Dancing On the Head of a Pin

CHAPTER FOUR

Remy had been to this place before.

The air was rich with the smell of the sea, aroused by the passing storm, the moist sand cool between his toes. He was on a beach at the Cape—in Wellfleet. This was where the Apocalypse had been thwarted, where he had joined with the Angel of Death to realign the balance of nature—of life and death.

Where he had refused God’s request to return to Heaven.

He sensed their approach, as he’d done that cataclysmic day when the world almost came to an end, and turned to face them.

Thrones.

They were God’s messengers, bringing His word to those deemed worthy enough to listen.

“The Creator asks for your return to the City of Light—for the honor to sit at His right hand,” they had said that day, in voices that sounded like the planet’s largest orchestra tuning their instruments at once.

And Remy had told them no.

Now here he was before them again, their pulsing radiance like three miniature suns, though the surface of the sun, he was pretty sure, was not covered in multiple sets of scrutinizing eyes.

The Thrones silently stared at him, their resplendent forms rolling in the air before him.

“Greetings, emissaries of Heaven.” Remy finally spoke to them in the language of his ilk.

The Thrones remained silent.

“To what do I owe this latest visitation?”

And suddenly his mind was filled with the sound of their voices, his face contorting in pain as the cacophony assailed his senses.

“We were called, and we have answered.”

Remy was startled. “You are mistaken. I did not summon you.”

“No, you did not,” the Thrones replied.

He was about to question them further when he felt his Seraphim nature stirring, beginning its ascent from the dark recesses of his being. Finally he understood who had summoned the Thrones and why. With all his might he tried to push it back down, to quell the powerful and destructive nature. What he was… what he was capable of scared Remy, and he would do all he could to keep that part of himself locked away. In the past he had been strong enough.

But now it seemed impossible.

Remy began to scream, his human guise turning to so much ash as the Seraphim exerted control.

As Remiel exerted control.

“Why have you summoned us, Seraphim?” the Thrones asked the armored angel now kneeling before them.

“I want to go home,” Remiel said, lifting his gaze to them, bathing in the light of their resplendence.

“I wish to return to Heaven.”

Remy awoke with the sound of the Seraphim’s request echoing in his ears.

It was still dark outside, and he lay atop the comforter. This was his first night back in the bed that he had shared with his wife, and he could not yet bear the thought of lying beneath the covers.

Marlowe stared at him from the foot of the bed, his animal eyes glinting red in a flash of headlights as a lone car drove up Pinckney Street.

“It’s all right,” Remy tried to reassure the dog, as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He studied his hands to make sure that the human flesh was still present, and not the pale, luminous skin of the Seraphim. “Just a dream is all.”

He threw his legs over the side, somewhat surprised that he had actually managed to put himself in a semirestful state. It had been a while, though he could have done without the dream.

Or should it be called a nightmare?

Marlowe hauled up his bulk, stumbled across the mattress, and plopped down beside him. “Okay?” he asked, flipping Re-my’s hand, demanding to be petted.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Remy sat for a while in the early-morning darkness, scratching behind the dog’s ears, thinking about his dream.

Is it possible? he wondered. On some subconscious level did he really wish to return to Heaven? He’d certainly thought about it from time to time, when things weren’t going well. He’d thought about it mostly since Madeline had died.

But is that what he really wanted? Had he really played at being human long enough?

“Hungry,” Marlowe grumbled, leaning his head against Re-my’s leg as he was rubbed behind the ear. “And have to pee.”

“Let’s get you fixed up, then.” Remy stood, grateful for the distraction, as the dog jumped from the bed and ran down the stairs to the first floor.

The air outside was crisp, the tail end of winter not wanting to surrender to the inevitable spring. Marlowe ran to the far end of the small yard, and then bounded back inside to eat.

It was the same routine every morning, almost mechanical in the performance of the tasks: fresh water down, a cup of food in the bowl, a pot of coffee to brew.

