A Kiss Before the Apocalypse rc-1 Read online

  Mulvehill fell silent and stared into space. Absently, he swirled the drink around in the glass, then drained the contents. "They should be dead, but they're not."

  Remy was seldom affected by temperature, but he felt a sudden chill course down his back, and shivered.

  His friend noticed, smiling thinly. "It's creepy, isn't it?" He plucked the smoke from between his lips. "I've seen a lot of weird shit on the job, but nothing quite like this." He took another substantial drag. "And you know what? It gets worse. Back at the station, I hear from other guys that shit like this is happening all over the city. People who should be dead, car wrecks, gang shootings, suicides — they're all hanging on. The hospitals are packed."

  Mulvehill put his cigarette out in an ashtray littered with the remains of others he'd smoked in recent weeks. "Just like Mr. Mountgomery and his little girlfriend."

  The two men were quiet again, each absorbed by their own thoughts, the rattling of Marlowe's snores filling the air.

  Mulvehill had been looking out at the city, but now he met Remy's inquisitive gaze. "You said Mountgom-ery saw what you really are before he shot himself. Do you think there's any connection?"

  Remy ran a finger along the rim of his empty glass, remembering the strangeness in the air he'd been feeling all day. "It's possible. But I haven't a clue as to what it means."

  He reached for the whiskey. They were doing quite a job on it. The bottle was half-empty already. The angel poured about an inch of fluid into his glass. The ice was almost gone, and he thought about going downstairs for more.

  "Leave it to you to get involved with another weird case," his friend said, as he leaned back in his chair, taking another cigarette from the pack on the table.

  "They're not all weird," Remy said, feigning offense. "I've had some normal cases. The few bizarre moments just spice things up some."

  Mulvehill had closed his eyes, letting the alcohol work its magic, but now scoffed loudly and opened them. "A few bizarre moments? Obviously you've lost your ability to distinguish, my friend." He sat up and ran his fingers through his mop of curly black hair with a sigh.

  Remy downed what was left of his drink and made a face. He smiled in surrender. "Well, now that you mention it —»

  They both laughed, and Marlowe came awake with a start, looking up from his place beside Mulvehill's chair to see if everything was okay. He grumbled deep in his throat, annoyed that he had been disturbed, and put his square head back down with a grunt.

  "You are a fucking weird magnet, Remy Chandler," Mulvehill proclaimed. "Maybe being an angel makes you some kind of draw for this shit."

  Remy had been allowing himself to feel the inebriating effects of the alcohol, but suddenly was stone-cold sober. He put his glass down. It was something he had often thought about, that his presence on the planet could somehow be responsible for these outbreaks of strangeness, that the unearthly was attracted to its like.

  "That would certainly suck, wouldn't it?" He looked at his friend and smiled sadly. "When I first came here I didn't even want to be noticed. I just wanted to help when I could, but never interfere. I wanted to get lost in the crowd, to live like them — to be like them."

  He got up from the chair, walked to the roof's edge. Marlowe also climbed to his feet, wondering if they were going somewhere. Mulvehill poured another drink and eyed his friend.

  "Sometimes it's hard to remember I'm not human," Remy said softly. "And sometimes it's hard to forget."

  Mulvehill sipped his drink and swished it around in his mouth. He swallowed, smacking his lips. "You're more human than half the scumbags I'm forced to deal with every day," he told the angel. "Shit, you're more human than everybody down at the Registry of Motor Vehicles."

  Remy came back to the table but didn't sit. "You always did know what to say to make me feel special."

  Mulvehill raised his glass with a dopey grin.

  "What are friends for?"

  Remy fixed him with a serious gaze.

  "There may be something to what you suggested — weirdness being drawn to me."

  The homicide cop didn't respond.

  "It's times like these when I wonder if coming here was the right idea. Am I being selfish — doing more harm than good? Gives me a headache if I think about it too much."

  Remy picked up his glass from the table.

  "Looks like I need more ice — want some?"

