Where Angels Fear to Tread Page 9

  “Jesus,” Mulvehill said, leaning his head against the back of the plastic chair and blowing smoke into the air. “That must get a little much.”

  Remy nodded. “It does, which is why most of the time I try to tune it out, but every once in a while I let my guard down and the solicitations come rolling in.”

  “What are they asking for . . . ? Like, to make sick family members well, or for the bank not to foreclose on their houses and stuff ?”

  Remy nodded. “Sometimes, and sometimes they want God to help them get a new bike, or a puppy.”

  “I prayed for a bike once,” Mulvehill said, then took a large gulp of his whiskey.

  Remy glanced over at his friend. “Did you get it?”

  “Naw.” He shook his head. “I guess the Almighty figured I needed some new school uniforms more than a bike.”

  “The Almighty is very much into school uniforms,” Remy said, confirming his friend’s beliefs.

  They both laughed then, mellowing out from the effects of their drinks.

  “So nobody’s really listening then,” Mulvehill said, fishing another cigarette from the pack lying on the table.

  Remy thought for a moment, not sure how to respond.

  “No, not really,” he finally said, turning his attention to his friend. “It’s just sort of a hit-or-miss thing as to when someone’s listening . . . and whether they decide to do anything about what they hear.”

  “Sounds complicated.” Mulvehill finished what remained in his glass and reached across the table for more.

  “Yeah,” Remy agreed, his thoughts drifting in the direction of ancient times, when he’d first left Paradise to make the world of man his home. “It always was.”

  Mulvehill helped himself to some more ice, and yet another splash of whiskey. “More?” He held the bottle out to Remy.

  “You know I prayed you’d ask me that,” Remy said, sliding his glass within reach.

  Mulvehill obliged him with ice and booze.

  “And I decided to answer.”

  The homicide cop slid the glass back to the angel.

  “So, Frank Downes,” Mulvehill began, settling back in his chair.

  “Very dead,” Remy added.

  “He certainly was,” Mulvehill agreed. “And what exactly did you have to do with his untimely demise?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Remy explained. “I asked him some questions about a missing person’s case I’m working on, and when he wasn’t forthcoming with the info, I followed him to see if he’d lead me to a clue.”

  “Okay.” Mulvehill nodded. “So how did he end up murdered?”

  “We finally ended up at his building and I was going to call it quits for the night, but then four guys decided they needed something from Frank too, only they forced themselves into his apartment.”

  “And you decided to check this situation out, instead of calling law enforcement,” Mulvehill suggested, waving his lit cigarette around.

  “I wasn’t sure what was going down, so I decided to go it alone,” Remy agreed. “I probably should have given the PD a call.”

  “Yeah, you probably should have.” Mulvehill had some more whiskey. “You didn’t happen to use that UPS trick to get into the building, did you?”

  “I most certainly did,” Remy said.

  “Thought so.” His friend nodded. “Lady on the second floor said she thought she was getting a delivery but saw an unfamiliar guy heading up the stairs.”

  “That would have been me,” Remy said.

  “No shit.”

  Remy chuckled. “Anything on the guy who dropped his wallet? What was his name . . . Bohadock?”

  “Derrick Bohadock. Reported missing last month by his wife of sixteen years. Supposedly disappeared on his way home from a business trip to the Philippines.”

  “Really?” Remy took a sip from his drink. “Kind of odd that he would show up as part of a kill squad in Boston, don’t you think?”

  “It is kinda funny.”

  “He had a strange mark on the back of his hand,” Remy said, rubbing the back of his own. “Lip marks . . . as if left by a kiss.”

  “Like a tattoo?” Mulvehill questioned.

  “I only got a quick glimpse of it, but it seemed more like a burn . . . a brand maybe. And that doctor who supposedly sent these guys after Frank had one on his neck.” Remy pointed to an area below his ear.

  “The one who took a swan dive off the roof of Franciscan Hospital for Children?” Mulvehill asked. “I suppose you were questioning him about this missing persons case too?”

