”

Remy drank from his large cup of coffee. “They didn’t come right out and say it, but they’re blaming me.”

“What do you have to do with it?”

“They suspect that Israfil may have been seduced by the ways of humanity, like they believe I was.”

“What do you think?”

Remy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“So this could all be your fault?”

“If you want to look at me as some kind of angelic role model, then yeah, I guess it is.”

Mulvehill was silent for a few moments, staring off into space. “The other guys on the job are talking. They’re all freaked out by what’s happening around the city—around the world—and here I am with the answer to the fifty-thousand-dollar question.” He paused before continuing, as if weighing what he was about to say. “You know, I shouldn’t know about this shit.”

A woman with a baby carriage walked by, and a sudden cry from within the stroller sent a spasm through Mulvehill’s hand, causing him to knock over his coffee cup, what little remained inside it spilling over the table. “Son of a bitch,” he hissed, grabbing up some napkins from an empty table nearby to absorb the mess.

Remy stood, adding his own napkins to the spill. His eyes locked with Mulvehill’s and he could see the fear there. “It’s going to be all right,” he tried to reassure him.

The cop smiled, picking up the saturated napkins and putting them inside his cup. “See, I wouldn’t be having such a fucking hard time if I didn’t know what was actually going on.” He waved a hand in the air. “All this shit would be just that. . . . Weird shit that I wouldn’t know a damn thing about . . . just as much in the dark as the next guy.”

It was his turn to stare into Remy’s eyes.

“I know too goddamned much,” he said, looking away before Remy could even respond, taking the trash to a nearby barrel.

Remy stood, grabbing Marlowe’s leash as Mulvehill returned to the table. The Labrador watched him with dark, excited eyes, his muscular tail wagging.

“Let me know if I can help,” Mulvehill said. “Anything at all.” He gave Marlowe one last pat. “There’s not that much for a homicide cop to do when nobody’s dying.”

Perhaps he’s right,
Remy thought, watching as his friend walked away from him.

H
e knew what he had to do, and the knowledge nagged at him for the remainder of the morning.

Remy returned to his Beacon Hill brownstone, called Madeline to wish her good morning, showered, dressed, and got Marlowe settled for the day, leaving him a banana and a couple of cookies to hold him over until supper.

Marlowe lay on his back on the couch, front paws sticking straight up into the air, back legs splayed.

“I should be back around dinner time,” Remy told him, pausing in the living room doorway on his way out.

Marlowe stared at him, upside down, with complete disinterest. Remy was interfering with his nap time.

“If I can’t make it by then, I’ll call Ashlie and ask her to feed you and take you out.”

Marlowe’s tail thumped happily on the cushion. He loved the teenaged girl who lived on the next street over. Remy thought she was pretty awesome himself, lucky that he had been able to find somebody he could trust completely with his four-legged pally.

“Don’t work too hard today,” he called over his shoulder as he left the house, locking the door behind him.

It was a beautiful day and Remy decided to walk the few blocks to his office. It would give him a chance to think, and he wouldn’t have to waste time trying to find a parking spot on the congested Boston streets— one less thing to worry about.