A Hundred Words for Hate

CHAPTER FOUR

Remy gazed out the window of the private jet at the thin, wispy clouds floating past, and experienced the sudden pangs of longing. His shoulder blades had started to ache where his wings would be if he allowed them to unfurl.

To beat the air in glorious flight.

He squirmed, tightening his seat belt before turning his eyes to the clouds again. Suppressing the urge to fly, he found his mind start to wander, thinking not of the unusual client who had sent a private plane for him, but of breakfast that morning and with whom he’d had it—Linda Somerset.

They were supposed to have had lunch, but the urgency of the Sons’ request had convinced Remy to make the trip to see Adam as soon as possible. The Sons had said that they would call him with the information about the flight sometime later that morning, which had given him an idea. He would call Linda and see if she could do breakfast instead.

It was unusual, in retrospect, Remy thought, continuing to stare out the window. Here was his opportunity to step back from the discomfort he was feeling about the whole dating thing, but he hadn’t. He didn’t cancel, and had immediately thought of a backup plan.

It was clear that he really wasn’t in his right mind at the moment. Thoughts of Adam, the first father, and a missing key to the Garden—and what this all meant—were using up valuable space inside his skull. That had to be the answer; why else was his thinking so scattered?

Linda had answered the phone sleepily. He didn’t even think to check the time that he was calling. It was only a little bit before seven a.m., and he’d woken her up.

Just another example of his brain not functioning at top form. What’s wrong with me? he wondered. That had been bad enough, but it didn’t stop there.

After he apologized profusely, she had accepted his offer, telling him that she needed to be in the city early for some school stuff anyway, and that she would love to have breakfast.

Remy saw in his reflection on the circular plastic windowpane that he was smiling, and didn’t quite know how to feel about that.

They had met at a small deli near Coolidge Corner, and it was then that he’d realized the next thing that had completely escaped him: Not really knowing how long he was going to be with Adam, he needed somebody to take care of Marlowe for him. Nothing big, mind you, just walking, feeding, playing, and stuff.

Remy had apologized for being rude, telling her that he needed to make an important phone call. He called Ashley and spoke with her mother, and was reminded—again—that Ash was heading to Killington for some skiing with friends.

As he hung up, Linda must have seen the look on his face, and she asked what the problem was. He explained that the person who normally looked after Marlowe when he was away was not around.

Remy remembered the look on Linda’s face as if she were still there, sitting in front of him. And then he remembered her words.

“I’d love to watch Marlowe for you.”

Remy had actually hesitated, not knowing exactly how he was feeling about Linda’s offer, but she seemed genuinely eager to do it, and something just felt really right about the situation, so he’d agreed.

Not that he wasn’t a little anxious.

He might’ve been nervous, but Marlowe was ecstatic, excited as all get-out about going to the pretty female’s house. As he’d handed over Marlowe’s leash to her, the Labrador had told him that Linda smelled good.

Remy hadn’t responded to the dog’s statement, but he had to agree.

She told Remy not to worry, that the two of them were going to have an excellent time. And Remy knew that they would, and honestly had felt a little bit jealous of his four-legged best friend.

The Sons of Adam had sent a car for him, which had brought him to T. F. Green Airport in Rhode Island, where he’d boarded a private jet, and here he was.

He glanced at his watch to see that they’d already been in the air a little over two hours. It wouldn’t be much longer.

And as if on cue, he felt the plane begin its descent. He leaned his forehead against the cool plastic of the window.

Adam, and his Sons, were living in a secluded place that Jon had lovingly referred to as the Garden. He hadn’t given Remy much more than that, which was why Remy searched the gradually approaching land below.

He was somewhere over the Arizona desert, the brownish red landscape below starkly beautiful in the rays of the afternoon sun.

And then he saw it.

It was totally out of place in the harsh desert surroundings, a white bubble . . . a dome, looking as though it had erupted up from the dry brown earth . . . a kind of boil on the flesh of the bleak desert skin.

As the plane banked to the left in its descent, he saw how large it actually was, the white dome even having its own runway. The private jet came in for a landing, smoothly touching down and rolling to an eventual stop.

