A Kiss Before the Apocalypse (4 page)

They were silent for a while, each basking in the warmth and love of the other.

“How’s the baby?” Madeline asked, finally. “Does he miss me? You’re not letting him have too much people food, are you?”

The baby
was their four-year-old Labrador retriever, Marlowe, that they treated as if he were their child. They had had another dog, a German shepherd who went by the name Hammett, who lived to be more than fifteen. It was absolutely devastating to Madeline—and to Remy, surprisingly—when the old dog finally died. It took them years to get another, the memory of how much they loved Hammett, and how badly it hurt when he was gone, keeping them from making the next emotional investment.

It was the sad fact that they would never have children together that eventually swayed them to take another animal into their home. They had such an abundance of love that they wanted . . . needed to share it with another life. There was nothing he would have loved more than to give her a child, but it wasn’t meant to be. Others of his kind had done such things over the ages, and the results had been less then normal. There was something seriously wrong with children produced by the mating of human and angel.

Remy grinned, pushing the sad thoughts aside. “Marlowe’s fine, and yes, he misses you a great deal. He always asks me when the female is coming back to the pack.”

They both chuckled, Madeline reaching into her sweatshirt pocket for a wrinkled-up Kleenex. She wiped at her nose.

“I want you to bring him next time you visit,” she said. “I need to see my boy.”

Time was growing short for the woman Remy loved. It was something they were both very aware of—after all, no one came to Cresthaven to get well.

“I’ll do that,” he said softly.

She squeezed his hand and covered a feigned yawn with the other. “I’m tired, Remy. Would you mind? I think I’d like to lie down now.”

He helped her to the bed, removing her slippers and swinging her legs onto the mattress.

“Do you want me to help you get undressed?”

She gave him a sly look. “Always at the most inopportune times,” she told him weakly. “Maybe if I get a good night’s sleep, I’ll take you up on your offer tomorrow.”

Grinning, she moved her eyebrows up and down, and Remy chuckled, giving her a wink.

“You go home. I’m sure the baby is ravenous and desperate to empty his tank. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Madeline waved him away and adjusted the pillow beneath her head.

She was getting weaker, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

Remy leaned down and kissed her long on the lips.

“I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“I love you too. And don’t forget Marlowe,” she ordered as he turned to leave.

He was just stepping into the hallway when he heard her call his name.

“Yeah, hon?” he said popping his head back into the room.

Madeline had propped herself up against the head-board. “What do you think it means—that man seeing you?” she asked. “I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right.”

Remy returned to her bedside and, leaning in, planted a reassuring kiss upon her forehead.

“I’m sure it means absolutely nothing,” he told her. “It was just a fluke. The guy was so crazy he could have imagined me as the Easter Bunny. Now get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Remy flashed her a final smile as he stepped into the corridor and out of view. He passed through the lobby to see that the pretty young receptionist was on the phone, and he mouthed the words
Have a good night
as he passed.

Walking to his car, he was preoccupied with thoughts of his wife and her failing health. The poor woman didn’t need anything else to worry her right now. He got behind the wheel and turned over the engine. In the theater of his mind he saw Mountgomery and his secretary entering the motel room, heard the clamor of the door slamming shut behind them like the sound of thunder.

Remy flipped on his blinker and eased out into traffic. Though he would have preferred otherwise, he couldn’t help but remember Mountgomery smiling dreamily as he talked about the beauty of angels, just before putting the gun beneath his chin and decorating the ceiling with his brains.

He pointed the car for home, turning up the radio, hoping the music would distract him from further thoughts of the day’s disturbing events. But it did little to drown out the sound of Mulvehill’s voice repeating in his head.

Remy stood in the foyer of his Beacon Hill brownstone, sifting through the day’s mail. From a basket attached to the inside of the door beneath the mail slot, he had plucked three envelopes and a grocery store circular. He tucked them beneath his arm and searched for his house key. On the other side of the inner door, Marlowe let out a pathetic yelp that suggested he was in great need of his master.