Remy hit the switch on the coffeemaker and leaned against the counter, watching the animal scoff down his breakfast. It’s like he hasn’t eaten in a week, he thought—and then wondered how many thousands of times he’d thought that very same thing as he leaned against the kitchen counter in the early morning.

Over the centuries, when he had met with others of his kind who visited the world of man, they often talked about the monotony of it all, the tedium of humanity’s day-to-day existence.

He’d never seen it that way. He’d found a unique excitement in the simple act of living amongst them—as one of them. And that excitement had only become all the more enthralling when Madeline had become a part of his life.

But now she’s gone.

“Out?” Marlowe asked, standing by the door again.

“Sure,” Remy answered, his thoughts continuing down a troubling path.

Marlowe finished his business and settled down with a carrot, as Remy poured himself a cup of coffee. He was just about to climb the stairs to his bedroom when he heard Marlowe speak.

“Heaven?” the Labrador asked.

Remy stopped and turned toward the animal that stood staring from the kitchen doorway. “What’s that, pal?”

“Go to Heaven?”

Remy set his coffee mug down on the steps and went to the dog. He often forgot how closely he and the animal had become linked during the years they’d shared each other’s company. What Remy experienced in his dream state, was oftentimes shared by the dog.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he explained as he squatted down in front of his friend, massaging him behind the ears. “That was just a crazy dream.”

The dog grunted softly with pleasure as Remy continued to rub.

“Marlowe go?” the Labrador then asked.

Remy sighed, finishing up by thumping the dog’s side with the flat of his hand. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

He returned to the stairs and picked up his coffee. As he began to climb, he glanced over his shoulder to see Marlowe watching him with serious, dark eyes.

Eyes that didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

A lumber-truck rollover on Route 128 had traffic backed up all the way into the city, but despite the delay, Remy still found himself on Route 2 to Lexington by ten past nine.

He didn’t listen to the radio, preferring the noise inside his head to morning deejays, Top 40 pop tunes, the news, and the weather.

Remy had a lot to think about.

On the one hand was his concentrated effort to return his life to some semblance of normalcy. Madeline was gone, and that sucking void could never be filled, but he had to try something. He had to find the special things in the human life he’d built for himself, and grab hold to prevent them from being drawn into the black hole as well. He had to continue to live, even though his wife had not.

It was what human beings did every day.

But then there was an alternative, the flipside that he did not really care to entertain, hoping that it was just a passing thing—a part of his prolonged grief. The idea that he could return to Heaven.

He thought of what it had been like there before the war, and wondered if there was even an inkling of a chance that it could be that way again. Remy already knew the answer.

The Seraphim inside stirred with the thought.

Nearing his exit, Remy pushed the troubling thoughts aside, switching his focus to the job at hand. He picked up the printout from Mapquest and gave the directions a quick perusal.

He threw his blinker on, getting over into the right-hand lane so that he would be ready for the next exit.

Not all that familiar with Lexington’s layout, he’d used one of the online services and printed out directions and a map to Karnighan’s home. He’d been in the town only once, the last time being more than ten years ago, when he and Madeline had been out shopping for antiques—well, Madeline, really—and they’d gone to one of the stores in the downtown area of the historic location.

Lexington was probably best known for its history, being home to many historical buildings, parks, and monuments dating from colonial and revolutionary times. Driving a ways, he glanced out the driver’s window to a triangular patch of green that he understood to be the Lexington Battle Green, which, according to the history books, was considered the birthplace of American liberty. On that spot more than two hundred years ago, the first shots of the American Revolution were fired. Remy tried to recall where he was at that time but couldn’t really remember—somewhere in the Middle East maybe.

He was looking for Florian Drive and found it without any difficulty, steering down the paved driveway that led to an open metal gate. As he drove through the gateway, he noticed a wobbling plastic sign stuck in a patch of grass to the right of the driveway advertising Heavenly House Painters; a cartoon angel with white robes and a yellow halo brandishing a paintbrush hovered with feathery wings below the company logo.

