A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

Chapter two

Remy stopped his car as a group of Northeastern University students crossed Huntington Avenue on their way to the dorms from afternoon classes. Impatiently, he glanced at his watch, angry with himself for being even later than usual. One last student cut across at a run to catch up with the gaggle, and Remy continued on toward South Huntington.

Well, at least something's going right, he thought, as he caught sight of a car pulling away from a space directly across the street from the Cresthaven Nursing Center. Remy performed an amazing feat of parallel parking, locked up his vehicle, and jogged across the street through a break in the dinnertime traffic.

He pulled open the nursing home's front door, and took a moment to compose himself as he was bombarded with a sensory overload the equivalent of storming the beach at Normandy. Smell, sound, emotion, taste; they all washed over him, pounding him, as they did every time he visited. The first time, he was nearly driven to his knees by the onslaught, but he quickly learned that a few deep breaths would help him to center, making the experience bearable.

"You are in some deep doo-doo, my friend," called out a large black woman dressed in a light blue smock and white slacks. She walked around the reception desk, waving some papers at him. "That poor woman's been waiting for you over an hour. I told her you were caught in traffic, but I don't think she's buying it."

Remy smiled as the woman playfully tapped him on the shoulder with the forms.

"I think she's catchin' on to us," she said conspira-torially, looking Remy up and down as she moved on through the lobby.

He waved to the receptionist, then stepped up behind the nurse. "No one must know of us, my Nubian goddess," he whispered in her ear.

The woman began to laugh, bending over and slapping her leg with the paperwork. "You are a crazy white boy, you know that?"

"Joan, you wouldn't have me any other way." Remy smiled. He paused for a minute, enjoying the sound of laughter in a place where the atmosphere could often be so oppressive. "How is she today — giving you a hard time?"

"If she's not careful, I'm going to toss her out on the street," Joan said, walking with him toward the ground-floor nursing unit. She moved away as a light came on outside a room on the opposite end of the hall. "Your mother's in the TV room," she called over her shoulder. "Why don't you go on and see her now so we can get some peace. Meet me in the supply closet at the usual time, and don't keep me waitin'."

Remy laughed as he turned, amused, but not only by Joan's invitation.

Your mother.

No matter how often he heard it, the lie always struck him funny. The staff at Cresthaven would never believe the truth, that Madeline Chandler was, in fact, his wife. The lie existed because of what he was, of course. He appeared human, but had never been that. And he did not age.

He stopped in the doorway to the TV room as an old man pushing a walker struggled through. He looked up at Remy with red-rimmed eyes, confusion and turmoil in his gaze.

"Have you seen Robert?" the man asked, his voice like the rustling of dry leaves. "He was supposed to take me home."

An aura of despair radiated from him in waves, nearly pushing Remy back with its strength.

"I have to get home. Who's gonna take care of the house? Have you seen Robert?" the poor soul repeated, already forgetting that he had asked that same question only seconds before. "He was supposed to take me home."

Remy gently touched the old man's shoulder and looked deeply into his aged eyes. "Robert will be here soon, Phil. Why don't you go see Joan, and ask her to make you a cup of tea?"

Phil smiled, his rheumy eyes slowly blinking away confusion. "Tea would certainly hit the spot." He licked his dry lips. "Why didn't I think of that? Must be getting old." He winked at Remy and continued on his way down the hall, a new strength suddenly in his step.

Remy watched his progress. He had spent many an afternoon talking with Phil about what the old timer called the good old days. Although his presence seemed to have a calming effect on these tortured souls ravaged by age, it still pained him to see the effects the years had on those to whom he had grown so close.

It was never more obvious than when he saw his Madeline.

Remy stepped into the doorway of the room that tried hard to be homey but never quite overcame that institutional air, and spotted the woman he loved. She seemed so small and frail, sitting in a lounge chair in front of the big-screen television. There was an ache inside him, and he wondered why he had ever wished to be flesh and blood. It was a question he asked himself with every visit to Cresthaven.

Madeline hadn't noticed his arrival, and he watched her for a few seconds as she struggled to stay awake. Her eyes would flutter and close, her head slowly nodding until her chin touched her chest. Then she would come awake with a start, and the futile battle to remain conscious would begin all over again.