  “Yeah, I was,” Remy acknowledged.

  “You realize I should probably arrest you right now on suspicion of murder,” Mulvehill said, setting down his empty glass.

  “There isn’t a jail around that could hold me, copper,” Remy said in a pathetic attempt at an Edward G. Robinson imitation.

  “Hey, that’s pretty good,” Mulvehill said. “I didn’t know you could do Katharine Hepburn.”

  “Go screw yourself,” Remy said with a laugh.

  “Didn’t she say that to Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond?”

  They were both laughing now. It was times like these when it all made sense to Remy; why he stayed upon the planet wearing a guise of humanity. He’d never had a friend like Mulvehill in Heaven, and Katharine Hepburn jokes were completely out of the question.

  “So this case you’re working on,” Mulvehill began as their laughter died down.

  “Yeah?” Remy asked. The ice in his glass had melted to nothing, and he drained some of the liquid and tiny pieces of cold into his mouth.

  “I’m guessing it’s another one of those cases,” he said, putting air quotations around the word those.

  “I wasn’t completely sure at first,” Remy said, “but the more I poke around, the stranger it becomes.”

  “I think it’s you,” Mulvehill said. “If somebody else were investigating this case . . .”

  “Katharine Hepburn?”

  “Especially Katharine Hepburn. If she were investigating this case, it would be so normal, it’d be boring.”

  “Maybe, but then again, maybe not,” Remy said. “We live in interesting times now, my friend.”

  “What’re you, Confucius now? Face it, you attract weird like a magnet.” The homicide detective stood and stretched. “I gotta get outta here,” he said, glancing at his watch and then snatching up his pack of cigarettes from the table. “Duty calls in less than four hours.”

  “It’s not my fault, you know,” Remy told him. “I’ve told you how the world has changed since that business with the Apocalypse and—”

  “And I don’t want to hear it,” Mulvehill interrupted, throwing up a hand. “The less I know, the more surprised I can continue to be when this shit gets weirder.”

  “Suit yourself,” Remy told him.

  They were heading toward the stairs that would take them back into Remy’s building, when Marlowe made an appearance in the doorway, a stuffed monkey clutched in his mouth.

  His tail was wagging furiously.

  “Well, look who it is,” Mulvehill said as Marlowe trotted to him for an ear scratch. “A little late for the party, aren’t you?”

  The dog tried to answer, but the stuffed animal in his mouth was making it impossible to understand him.

  “If you’re going to talk, you’re gonna have to drop the monkey,” Remy told him.

  Marlowe dropped the monkey to the floor of the deck. “New toy,” he said excitedly, swatting at it with his paw.

  “That isn’t new,” Remy said. “It’s just been lost behind the couch.”

  “New,” the dog said, not convinced.

  “He thinks the toy is new because he hasn’t seen it in a while,” Remy explained to Mulvehill.

  “So he thinks it’s new.” Mulvehill shrugged. He bent down and picked up the monkey, giving it a shake in Marlowe’s face. “Where’s the harm in that? Why do you have to spoil everything for us?”

  Marlowe pulled the toy from Mulvehill’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  “Spoil everything?” Remy asked, surprised. “What have I spoiled?”

  “In my reality, the world is a per
fectly normal place that plays by all the tried and true rules, and in Marlowe’s, that’s a brand-new monkey toy.”

  Remy tried not to say anything, but as they headed down the stairs, he couldn’t hold back any longer. “Whatever makes you happy,” he said. “Even if it isn’t true.”

  Halfway down the steps, Mulvehill turned and without missing a beat said, “In the immortal words of Katharine Hepburn, go screw.”

  After Mulvehill left, Remy spent some time playing with Marlowe and his “new” monkey toy, until the Labrador got bored and retired to the love seat, leaving the detective to settle into his office and review his latest case.

  Deryn had called three more times; once at the office, once on his cell, and the final time on his home phone in the kitchen. He could understand her anxiousness for answers; at this point, he was feeling a bit like that himself. He would call her in the morning, but he would leave out the stuff about missing souls and murder; no need to get her worked up until it was absolutely necessary.