  Mulvehill drained his and handed it to Remy.

  "More ice would be good. Better bring up a bucket, to be safe. There's still a lot of drinkin' to be done."

  Remy went toward the door, talking over his shoulder as he did.

  "Don't start drinking from the bottle. I'll be right back."

  Marlowe followed, just in case there might be a treat at the end of the journey, the possibility of food making him forget his earlier anger.

  "Hey!"

  Remy turned as Steven Mulvehill called to him. The homicide detective was lighting up a new cigarette.

  "I know it's probably none of my business, but I'm too drunk to give a shit, and to tell you the truth, I've been curious about this for years." He closed up his lighter and took a short drag before continuing. "Why did you come here?" he asked. "Why would an angel want to leave Heaven?"

  Marlowe stared at his master and whined, sensing a sudden change in the man's mood.

  The angel Remiel remembered the sounds of war, the screams of the vanquished as they were tossed down to the depths by the One they had always believed to be a merciful and loving Creator.

  Remy stood there awkwardly, not wanting Mulvehill to see the hurt on his face. "Heaven isn't all it's cracked up to be," he said simply, driving the recollections from his mind. "Let's just leave it at that." He doubted there would ever come a day when those memories weren't agonizingly painful.

  "I'll be right back with the ice."

  He was almost down the first flight when his friend called out again.

  "Listen, do you want ice or not?"

  Mulvehill puffed casually on his latest cigarette.

  "I don't mind you're here," he said, turning his head away to look out over Boston. "That's all. Go get the ice."

  Remy nodded, sensing that it took a great deal of inner strength, as well as a substantial bit of whiskey, for the homicide detective to express those feelings. It was the closest thing to a declaration of friendship that was ever going to come from Steven Mulvehill, and at that moment Remy appreciated it greatly.

  Chapter three

  The drive to Salem from Boston was relatively easy.

  Except for the usual traffic jam in the Ted Williams Tunnel, the ride through Revere and Lynn was free of congestion. It was 9:26 on Wednesday morning, and the entire trip had taken Remy a little more than an hour.

  His appointment with Janice Mountgomery was for 9:30, and he pulled into the driveway of the home on Prescott Street right on time. This was the part of his job that he found most difficult — the final meeting with the client, where suspicions were either confirmed or denied. He reached for the manila envelope on the seat beside him and got out of the car. Dressed in black jeans, a white shirt, and wool sports coat, the private investigator climbed four orange brick steps to the front door, rang the bell, and waited.

  He found himself listening to the noise of the suburbs. The sounds were different here than in the city; calmer, slower, less frantic. The angel opened his senses and heard light snoring, morning television, and young children at play. A dog angrily barked at a bothersome cat trespassing in his territory, and a trapped housefly buzzed in frustration as it bounced its tiny body against an unremitting pane of glass. Then Janice Mountgom-ery opened the door, and Remy tuned it all out.

  The woman looked tired, even more so than the last time he had seen her. It was obvious she hadn't been sleeping. Her eyes were red, the skin beneath them puffy and dark. She looked as though she would collapse at any moment.

  "Mrs. Mountgomery, if this is a bad time I could come back tomorrow — " Remy began.

  "No. It's fine. Come in." The woman pushed the screen door open and motioned for him to enter. "I don't think there's ever a good time for something like this. Do you?"

  She didn't seem to expect a response, and Remy offered none as he stepped inside his client's home.

  The house reeked of cleanliness, the scents of several different cleaning products making his sensitive nose tingle. He followed her down a short hallway, past a den, and into a dining room. An oblong table made of dark cherrywood occupied the center of the room. Six chairs surrounded it. Framed family pictures hung on the walls, with watercolors of spring on Beacon Hill and the gold-domed state house as seen through Boston Common.

  Janice stood beside a chair where she had obviously been working; stacks of envelopes, a calculator, and a ledger were neatly laid out. "I was doing the bills," she explained. "Have to have all my ducks in a row now that things are the way they are." She kept her eyes downcast as she spoke. "We've got a good health plan, thank God. Who knows how long he'll be in the hospital before he can come home."