Remy moved farther into the room. It was set up to resemble a living room; a couple of couches and chairs — both recliners and rockers — covered in vinyl made to imitate leather. Soft lamp lighting and framed Monet prints from the Museum of Fine Arts gift shop down the street completed the attempt at coziness. The TV sat on top of a large, dark, pressed-wood cabinet, a VCR on the shelf beneath, its clock perpetually blinking twelve a.m. The local news was just wrapping up the weather — cooler, with a chance of rain by the end of the week.

He knelt beside his wife's chair as she drifted deeper into sleep, and touched her arm lovingly. Madeline lifted her head to look at him, her eyes dull, momentarily void of recognition.

"How are you ever going to keep up with current events if you're dozing?" he asked her and smiled, before leaning in to kiss her cheek.

The life was suddenly there, the dullness in her gaze burned away by the familiar mischievous twinkle. She smiled, reaching up to touch his face with an aged hand.

"Caught me," she said softly. "Now you'll make me go to bed first again."

It had been their nighttime custom; whoever fell asleep first while relaxing in front of the television had to warm the bed, while the other took out the dog, turned off the lights, and locked the doors. Madeline had been the champion bed warmer.

"How're you feeling today, hon? You look better."

She grinned and batted her eyes, patting the collar of her bright red sweatshirt. She knew he was lying. She had always been able to read his expressions. But she played along anyway, then changed the subject.

"You're late. Joan said you were caught in traffic. Was there an accident?" She started to stand.

Remy took her arm, helping her up. "No accident. Just the usual stuff. I was on a case longer than I anticipated." He guided her around the chair and toward the doorway.

"Anything interesting?" she asked, pausing, peering down toward the lobby, then back up the hall toward her room.

"Nothing all that unusual, until today." He was thoughtful as they slowly made their way up the hall. "The man I was watching killed himself and his lover in a motel on the Jamaica Way. No, let me correct that. I thought they were dead, but I was wrong."

Madeline stopped and stared at her husband. "You thought they were dead but you were wrong? What's the matter with you, Remy — getting senile?" She chuckled and patted his hand where he held her arm.

When they reached her room, Remy escorted his wife to the high-backed chair by her bed and helped her to sit.

"It was the oddest thing, Maddie," he said as he sat on the bed beside her. "I confronted him after he'd shot his lover. He talked about dreams of the end of the world. Claimed that was why he'd shot the woman and planned to shoot himself."

He stared through the window at the day care next door. It was dinnertime, but there was still a little Asian boy playing in the sandbox, and a little girl riding a bike in a circle, over and over again.

"But you know what the strangest part was, Mad-die?" Remy asked. "He said he could see me. That he knew what I was." He looked at his wife and saw confusion on her face.

"Well, did you want him to see you?" she asked. "Did you let him — to stop him from hurting himself?"

Remy shook his head slightly. "No. It wasn't like that at all. It was as if he could see right through me."

Madeline looked disturbed, turning the wedding ring upon her finger. It was something she had always done when something upset her. Remy reached down, took her hand in his, and squeezed it affectionately.

"Hey, don't worry about it. The guy was pretty out of it. Maybe it was just coincidence that he saw me as an angel."

Maddie squeezed back, gazing lovingly into his eyes. "You're my angel and no one else's, do you understand? I can't bear the thought of sharing you with anyone."

She brought his hand up to her mouth and kissed it, and he knelt beside her chair, throwing his arms around her small frame. He felt her arms enfold him in a fragile embrace and was painfully reminded of a time when she could easily have hugged the life from him.

"You won't have to," he whispered in her ear. "I'm yours, now and forever." Remy stroked her gray hair and remembered the vitality of her youth.

When he'd first opened his agency back in 1945, he'd placed an advertisement in the paper for an office manager. Madeline had been one of the first applicants, fresh from secretarial college and overflowing with enthusiasm. And she was beautiful, inside and out. In their fifty-plus years together, Madeline Dexter had taught this earthbound entity more about being alive than he'd learned in six thousand years of wandering the planet.

He leaned in close and kissed her gently on the mouth. "I love you," he said, looking into his wife's gaze. It was his turn now to bring her hand to his mouth and gently plant a kiss upon it.

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.

Something unstable.

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 headboard. "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.

They're still alive, Remy.

They're still alive.

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. "Goodboy. 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.

"Now better."

"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. "Smellfemale. 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.

"Apple noow? Yes. Yes."

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. "Applegood. 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.