  He reclined in his office chair, swiveling it from side to side and letting his mind wander. This was the perfect time to do just that; late enough that the sounds of the city had died down to a little less than a murmur. Marlowe was sound asleep, as was just about everyone else he knew, and since he didn’t need to sleep, he could think.

  A father had apparently abducted his autistic daughter, the two of them hitting the road to who knew where. The child appeared to have a strange artistic gift that allowed her to draw things before they happened.

  Remy paused in his musings to retrieve the drawings he had taken from Dr. Parsons’ office and those that Deryn had left with him. He hadn’t had a chance to look closely at the ones from the hospital, but now that he did, he found they were harder to decipher, a bit more abstract. There were lots of pictures of multiple structures; houses, they seemed to be, set in the woods. However, one particularly eerie drawing caught his attention. It depicted people growing out of the ground like a crop of corn.

  “What’s that about?” Remy muttered.

  He finally decided he just didn’t have enough information to be able to correctly interpret the drawings, so he set them aside and turned his attention to the pamphlets he had found in Frank’s apartment.

  “The Church of His Holy Abundance,” he read aloud, his eyes scanning the strange markings that adorned the cover. There was not a crucifix, cross, or dove to be found, but there were some odd symbols and crude drawings of some very funky fish.

  Remy knew these symbols and images were very old, and the more he stared at them, the more he felt his true nature begin to stir. He briefly entertained the idea of paying the church a visit—according to the pamphlet, they had an address in Somerville—but then he decided maybe he should find out more about the religion itself first. He’d already gotten into enough trouble for one day.

  Besides, he knew just the right person to talk to.

  Leaning forward in his chair, he slid the overly stuffed Rolodex toward him and found the number he was looking for.

  It had been a few months since he’d last spoken to the man, even longer since he’d seen him, and Remy knew he’d have to suffer through a ration of shit because of it.

  But then what else did he expect from a retired Catholic priest? They could use guilt as deftly as a surgeon wielded a scalpel.

  Remy glanced at the clock on the wall, eager to move into the next phase of his investigation, but it was still pretty early in the morning and he didn’t want to risk waking the good father. So he sat, listening to the sounds of his home, and waited for the world to rouse itself from slumber.

  Remy had much to do before his visit to the priest. He had to feed Marlowe, take him for his walk, drink a pot of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, shower, dress, and because of whom he was planning to visit, he had to stop at Mike’s Pastries in the North End for a box of Italian cookies.

  It was well past ten when he finally headed to Roslindale to see the priest he hoped would be able to shed some light on the Church of His Holy Abundance.

  Father Darren Coughlin was one of the Vatican’s top experts in ancient and modern religions, including various cults both long extinct and recently emerged. He had retired in 1995, returning to Massachusetts to live with his brother in the Roslindale home where he’d grown up. Father Coughlin’s brother had died in 2002, but the priest continued to live in the house, doing research and special jobs for his Vatican masters, as well as the lowly private investigator from time to time. His only requirement was that he be paid with cookies from the North End’s famous pastry shop.

  Remy squeezed his Corolla into Father Coughlin’s tiny drive-way, behind the unused Ford that had been sitting there for years, and had to fight off the drooping branches of the neighbor’s overgrown willow tree as he exited his car. He carried the white box of cookies across the small expanse of brown grass and up the steps of the old Dutch Colonial.

  He rang the bell and waited. Even through the closed front door, he could smell the strong odor of cigarette smoke.

  After a few minutes, the door opened to reveal the tall, almost cadaverous form of the retired priest, an unfiltered Camel dangling from the corner of his mouth. His hair was snow-white, although faint traces of a faded yellow could still be seen in certain lights.

  The old priest, looking over the tops of wire-framed glasses that had slid to the end of his ruddy nose, pushed open the screen door and reached for the white pastry box.

  “Thanks for coming by,” he said, snatching the box from Re-my’s hands, then quickly closing the door.