The pilot emerged from the cabin with a gracious smile, opening the door and extending the steps. Remy unbuckled his seat belt and stood.

“Thank you,” he said, and the pilot touched the rim of his cap as Remy exited the plane. There was something in the man’s eyes that told him he too was a Son of Adam, something that said he had lived upon this world far longer than normal men.

The desert heat was stifling as Remy walked down the steps to the runway. There was a van waiting for him, and he saw Jon, no longer dressed in his heavy New England-winter clothing, but now wearing chinos and a white short-sleeved shirt.

Jon had the look in his eyes, as did the others who had accompanied him to Boston earlier this morning.

Remy had known about the Sons for many, many years: direct descendants of the first man, they exhibited longevity uncommon to most humans, almost as if they had a special purpose. Most had sworn an oath to care for their seemingly eternal ancestor, forming a kind of secret community around him.

The Sons believed that their most holy ancestor had been wrongly accused by God, and waited for the day when the Almighty would see the error of His ways, and allow His first creation to return to Paradise.

As Jon approached, hand outstretched, Remy had to wonder if the rift with the Daughters of Eve had ever been mended. That was a bit of a mess that had gone on for centuries, and might still be going on, for all he knew.

“Mr. Chandler,” Jon said as they shook hands. “Thank you again for coming.”

“No problem,” Remy said, following the man to the waiting van.

“Pretty impressive,” he added, eyeing the dome in the distance as he prepared to get into the air-conditioned vehicle.

“Wait till you see it from the inside,” Jon said as he turned the van around on the runway and onto a road that would bring them to the fenced area surrounding the half bubble bulging up from the desert.

“I can’t wait,” Remy said as they drove closer. “Is this where the Sons are living now?”

“Some of us,” Jon said as he rolled down the window as they approached a high gate. He removed a key card from his shirt pocket and slid it into the face of a metal security box atop a post, and the gates began to slide apart to grant them access.

“Over the years some of us have decided to go out into the world, occasionally returning when necessary, but a large majority of us remain together, looking after Adam’s needs.”

Jon brought the van alongside the great dome and got out. Remy followed, standing alongside the man as they approached what Remy imagined was an entrance.

There was a keypad on this door as well, and Jon again used his card to grant them access.

“After you,” he said, gesturing for Remy to step inside as the door slowly slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Doing as told, Remy immediately noticed the temperature difference from outside.

“The electric bill must be enormous,” Remy said jokingly.

“We supply all our own power here,” Jon said, heading down a corridor. “If you weren’t aware, this is a biosphere, a self-sustaining environment all beneath this dome.”

“Nice,” Remy said.

“We do research here in energy, agricultural genetic engineering, and alternative medicine, as well as some excursions into the fringe sciences,” Jon explained.

“I always wondered what you guys did for fun,” Remy commented slyly. Jon didn’t appear to be all that up on sly.

“We hold a number of very profitable patents that allow us to live the life of seclusion our order requires,” he said as they passed through another door into a circular atrium. The room was white, blindingly so, and very cold and antiseptic—not at all what Remy would have expected of an order that had existed for so many thousands of years.

There were multiple doors surrounding them, and Jon gestured to one in particular. “You’ll be going in there,” he said, the door sliding open on its own as they approached.

Passing through the door, Remy could see nothing but green, the air so thick with humidity that for a moment it was almost difficult to breathe.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, looking around at the equivalent of a tropical rain forest in the middle of a desert. The rich colors were stimulating to the eye, brightly colored birds flitting around above them, their joyous cries reminding the Seraphim of a familiar place from so very long ago.

“It’s our temporary piece of Paradise,” Jon said, looking around the jungle. “And hopefully, someday soon . . . with your help . . . we’ll be able to have the real thing.”

“Maybe,” Remy answered him, uncomfortable with how to respond. As far as he understood, the first of humanity had been banished from Eden for their sins against God, and the Garden of Eden was cut loose from reality to prevent it from becoming a beachhead during the war with Lucifer and his followers, but then again, maybe there was something he didn’t know.