  She looked at Remy then, her red, watery eyes locking on to his for the first time. "If he comes home."

  Remy held out the manila envelope to her.

  "I know this is difficult. I'll try to be quick."

  Janice took the envelope tentatively, as if expecting it to be searing hot in her grasp. She held it for a moment, feeling the contents through the paper, and then set it down in the center of the table. She looked back to Remy, eyes swimming with sadness.

  "Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Chandler? I've just brewed a fresh pot, and I really shouldn't drink the whole thing by myself."

  Remy nodded and smiled.

  "That would be nice. Thank you."

  They sat across from one another at the dining room table, a plate of cookies that neither had touched between them. Janice blew on her coffee but didn't drink, and looked at Remy over the drifting steam.

  "It doesn't surprise me at all, really." She laughed nervously, setting her mug down on a white paper napkin. "He was never really the same after the operation."

  Remy sipped at his own coffee, his sixth that morning.

  "Your husband mentioned something about surgery, and dreams he was having as a result. What was wrong with him, Mrs. Mountgomery?"

  She picked up her mug again, holding it in both hands as if to warm them. "He had a brain tumor. They didn't think he would survive the procedure." She finally drank, quiet for a moment. "We even said our good-byes. Believe me when I tell you, there was a lot of praying in this house the morning he went in."

  Remy wondered offhandedly whether any of his kind had been listening to the prayers of the Mount-gomerys that day.

  Janice continued. "They tell me he actually died on the table, but they managed to revive him." She drank some more, her eyes suddenly focusing on the thick envelope still lying in the center of the table. "Lately I've been wondering if it would have been better if they had let him die."

  She dragged her eyes from the envelope.

  "You probably think I'm awful. The bitter, spurned wife," she said with a nervous laugh. "But it's not like that at all. After the surgery he just wasn't the man I married anymore. It was like the operation made him into somebody else, like the tumor was really Peter and once that was taken away, he left too. I know it sounds crazy, but that's how it was."

  Remy set his mug down on his own napkin and watched as Janice pulled a tissue from her pocket. Her eyes had begun to tear.

  "I'm sorry, it's just been so much for me to handle."

  The woman dabbed at her eyes and wiped her running nose.

  "How was he different?" Remy asked.

  Janice sat stiffly for a moment, thinking, remembering. "He became very distant, distracted. And there were nightmares. Every night, he'd wake up screaming, carrying on about the end of the world."

  Remy leaned forward. "Tell me more about the nightmares."

  Janice wiped the table in front of her with the side of her hand, sweeping away imaginary crumbs. "Something about seals being broken and horsemen coming. It was all quite disturbing."

  Another intrusive chill ran down the length of the angel's spine. It was starting to become commonplace, and he didn't care for it in the least. Waxen seals being broken on scrolls in the possession of the Angel of Death would, in fact, stir the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and bring about the world's end, but any fanatic, or editor at a religious publishing house, would be aware of that.

  Janice Mountgomery laughed bitterly and stood up from her chair, empty coffee mug in hand. "Of course, he was completely out of his mind at that point," the woman said. "The kids and I begged him to get help. But he just became more and more withdrawn. We hardly spoke anymore, and then he began sleeping in the guestroom. Said it was so his nightmares wouldn't wake me, but I knew otherwise."

  She made her way into the kitchen with her mug, taking Remy's as she passed. He got up and followed her, standing quietly in the doorway as the bereaved woman placed the dirty mugs in the sink and ran water into each.

  "He did go back to work, although I don't know how he managed it. That's where he got involved with that woman, his secretary, Carol something or other — Weir? Carol Weir, isn't it?"

  She turned off the water and wiped her hands on a red-and-white checked dishtowel, which hung beneath the sink. "I guess she was a bit of a religious nut, at least that's what people tell me. She believed his stories about the end being near. Probably needed help as much as he did."