Normally he would’ve been amused by something like this, but of late nothing really seemed to penetrate the fog of gloom that surrounded him.

The driveway ended in a spacious cul-de-sac, a fountain, not yet turned on for the season, in its center. The house was big, expensive looking, and with some scaffolding still in place around the side, it appeared to be having some work done to it. With the Heavenly House Painters sign out front, it all made sense.

He got out of the car, pocketing his keys, and walked toward the front door. He’d just about reached the front steps when he heard the heavy, excited sound of panting, and toenails clicking upon concrete. From the corner of his eye he saw the three large dogs tearing around the side of the house, heading straight for him, low rumbling growls escaping from deep in the rottweilers’ broad chests.

They didn’t appear to be in the least bit happy to see a stranger on their doorstep, so Remy figured some introductions were in order.

“Stop,” he commanded, in their canine tongue.

The obvious pack leader came to a sudden halt, the two others stopping as well.

“Intruder,” the leader barked. “Intruder. Intruder.”

“Intruder. Intruder. Intruder,” the other two barked in agreement. “Stop, intruder. Stop!”

“I’m not an intruder,” Remy explained to the animals. “I’m here to see your master.”

The leader stopped his vocalization and started to sniff the air toward Remy. “Invited?” he asked tentatively.

The others sniffed as well.

“Yes. Your master and I have some business to discuss.”

“Business?”

The leader padded closer, smelling the ground around his feet. “Smell dog,” he said, moving closer to his pants leg.

“Yes, I have a dog. His name is Marlowe. What is your name?”

“Luthor,” said the leader. “Name Luthor.”

“That is a very strong name, Luthor,” Remy praised the animal. “And might I say what a good job you and your pack are doing protecting the master’s house.”

The nubby tails on all three of the rottweilers started to wag.

“I Daisy,” said one of the others.

“I Spike,” said the last.

Remy extended his hand for Luthor and his pack to sniff. “My name is Remy.”

Luthor placed its large head beneath Remy’s hand, hungry for affection. Remy sensed a sudden change in the animal’s powerful demeanor.

“Not good. Bad. Useless.”

The dog’s body began to shiver with nervousness. The other two members of the pack had crowded around him as well, starving for the same affection that their leader was receiving.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Remy told them. “I think you’re all very good dogs.”

“No. Bad dogs. No good.”

They pushed one another out of the way, each of them wanting to be petted and praised. He had an idea where their self-esteem problem was coming from, especially since he had been summoned here to help with the investigation of a theft.

He was doing his best to give the guard dogs the attention they were craving when the front door to the house suddenly opened.

The dogs’ heads all turned to look at the man standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Karnighan?” Remy asked. “Hi, I’m Remy Chandler.”

The man was very old, leaning upon a cane carved from dark cherrywood that reminded Remy for some reason or another of solidified blood.

“It appears they like you, Mr. Chandler,” the old man sneered, his voice hinting of a strength now passed. He slowly lifted his cane and pointed it at the dogs.

Remy noticed them flinch.

“It seems that they like everyone, which is why I am currently in need of your services.”

The old man’s expression softened as he tore his gaze away from the animals.

“I’m Alfred Karnighan,” he said, hobbling farther outside the door, his hand extended. Remy met the man partway, shaking hands with him.

“If I can tear you away from your new friends, why don’t you come inside so that we can discuss business,” Karnighan said with a hint of sarcasm.

He made a brief clucking sound and motioned with his hand toward the animals. Heads hung low, the dogs trotted off, as Karnighan returned his attention to him, now gesturing with the cane for Remy to go inside.

The inside of the home was like a museum.

Remy walked slowly alongside the elderly man, taking in objects of art tastefully displayed around him as they progressed through the house.

“You have some very nice things,” Remy said as they passed a beautiful piece that he recognized as being by Monet, not a foot away from a glass case that displayed a porcelain vase that could have quite easily been from some ancient Chinese dynasty.

“Thank you, Mr. Chandler, but I consider these items merely knickknacks in comparison to what has been taken from me.”