Remy hoped that this meeting with Adam would help clear up some things.

“The one you need to speak with is down there,” Jon said, pointing down the length of the path that disappeared into the thick jungle foliage.

“You’re not part of this meeting?” Remy asked.

Jon shook his head. “This is not the place for someone like me. I’ll see you after.”

He turned away, leaving Remy alone in the man-made jungle, alone in this attempt to re-create the Garden of Eden on Earth.

Remy followed the path into the shadows, pushing aside the leathery leaves that blocked his way. Something squawked loudly as he stepped out into a clearing, and he looked up to see a large parrot perched upon a thick branch, peering down at him with one beady eye, its head cocked at a bizarre angle.

“No fear,” he told the parrot, reassuring the colorful jungle resident that he meant it no harm. The bird seemed to accept his word, going back to breaking open with its powerful beak the nut that it held in its taloned foot.

In the distance, beside an artificial stream, he saw the box. It appeared to be made mostly from clear plastic, and reminded him of a high-tech coffin. There was a housing for machinery that hummed softly that was attached to the back of the box, which was standing in an upright, vertical position. Remy could see that there was something—someone—inside the box as he came up alongside it.

Peering inside, he saw the almost mummified body of a man, his thin, leathery dark skin pulled tight across his skull and body—as if his skeleton had been dipped in a brownish paint and that was all that covered his bones. His eyes were barely open, see-through, tinted goggles that appeared to provide moisture for the ancient orbs in his withered face.

Stepping closer to the front of the box, he could see that the man’s bare arms and legs were adorned with tubes that disappeared beneath the thin flesh like burrowing worms, a series of monitors on the front of the coffinlike box providing readouts on his health.

The box was helping to keep him alive.

“Hello, Adam,” Remy said sadly, placing the palm of his hand against the front of the plastic case.

If this could be called living.

Flashes of memory appeared before his mind’s eye as the nature of the Seraphim at the center of his being was stirred by the memory of the one within the box.

He saw the actual Garden and all the wonders within her, including the magnificent specimens that would eventually become the prototypes for the human race.

But he also saw Eden in turmoil, the destructive aftereffects of original sin, and God’s displeasure with His most prized creations.

“It’s been quite a long time.”

Remy sensed the presence almost at once; the air was suddenly charged with an ancient power.

He turned, the Seraphim inside ready to emerge.

Standing before him was a being of immeasurable might, although he too was wearing the guise of humanity—a tall older man in a finely tailored suit, with closely cropped white hair and beard—but Remy could see through his disguise.

See him for what he was—and what he had once been in the scheme of things.

“Malachi,” he said in the language of the Heavenly hosts.

“Remiel,” the angel responded, his voice reminiscent of the celestial choir. “Thank you for coming.”

The Garden of Eden: During the Great War in Heaven

The Seraphim Remiel soared above the Garden of Eden, sword in hand and ready for battle.

They had said that the legions of Lucifer would come here, to this beautiful place created for the Lord God’s most spectacular creations, but which was now empty of them.

The humans had been banished . . . punished for the sin of disobedience—a sin that Lucifer Morningstar had predicted.

Remiel landed amid the thick greenery, the stench of God’s anger still tainting the air. It was peaceful here, the clamor of battle, the sounds of brother killing brother not yet reaching its emerald expanse.

Yet.

The Son of the Morning had said that God had given them too much, that the humans would take His gifts for granted and disobey Him in their arrogance.

And in an attempt to prove that his words were true, Lucifer tested them, tempting the first of the humans with the fruit of the Tree.

The Tree of Knowledge; the Tree that was forbidden them.

And Lucifer was proven right; they did betray the trust of their most beatific Creator, but it did not stop the Lord God from continuing to love His newest creations—though He was immensely disappointed.

Which led to their punishment.

For their sin, the humans had been driven from Eden.

Remiel trudged through the forest, his sword of fire cutting a swath through the overgrowth toward his destination. With the humans gone, Eden had grown wild and overgrown—those chosen to be the gardeners no longer there to tend it.