  There was a simmering rage in her voice now, as she leaned against the sink, arms tightly folded across her chest. "It's funny. I knew it was going to be her. When I suspected that he was fooling around, I knew it was with his secretary. I met her once at an office function, a while ago, before Peter got sick. She gave me this look, and I knew she was going to be trouble."

  Janice smiled sadly and glanced at Remy, still in the doorway. "Wives can sense these things." She chuckled nervously. "Listen to me — now I sound like Peter." Then her eyes began to fill and she quickly changed the subject.

  "Are you married, Mr. Chandler?"

  Remy nodded, though he was usually careful not to reveal too much of his personal life to his clients. Yet this woman was hurting so much that he allowed himself to share a little. "Yes. Yes, I am."

  That was all he gave her, but it seemed to satisfy.

  "You seem like a very nice man, Mr. Chandler. Your wife is a very lucky woman."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Mountgomery." Remy turned and began to move through the dining room toward the hall. "If you don't have any more questions, I really should be on my way."

  The woman came quickly toward him, an air of desperation about her.

  "Should I pay you the remainder of your fee now, or will you bill me?"

  "I'll bill you. That way you'll have a receipt for your records." Remy started down the hallway. "Thank you again for the coffee." He grabbed the front doorknob, pulling it open as he turned back toward her. "Please, don't hesitate to call me if there's anything else I can do for you."

  Janice reached around him to help with the door. "I was pretty much set to leave him, before all this, before I called you. I… Ijust wanted to be sure I was doing the right thing. All that talk about angels and devils around every corner, it was enough to make me nuts."

  Remy nodded, then turned back toward the screen door, recalling the expression of disbelief, then unbridled joy that spread across Peter Mountgomery's face before he'd shot himself. Had the man just been crazy, experiencing delusions as a result of some defect of the brain? The question gnawed at him. Remy couldn't be sure.

  He pushed open the storm door and stepped outside. He could feel the woman's eyes on him as he walked toward his car. He half expected her to call out to him, to ask him questions that would keep him there longer, but then he heard the front door close. He focused again on the sounds of the suburbs around him: morning talk shows on television, the rasping snore of a restless sleeper, and a new sound — the pitiful sobs of a woman, more alone at that moment than she had ever been in her life.

  It took him longer to get back into Boston. Remy sat in the late-morning traffic, listening to news radio and slowly making his way across the Lenny Zakim bridge. Something bothered him. No matter how hard he tried to shake it off, it wouldn't let go. The Mountgomery case was, for all intents and purposes, closed, done. But something would not allow him to think of it that way. The more he poked at the strange animal that was this case, the more it twitched to be noticed.

  Remy decided to stop at the hospital, to see Peter Mountgomery for himself, hoping to still some of these strange feelings of unease.

  Finding a space on Cambridge Street, he locked up his car, fed the meter a few quarters, and walked the short distance to Massachusetts General Hospital. He entered the main lobby through the revolving doors and willed himself invisible — another angelic trait he allowed himself to indulge in every so often. In his line of work, the talent frequently proved invaluable. Only the very young and the very old had the ability to glimpse the angel when he was in this state. He imagined it had something to do with being closer to the divine at those particular stages in the human life span.

  Remy moved through the lobby and down the crowded corridor, following the signs for the Bigelow Building elevators. No one so much as looked in his direction. The center elevator chimed happily as its doors opened, and he joined a small crowd headed up.

  While everyone else watched the numbers over the doors climb, Remy and a baby boy stared at each other. The child began to laugh, pumping his chubby arms crazily as drool trailed from his toothless mouth. Gently, the angel brushed the child's head with the side of his finger and mouthed the word hello. The boy laughed even harder, squealed loudly, and tossed his melon-shaped head back, flailing his arms. The mother glanced around nervously, looking for what had excited her baby so, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. She smiled and kissed the child, calling him her silly monkey, as they exited the elevator on the floor before Remy's.