Remiel, an angel of the heavenly host Seraphim.

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 Re-miel 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.

"Who? Play?"

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?"

The Labrador quickly snatched up the satchel in his mouth and happily trotted into the living room.

Mulvehill laughed. "I'm always amazed by the amount of control you have over that animal."

"Marlowe does what Marlowe wants to do," Remy replied as he closed the freezer door and plunked a handful of cubes into each glass. "I can only make suggestions."

The homicide detective shook his head and looked toward the living room, where sounds of paper being torn to bits drifted out to them. "Spoken like a true pet owner," he chuckled. "Did you visit Maddie tonight? How's she doing?" the cop asked, suddenly serious.

Remy shrugged. "As good as can be expected. She wanted to know if you were coming by soon."

Mulvehill hadn't been to visit Remy's wife since she had entered the hospital more than six months earlier. He claimed he had a «thing» about hospitals, but Remy suspected it had more to do with the fact that Steven could not face the loss of a close friend in his lonely life. Even now he ignored the question, instead motioning toward the stairs that led to the roof.

"Shall we go up? I need a smoke."

Remy didn't allow his friend to smoke in the house. Madeline and Marlowe were both allergic, and besides, it left an odor on the furniture that the angel's acute senses found offensive. Mulvehill plodded up the stairs, and Remy followed close behind.

The detective took his usual seat with a grunt, and reached into his coat pocket for the first of what would likely be many cigarettes. Remy put the ice-filled glasses and the bottle down on the tabletop.

Lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, Mulvehill reached for the bottle of whiskey and cracked the seal. "Ain't a finer sound to be heard after a day like today," he offered.

Remy watched him pour the golden liquid over the ice in his glass, filling it halfway. "Should I hit you or do you want to do it yourself?" Mulvehill asked, gesturing toward his friend with the bottle.

Remy signaled with a wave of his hand for him to pour, as he sat down across from Mulvehill.

The detective offered a sinister smile. "I'm drinking with either a brave man or a stupid one."

The ice inside the glass popped and cracked as the whiskey drenched it. "Depends on what you're talking about," Remy responded as he reached for his drink.

Mulvehill set the bottle down, not bothering to screw the cap back on. He sampled his own drink with an eager gulp, and Remy could sense that something was bothering his friend.

"You sure you don't want this one too?" Remy asked, holding his glass out toward his friend. "I could get another glass and some more ice."

Mulvehill had already finished the first and was pouring a second. "Lousy day. Very long and lousy day." He finished filling his glass, avoiding Remy's eyes.

Quietly, Remy sipped his drink, allowing the alcohol to burn his throat as he swallowed. It had taken him many years to learn how to appreciate the effects of drink, but with the proper practice, he now did quite fine. Fire blossomed in the pit of his stomach as he let the whiskey enter his bloodstream and course through his body.

Marlowe came up the stairs to see what the rest of the pack was up to. He strolled over to Remy and nudged his master's hand with his snout, hoping for a pat.

"Did you make a mess with that bag in the living room?" Remy asked. "If you did, I'm afraid you'll have to go to the pound."

The dog made a pitiful sound of hurt and slunk dejectedly toward Mulvehill. The cop leaned forward in his chair to scratch behind the dog's floppy ears, as Marlowe licked his hand and the glass it held.

"Don't worry, boy," he told the dog. "You can live with me. How about that?"

Marlowe licked the man's cheek, and Remy laughed, taking another sip of his drink before setting it down.

"He'd have to go out for a walk more than once a month. Dogs are like that, you know."

Marlowe gave Remy a blistering look and laid his bulk down beside his new best friend. The animal wasn't about to forgive Remy so easily.

Mulvehill was in the midst of pouring his third drink when Remy finally decided to pick up the conversation again.

"So, your day?"

His friend was silent for a moment, stirring his drink with his finger, the melting ice tinkling happily in the tumbler. "Mountgomery and his secretary? I checked on them tonight. They're both still alive."

The angel shook his head in disbelief, reaching for the bottle. "I still don't know how that's possible."

The cop lit another cigarette before he responded. "I have a buddy at Mass General, emergency room doc. He checked them out when they came in." He took a long drag, letting the smoke plume from his nostrils and mouth as he exhaled. "Said they were fatal injuries; no way those two should still be alive. He was pretty spooked by the whole thing."

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.