But this punishment wasn’t enough for the Son of the Morning, who wanted these two insolent whelps wiped from existence—for the Almighty to recognize that He had already conceived His most magnificent of creations.

The angels were all that He needed; the angels would love only Him, and never disobey.

But how quickly was that proven false?

Despite their flaws, God did not forsake His human creations. Instead, He chose to love and guide them, picking them over all others.

This enraged the Morningstar, and many others of the Heavenly hosts, and war was declared against Heaven. They decided that they no longer needed Him, that they no longer loved Him, and chose to disobey Him in any way that they could.

Rumor had it that Lucifer and his followers planned to take Eden as theirs, to use it as a stepping-stone—a beachhead—to eventually taking Heaven itself.

This, Remiel would not allow to happen.

Others had been given the chore to cut the Garden loose, to cast it adrift, severing its connection to God’s Kingdom, but here it remained.

This concerned the Seraphim, which was why he was at the ready, cautious that the Morningstar’s legions had already arrived.

If this were the case, it would be up to him; he would need to be the one who prevented Eden from falling into Lucifer’s hands. It was a job he was ready to perform.

A chore that he was ready to die for, if need be.

Having been here before, Remiel had a sense of where he was despite the thick overgrowth. Hanging vines sizzled and popped, dropping to the grassy floor of Eden as the burning blade cut through them, exposing to him the clearing, and what was growing huge and bountiful there.

The Tree of Knowledge.

The sight, more magnificent than the last time he’d viewed it, was marred by a scene of violence and death. The angel soldiers who had been sent to perform their task had been slain, their bodies broken and bleeding—their blood seeping into the rich earth to feed the great Tree.

Only one of the soldiers remained alive.

He was of the Heavenly host, Cherubim, and he knelt amid the carnage, his head of many faces staring with unwavering intensity.

Remiel knew him as Zophiel, a sentry of the Tree.

“Brother,” the Seraphim called to him, but the kneeling angel did not seem to hear. Remiel moved carefully closer, his warrior’s senses on full alert.

“Caution,” said a voice nearby.

Remiel leapt into the air, his burning sword at the ready, only to pull back as he dropped to the ground.

Malachi emerged from behind the great Tree, his vestments of shimmering light spattered with the blood of angels.

Malachi had been one of the originals that sprang from God. First there had been Lucifer, the Light Bringer—and then there had been Malachi, he who would bring life.

“Forgiveness,” Remiel said, averting his gaze temporarily from the great elder angel. Slowly his gaze returned to the dead, and the powerful Cherubim that knelt among them.

“What has happened here?”

Malachi emerged further, his body radiating the power given him by the Almighty.

“It was as if Zophiel had been touched by madness,” the angel explained. “He had been here, guarding the Tree, when the soldiers arrived, and when told to step aside, he seemed to snap . . . and this is what occurred.”

Remy rose to his feet, stricken by the words of the Life Bringer.

“How is this possible?” Remiel asked, still staring at the angel kneeling among the dead.

“Perhaps a flaw in his design,” Malachi suggested, having assisted the Lord God in the execution of the Cherubim’s creation. Malachi had assisted in the design of them all; this was what he had been created for—an extension of God’s artful hand.

As Malachi spoke, the Cherubim Zophiel looked up, madness burning in the three sets of eyes.

“No!” the powerful angelic force bellowed, rising up to his full and impressive height. His armored form was shaking—trembling—as if fighting off some invisible force.

“Quickly, Remiel,” Malachi ordered. “Before more damage is done.”

Remiel knew what he had to do; it was the same thing that had been needed from him since the war began, what seemed like an eternity ago.

Zophiel continued to vibrate as he swayed upon powerful armored legs, eyes suddenly falling upon a mighty sword protruding from the back of one of the angels he had slain.

“Don’t do it, brother,” Remiel warned, his own sword at the ready.

Zophiel hesitated, and for a moment Remiel saw in the Cherubim’s look a Heavenly being in the throes of torment.

But as quickly as the expression had come, it was gone, leaving only a maniacal force of violence behind.