  The priest was laughing, a laugh that turned into a lovely wet cough, thanks to years of smoking the unfiltered cigarettes.

  “All right,” Remy said, playing along. He started back down the stairs with a wave. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  The old priest came back out, motioning Remy inside. “Get your ass in here,” he said in between coughing jags, the bouncing cigarette flinging ash into the air.

  “That sounds good,” Remy said as the old man patted his back, pushing him into the house. “Did you run the marathon this year?”

  That just made the priest laugh and cough all the harder as he followed Remy inside, closing the door behind them.

  As usual, the place was immaculate, not a piece of dust or clutter to be found, but that didn’t change the reek of cigarettes.

  “Come into my office,” Coughlin said, moving past Remy, down the short corridor to the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked, going to the stove, where an old-fashioned metal pot had just finished brewing.

  “Most definitely,” Remy said, taking a seat at the small dinette set in the corner.

  He watched the retired priest pour two huge mugs of the dark brown, almost black, liquid. Coughlin referred to his brew as rocket fuel, and Remy did not argue. The stuff would put hair on areas that never knew hair before.

  The priest carefully walked toward the table, a mug in each hand. Even though retired, he still wore the black suit of the priesthood, white collar and all. “Once a priest in the Catholic faith, always a priest until the day you breathe your last,” he always said.

  He set the mugs on the table, then retrieved the box of cookies he’d left on the stove, wasting no time in breaking the string that held it closed.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” the old-timer muttered through the cloud of smoke that trailed from the burning Camel still protruding from the corner of his mouth. “Ah,” he said, perusing the contents, “nothing you’d like. Guess I’ll have to eat them all myself.”

  “And spoil your girlish figure?” Remy said. “It would be a sin.”

  The old man went to a cabinet over the sink and returned with a plate. He reached into the box and placed a handful of cookies on the plate.

  “There,” he said, stepping back from the colorful display. “Picasso couldn’t have done better.”

  He pushed the box to the other side of the table and sat down.

  “Drink your coffee before it gets cold,” he ordered Remy as he took the remains of the cigarette
from his mouth, snuffing it out in an ashtray in the center of the table.

  Remy picked up his mug and took a sip. The stuff was stronger than usual, but that was fine by him.

  “A little bit of the Holy Spirit?” the old man asked.

  Remy shook his head. “No, this is fine, thanks.”

  “Your loss,” Coughlin said. He removed a metal flask from the pocket of his black jacket, unscrewed the top, and poured a splash of Irish whiskey into his coffee. Then he moved his hand in front of the mug, blessing it before lifting it to his mouth.

  “Amen,” he said just before taking a slurping sip.

  Remy chuckled as he reached for one of the cookies.

  “You would take that one,” the old priest muttered, reaching for one as well.

  “Do you want it?” Remy asked, holding the cookie out to him.

  “Go ahead,” the old man said. “And I hope you choke.”

  “As charming as always,” Remy said, popping the cookie into his mouth and following it with a sip of rocket fuel.

  He had never told the priest what was beneath his disguise of humanity, but he had always suspected the old man knew there was something not quite normal about him. Father Coughlin would never pry; he was always very respectful of Remy’s privacy, and for that the detective was grateful. Eventually, he probably would tell Coughlin the truth, but not today.

  “So, to what do I owe this visit?” the priest was asking through a mouthful of pink cookie. “It’s been what . . . a year since I’ve seen you?”

  “Last time I was here, you threw me out and told me never to darken your doorstep again,” Remy replied with a smirk.

  “And since when does anybody listen to a poor old priest?” Coughlin said, reaching for another treat.

  “I always listen to my church elders,” Remy said.

  “Do your clients buy that bullshit?” the priest asked as he took a gulp of coffee.

  “Completely,” Remy answered. “That’s how I make the big bucks.”

  They both laughed, ate most of the cookies, and finished off the pot of coffee before moving on to more serious things.

  “You had a loss recently, didn’t you?” Coughlin asked, making reference to Madeline’s death.