“Hang on, pally, help is on the way.”

He let himself into the house and was immediately set upon by the jet-black Labrador with the furiously wagging tail. The dog’s tail had become the legendary scourge of knickknacks up and down Pinckney Street, able to clear coffee tables with a single exuberant swipe.

Remy tossed the mail onto a hall table and bent down to rub the excited animal’s big head, ruffling his black, velvety soft ears.

“Hello, good boy. How are you, huh? Were you a good dog today?”

Marlowe’s deep brown eyes locked on to Remy’s. And he responded.
“Good boy. Yes. Out? Out?”

It was another angelic trait that Remy Chandler had chosen not to repress: the ability to commune with all living things upon the earth. If it had a language, no matter how rudimentary, Remy could understand and communicate with it.

“Okay, let’s get you out, and then I’ll give you something to eat,” he told the dog as they walked down the hall and through the kitchen to the back door.

“Out. Then eat. Good. Out, then eat,”
Marlowe responded, his tail still furiously wagging while he waited for Remy to open the door into the small, fenced-in yard.

The dog bounded down the three steps, his dark nose sniffing the ground for the scent of any uninvited guests, as he trotted to the far corner and squatted to relieve himself. Remy smiled, amused by the expression of relief on the dog’s face. Even though he was a male dog and nearly four years old, Marlowe still insisted on squatting to urinate. Maddie had suggested he was a slow learner and would be lifting his leg in no time. Remy wasn’t so sure.

The dog started to poke around the yard again.

“Hey, do you want to eat?” Remy called from the doorway.

Marlowe looked up from a patch of grass, his body suddenly rigid.
“Hungry. Eat now, yes,”
he grumbled in response, then ran toward Remy, who barely managed to get the screen door open in time.

Marlowe hadn’t eaten since six that morning and was obviously ravenous. But then again, when wasn’t he?

Remy mixed some wet food from a can with some dry, Marlowe standing attentively by his side, closely watching his every move. A slimy puddle of drool had started to form on the floor beneath his hungry mouth.

“Almost ready, pal,” he told the Labrador. “I hope you appreciate the time I put into the preparation of your meals.”

“Appreciate,”
Marlowe replied.
“Hungry. Eat now?”

“Yes, now,” Remy confirmed, setting the plastic bowl down on a place mat covered with images of dancing cartoon Labradors. “Let me get you some fresh water.”

He picked up the stainless-steel water bowl as Marlowe shoved his hungry maw into his supper. He emptied the bowl and rinsed it thoroughly, then filled it with cold water. In the seconds it took Remy to do that and return to the plastic place mat, Marlowe had already finished his meal and was licking the sides of the dish for stray crumbs.

“More?”
Marlowe asked, looking up at his master.

Remy rolled his eyes and shook his head. “No. No more. Maybe later you can have an apple, if you’re good.”

He ruffled the dog’s head and went to the counter to prepare a pot of coffee.

“What did I just say?” Remy said, scooping coffee into a filter. “Later, before bed.”

Marlowe lowered his head and watched quietly as his master poured water into the coffeemaker. The dog carefully moved closer to Remy, casually sniffing at his pant leg.

Remy leaned down and thumped the dog’s side. It sounded like an empty drum. “What do you smell there, big boy? Anything good?”

“Female,”
Marlowe answered.
“Smell female. Where?”

Remy squatted in front of his friend and rubbed the sides of his black face. “Maddie is at the get-well place. I’ll bring you to see her tomorrow.”

The dog thought for a moment and then kissed Remy nervously on the ear.
“Get-well place? Get-well place bad.”

Maddie and Remy had called the veterinarian’s office the get-well place, and the dog had never enjoyed his visits there. Marlowe was not happy in the least that Maddie was in the get-well place. She and Remy made up Marlowe’s pack, and it confused the poor animal not to have her at home. No matter how Remy tried to explain that Madeline was sick and needed to be taken care of elsewhere, Marlowe could not grasp the concept. So, as he often did in instances like this, Remy changed the subject.