With a bellow that combined the enraged cries of eagle, lion, and man, Zophiel grabbed hold of the mighty sword’s hilt and yanked it free. The sword pulled from the ground, but the body of the fallen angel still hung upon the large ebony blade. The Cherubim roared again, spreading his multiple sets of wings, raising his corpse-adorned sword to strike.

Remiel leapt into the path of the descending blade, blocking the sword’s burning arc with his own sword of fire. The fire from his weapon jumped to the corpse hanging limply from his attacker’s sword, voraciously consuming the dead Heavenly flesh and armor till nothing remained.

“The time for mercy is at an end, Remiel,” he heard Malachi say from behind. “Put the poor beast out of his misery before more bad comes of this.”

Using his sword, Remiel shoved his attacker back, spreading his own wings to put the Cherubim on the offensive.

“Nothing good can come of this, Zophiel,” Remiel roared, swinging his weapon in cracking arcs of fire. “Yield. . . . Set down your sword and surrender.”

The madness had taken the Cherubim’s voice, rendering the former sentry for the Garden nearly animal in his responses. He brought his black weapon down with a piercing cry as Remiel soared up into the air to avoid its bite. The sword cleaved the earth, the grass and flowers growing wild there withering before catching fire.

Remiel descended, his own weapon poised to deliver a killing blow. The Seraphim drew back the sword, aiming the blade for the base of the Cherubim’s neck, where his armor ended. Thrusting forward with the sword, Remiel’s aim was true, but Zophiel, in his maddened state, was faster. The sword blade slipped past its target, allowing the Cherubim to reach up and grab hold of Remiel’s chest plate and snatch him from the air.

Wings flapping wildly to get away, Remiel was thrown backward, slammed into the Tree of Knowledge’s trunk with enough force to shake the Tree so violently that fruit upon its branches began to rain to the ground.

Things were momentarily black, but the Seraphim struggled back from the abyss, surging awake to find the sword he had dropped.

Remiel lunged for his weapon, his slim fingers gathering around the hilt just as Zophiel’s armored foot dropped down to pin the blade to the ground. Remiel looked up into the faces of the Cherubim to see him standing there, the black blade raised above his head.

But it did not fall.

Remiel could see the struggle going on behind the Cherubim’s eyes—the inner conflict threatening to rip the angel sentry asunder with its fury.

“Put down your weapon,” Remiel told the tormented angel, sensing that there might be a solution that did not involve one of their deaths.

Zophiel stumbled back, his huge sword dropping to his side as his free hand grabbed at his head. The Cherubim was struggling, unable to do battle on two fronts.

“Strike while you can, Remiel!” Malachi commanded.

The Seraphim reacted, picking up his sword and springing from the ground prepared to deal a killing blow to his foe, but Remiel pulled back on the savagery, watching the Cherubim in the midst of some great inner struggle.

Malachi was suddenly beside him, wrenching the sword from Remiel’s hand.

“Slay him now, while we have the chance,” the elder angel bellowed, as he turned to face their beleaguered foe.

And just as Malachi was about to strike, the air was filled with a trumpet’s blare.

“Lucifer,” Remiel said, gazing up into the heavens.

Malachi and Zophiel were listening as well as the wail of the battle horn was replaced with the sound of flapping wings . . . hundreds and hundreds of flapping wings.

Sensing that his moment was fleeting, Malachi swung out with the sword, hoping to catch the Cherubim unawares. But Zophiel was at the ready, parrying the blade and lashing out with his other hand, swatting Malachi aside like some bothersome bug.

“No!” Remiel yelled, recapturing his sword to finish what he should have done before, his moment of compassion perhaps leading to their undoing.

The Cherubim did not press the attack, instead stepping back and away. He looked to the sky as the pounding of angels’ wings filled the air, before looking back to Remiel.

And without another word, the angel sentry spread his own wings, leaping into the air, and then was gone in a crackling discharge of energy as he tore through the veil that separated this reality from others.

“After him,” Malachi hissed, crawling to his feet, but this time Remiel did not heed his command.

“No,” the Seraphim said, quickly walking from the clearing.

“No, brother?” Malachi asked incredulously.

Remiel turned to face the powerful angel. “Eden cannot be allowed to fall into their hands,” he said as he pointed toward the sky. “The Cherubim is the least of our problems now.”

Malachi did not respond, but the sneer upon his radiant features told Remiel that the old angel was not used to having his words go unheeded, but there was no time for delicate feelings. There was a war on, and his Lord God was depending on what he would do next.

“Quickly, now,” Remiel said to him. “Come with me or be trapped here forever.”

The elder said nothing more as wings emerged from his back, and with a single, powerful thrust, he launched himself into the heavens and was gone.

Thoughts returned to the mission at hand, he hacked his way through the verdant jungle, hoping that he wasn’t too late. Remiel knew where Lucifer and his legions would try to enter the Garden, and he made his way quickly toward the entrance to Paradise. Emerging from the dense wall of green, Remiel saw the twin stone posts from which the gates to the Garden hung.

Still open wide and beckoning.

This would be where they would try to gain entrance.

The sounds of winged flight and the bleating of war horns echoed through the air as Remiel passed through the passage to gaze up into the sky.

Soldiers still in service to the Lord God were in battle with the followers of Lucifer . . . the blood of angels raining down from the air to quench the thirst of the lush Garden below.

Outside the posts, Remiel spread his arms, taking hold of the gates in each hand, ready to slam them shut and sever the tie between Eden and Heaven. He hated the thought of it, Eden being such a beautiful place, but the Morningstar planned to corrupt it, turning it against their Lord and Master.

He could hear the legions of Lucifer in the sky above, their screeching cries growing louder as they readied to drop down upon him—to prevent him from doing what the Almighty desired.

“Remiel!” called a voice that he knew belonged to the Morningstar; it wasn’t even necessary to turn.

“Paradise isn’t for you, Lucifer,” Remiel roared to the heavens, using all his strength to swing the mighty metal gates closed.

And as they came together, the locking mechanism slipped finally into place with a sound like the cracking of the universe’s largest bullwhip, and the floor of Eden, just outside the locked gates, began to tremble and shake.

The ground began to disintegrate beneath his feet, and Remiel took to the air, watching as the Garden of Eden started to become less and less defined, no longer attached to the Heavenly Kingdom—cut away, and slipping from the present reality into another.

Cast adrift in a sea of realities too numerous to count.

Likely never to be seen by Heaven—or any other—again.

“This is a surprise,” Remy said, the memory of the last time he’d seen the elder angel fresh in his thoughts.

“I gather you never imagined you would see the likes of me again,” Malachi said as he reached up to bend a beautiful flower toward himself so that he could smell it.

“These days I never rule anything out,” Remy said, and smiled at the ancient being. “Let’s just say I’ve learned from experience.”

“Experience,” Malachi said with an accepting nod. “And what experience, may I ask, brought you to this?” the elder asked as he scrutinized Remy’s appearance.

“Let’s just say the affairs of Heaven no longer agree with me,” Remy replied, attempting to be respectful, but having a difficult time keeping the annoyance from his tone. “So I’ve removed myself from the equation.”

“You live as one of them?”

“I do.”

“Fascinating,” Malachi said. “Do you see what you’ve inspired?” the elder then asked the unmoving form of Adam.

“Can he hear you?” Remy asked, moving closer.

“Yes, he can,” Malachi answered. “But the passage of time is finally catching up to him.” The elder turned his gaze from the withered form inside the transparent sarcophagus to Remy.

“So he’s dying?” Remy asked, pangs of sudden emotion tightening in his chest.

“They were never meant to live forever,” the designer said. “The fact that he’s lived this long is quite remarkable.”

Remy recalled his fascination with the first humans: how he would perch unseen in a tree within the Garden to watch these fabulous new creations that God had brought into existence. He had always known how special they would be, even though many of his kind did not.

“And this has something to do with needing to find the key to Eden?” Remy asked, remembering what brought him across the country.