“Want an apple now?”

Marlowe snapped to attention, his missing pack member almost instantly forgotten.

Remy grabbed a Red Delicious from a fruit bowl on the microwave table and brought it to the counter. He plucked a knife from the strainer, cored the apple, and cut it into bite-sized pieces. Marlowe followed him excitedly across the kitchen as he tossed the chopped fruit into the metal bowl.

“Here you go. Eat it slow so you don’t choke.”

Marlowe dug in.
“Apple good. Chew. Not choke. Good,”
he said between bites.

Remy returned to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. He leaned against the counter, watching the dog inhale his treat, and wondered how long it would be before Marlowe again asked for Madeline.
Not the best of situations,
he thought, his eyes going to the fruit bowl.

And they were almost out of apples.

It was after eight when Remy finally retired to the rooftop patio to unwind from the hectic day. It was getting cooler, but he didn’t notice. He sat in a white plastic lounge chair, sipping his coffee and reading
Farewell My Lovely
for what was probably the tenth time. Remy never tired of Chandler. In fact, he’d chosen his
human
name and that of his “baby” as a kind of tribute to his favorite author. There was something about the man’s prose, his keen observations of the mean streets of 1940s Los Angeles, that usually soothed the angel, but not tonight. He placed the paperback down on the patio table.

Marlowe lay on his side at Remy’s feet, legs extended as if dropped by gunfire. He lifted his head and grumbled.

“Yeah, me too, boy. Even Chandler’s not doing it tonight.” Remy leaned forward in his chair and ran his fingers along the dog’s rib cage. The Labrador laid his head back with a contented sigh.

Then, coffee mug in hand, he stepped over Marlowe and walked to the patio’s edge, looking out over the city. He sipped at the cooling liquid as the day’s disturbing events replayed inside his head. Mountgomery saw him in a guise he had not taken in years.

How he hated to be reminded of what he actually was.

The angel listened to the sounds of the city, of the night around him, knowing full well that if he so desired he could pinpoint the individual prayers of every person speaking to Heaven at that moment, but Remiel had given up listening to the prayers of others a long, long time ago. He didn’t want to be something prayed to; he wanted to be like those he walked beside and lived among everyday. Remy Chandler wanted to be human, and until today, he was doing a pretty good job.

The door buzzer squawked below, and Marlowe climbed to his feet with a bark and bolted down the stairs, gruffing and grumbling threateningly. Remy took one last look at the city, wondering how many out there had asked for favors from Heaven tonight; then returned to the table for his book and followed the dog down the three flights.

He pushed the response button on the wall in the kitchen, leaning in toward the two-way speaker. “Yes?”

There was a bit of a pause. Then he heard the rustling of a paper bag.

“Hey. It’s me. Let me in.”

It was Steven Mulvehill, and it sounded like he had brought refreshments. Remy buzzed the man in and went to a cabinet for some glasses.

Marlowe watched his master with a tilted head.

Remy pulled down two tumblers, running his finger along the inside of each glass to clear away any dust. “It’s Steven,” he said as he placed the glasses on the countertop.

The sound of the inner door opening sent Marlowe into spasms of barking fury. The dog bounded down the hall as Mulvehill entered, waiting patiently as the excited Lab sniffed him over.

“Hey, fella, how’s it going?” Mulvehill thumped the dog’s side with the flat of his hand as Marlowe leaned against him, as if starving for attention, his tail, of course, wagging crazily.

He straightened and strolled down the hallway to the kitchen, where he handed Remy the paper bag he was carrying. “I come bearing gifts. Make mine on the rocks, please.”

Remy took the bag from his friend and removed the bottle of Seagram’s whiskey. Marlowe lurked at Remy’s side.

“Have?”
he asked.

Remy tossed the paper bag down to the dog. “Rip it up in here. Don’t get it all over the living room, okay?”