“It does,” Malachi said. The elder was staring again at the withered form inside the see-through box. “It’s all connected, I believe,” he said, reaching up to wipe away a smudge from the front of the case.

“Connected to what?”

“It’s coming back, Remiel,” Malachi said, his dark eyes growing wide with excitement. “The Garden . . . Eden . . . it’s coming here . . . drawn to this world. Drawn to him.”

Remy couldn’t believe his ears. He’d thought the Garden had been destroyed countless millennia ago, when the gates were slammed closed and it snapped away from reality.

“But that’s impossible . . . isn’t it?” Remy asked. “I thought that once it had been severed from its connection to Heaven that . . .”

“Did you honestly believe you would ever see me again?” Malachi asked.

“Got me,” Remy said with a smirk. “Like so many others of our ilk, I thought you had been a casualty of the war.”

There was a stone bench beside the stream and Malachi went to sit. Remy followed, listening as the elder explained where he had been.

“The war,” he said sadly. “I watched it from a distance with a disbelieving eye, never imagining the horrors that transpired. Here were the beautiful creatures that I helped to create, slaughtering one another with such abandon, jealous of their Lord . . . jealous that He did not love them enough.”

Malachi stared off into the man-made jungle, reliving what he had experienced.

“I could no longer stand the sight of it and left,” he said, disgust in his tone. “So I headed out there . . . into the universe. What I was searching for, I did not know.”

Remy could understand what the elder had felt, for he had experienced it as well, though his personal search had not taken him to the stars, but to the Earth below.

“I found nothing out there to assuage my feelings of sadness, of disgust,” Malachi said.

“So you came here,” Remy stated.

“I wandered the planet for some time, hiding myself away, observing the Earth as it evolved,” Malachi answered. “I found myself drawn to him . . . to Adam. . . . Like a light far off in the distance, I went toward it, searching for purpose.”

Malachi stood up from his seat, walking toward the life-support unit, his back to the detective.

“And I found it with him, and those who care for him. I believe it has something to do with his . . . our connection to the Garden,” the elder said. “Somehow his impending death is calling Eden here . . . to this plane of existence. To make things complete again.”

Malachi was silent as he stared within the life-sustaining case at the first of humanity.

“We have a bond, he and I,” the elder whispered. “And as the last of his days draw near, I want to grant him his final wish.”

“And what would that be?”

“He wants to go home,” Malachi said as he slowly turned to face him. “He wishes to be laid to rest beneath the soil of Paradise.”

“It was where he was born.”

Malachi agreed with a nod. “And where he wishes to finally die.”

“And you need a key to get in . . . to open the gates that I closed.”

“The key is in two parts,” Malachi explained, holding up two slender fingers. “Adam is the first section of the key, with his mate providing the other.”

“His mate? You mean Eve?”

“The temptress,” Malachi said with a distant smirk. “I had a sense after her creation that she would be trouble, but never imagined how much.”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but from my understanding, Eve is dead.”

Malachi cocked his head to the left and looked toward the clear coffin as if hearing something. “Yes, we’re aware of that, but the key remains in her bloodline. There is always one who carries the knowledge.”

“And this is the key that you need me to find.”

“Precisely,” Malachi said. “With the two halves a whole, all that is needed to turn the lock will be present.”

Malachi left the clear coffin again to approach Remy.

“They are both the lock and the key,” the elder explained.

“I’m not sure I’m following,” Remy said honestly.

“It is their repentance to God, and their forgiveness of each other for the sin committed in the Garden so long ago, that will open Paradise to them again.”

The enormity of what was being asked of him gradually crept up into his lap like an affectionate elephant.

“Let me see if I’ve got this,” Remy said. “The Garden of Eden is going to manifest on Earth, and you need me to find the other part of the key . . . a descendant of Eve . . . so that the gates into the Garden can be opened again. And this is all so that you can bury Adam in his place of birth. Am I missing anything?”

“Very good, Remiel,” Malachi said, clapping his hands together in silent applause. “I now see why Adam requested that it be you.”

“I’m flattered, but I haven’t a clue how to begin.”

Malachi looked confused.

“You need me to find somebody . . . a specific descendant of the first woman . . . of Eve. That’s like asking me to find a needle on the planet of the haystacks.”

“Planet of the haystacks?” Malachi repeated, not understanding his amusing way of getting a point across. Remy was sure that Francis would have laughed at that one.

“Forget that,” Remy said. “All I’m saying is that it would be nearly impossible for me to locate this woman without some kind of lead . . . a trail that I could follow that might eventually take me to her.”

“A trail to take you to the needle on the haystack planet,” Malachi said.

“Right,” Remy said. “I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

Malachi considered the situation.

“We might be able to assist you with this,” the elder then said.

“I’m all ears,” Remy stated. “Anything to narrow things down a bit would be greatly appreciated.”

Malachi turned to Adam again. “If you will excuse us,” he told the withered figured inside. He then proceeded past the bench and into the jungle. “Follow me.”

Remy hesitated for a moment, his attention on Adam.

“I’ll do what I can,” he told the first of humanity, and then reached out to lay his hand upon the clear plastic cover. He then left the silent figure to follow Malachi farther into the man-made jungle.

He found the elder angel standing at a metal door, waiting.

Without a word, Malachi opened the door to reveal a set of steps that traveled down into a muted yellow light. Remy followed, one set of steps after another, until they reached a second door.

There was a loud buzz, followed by the opening of an electronic lock, and Jon stepped out to greet them.

“Hello again, Mr. Chandler,” he said, holding the door open.

It was warm inside this room as well, probably warmer than the jungle Remy had just left, but it didn’t take him long to figure out why.

There was a tree growing in the center of the room.

But not just any tree; it was a young version of the Tree of Knowledge.

“Is that what I think it is?” Remy asked, noticing that the sapling was hooked up to all manner of machines, rooted not in soil, but in some sort of clear fluid.

“It is,” Malachi answered. “Grown from a single seed from the fruit of the original. The Sons had it in their possession for countless millennia, never realizing the potential it carried.”

The elder had approached the platform, studying the growing tree with a scrutinizing eye.

“Multiple lifetimes have gone by as we tended the sapling, hoping that someday it might provide for us answers to the questions that have haunted the first of humanity, and his offspring.”

Remy could see that a single piece of fruit hung from the spindly branch. He remembered the actual Tree, and the overabundant bounty of life that dangled fat and ripe from its branches, and this wasn’t even close.

“Seems unhealthy,” the detective commented.

“We’re lucky that it looks this well,” Jon said. “It took close to fifty years to find the proper nutrient solution to feed the tree, and even that is a far second to the soil of Paradise.”

Malachi stood close to the tree and reached out, his fingers wrapping around the body of the single piece of fruit. “But our time has finally run its course,” the elder ominously said as his grip tightened, and he gave the fruit a sharp tug, separating it from its branch.

Jon audibly gasped as the elder’s hand came away from the tree holding the sickly growth, presenting it to him.

“And now we must find the answers.”

Jon carefully took the piece of fruit from Malachi’s hand and brought it to a table in the corner of the room. He placed it on a metal tray, clicked on an overhead light, and removed a pair of rubber gloves from a box nearby. Like a doctor prepping for surgery, he slipped them on with a snap.

Malachi came to stand beside him as they both watched.

Jon grabbed a scalpel and, holding the body of the fruit in one hand, began to cut away the thick skin.

“And what are we doing here?” Remy asked.

“The tough, leathery skin must first be cut away,” the elder explained as they continued to watch Jon work. “To reach the tender fruit beneath . . . as well as the answers hidden there.”

Jon had peeled away all the skin, and had separated it to one side of the metal tray. The skin was very thick, reminding Remy of a deflated football. The fruit that remained was small, looking a bit like a peeled grape.

“We’re ready,” Jon said, looking up from his work, a serious expression upon his face.

“I’m guessing that somebody is going to be eating that,” Remy commented.

“You are correct,” the elder angel answered. “And, sadly, it will likely be the last thing he ever consumes.”