“These are some very expensive knickknacks, sir,” Remy commented.

The room that they passed through next was in disarray, the floor covered with thick drop cloths. The smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the air.

“Please excuse the mess,” Karnighan apologized. “I’m having some renovation work done. Since I’m not traveling as much as I used to, I’ve decided to make my home more pleasing to the eye.”

Reflexively, Remy took the old man’s arm, helping him to navigate the cloth-covered floor.

“Thank you, that’s all I need—to fall and break my hip.” The old man looked at him, a strange mixture of anger and sadness evident upon his ancient features. “Don’t get old, Mr. Chandler. It’s not a pretty thing.”

Remy smiled politely, his thoughts suddenly distracted by similar statements made by his wife in her waning years of health.

They continued on into a hallway of rich, dark oak.

“We’ll take the elevator down to the storage vaults.”

Karnighan opened a door to reveal a closet-sized elevator. “After you, Mr. Chandler,” he said, ushering Remy inside.

Remy obliged, cramming himself into the corner.

“What made me purchase this home some years ago was the sprawling wine cellar, but not having a taste for the grape, I converted it into an elaborate storage place for my most valuable pieces.” He closed the door, using an old-fashioned hand control to make the elevator descend.

“Here we are,” he said, bringing the conveyance to a graceful stop.

Karnighan opened the door and stepped out into a lobby of sorts. It too was decorated in dark wood, framed paintings of considerable value hanging on the walls. Directly to the right of the elevator exit, there was a large safe door that seemed totally out of place with the stylings of the room.

“You’ve piqued my curiosity,” Remy said, eyeing the heavy steel door.

“I wish you could have seen them,” the old man said as he slid back a panel in the wall to reveal a hidden keypad. Karnighan punched in a code.

Remy could hear the door-lock mechanisms start to hum, whirring and clicking into place. Then came the sound of a bolt sliding back and the vault door slowly, silently began to open.

“This way, Mr. Chandler,” Karnighan invited, passing across the threshold. “I can’t tell you how sad it makes me to come into this room now, knowing that my most prized possessions have been taken.”

Remy joined the man inside the room. It was much larger than he would have guessed. Display cases of varying sizes filled with weaponry of all kinds lined the walls. There were guns of every conceivable size and shape from as far back as their invention. There even appeared to be an area designated solely for hand grenades. And there were weapons from older times as well: swords, spears, knives, and axes, as well as maces, helmets, and suits of armor.

“Wow,” Remy said as his eyes danced around the room from one of the cases to the next, objects of bloodshed from the dawn of man to the present on display here, a history of violence.

“Do you think?” Karnighan asked, leaning on his cane. “Over the years I’ve lost my objectivity.” He looked around the room, trying to see it as Remy did.

“All I can think of is what’s missing,” the collector said with a sad shake of his head.

“And what is missing, Mr. Karnighan?” Remy asked.

The old man made his way toward an empty waist-high case, the lights within still lit, as if displaying nothingness.

“Weapons,” Karnighan said, his voice much softer as he looked down into the case, as if hoping he’d been mistaken, that his beloved possessions were still there. “Some of them were just that, but there were others… so much more.”

Remy could hear the emotion in the old man’s voice—it was almost as if he were talking about missing loved ones.

Not too long after, Remy and Karnighan sat in a study upstairs finalizing their business over coffee.

“So you’ll have the documents sent over to my office?” Remy asked as he brought the delicate china cup down from his mouth to the saucer he held before him. The coffee was good, some of the best he’d had in a while.

Karnighan had just taken a drink of the scalding liquid, waiting to swallow before answering.

“Yes, of course. I’ve kept detailed records of all my acquisitions over the years,” he said, carefully placing the cup and saucer on a table beside his chair. “My records are currently in a bit of disarray because of the renovations, but I’m sure I’ll be able to gather them up by this afternoon and have them couriered over to you.”

The old man winced as he crossed his ancient legs.

“So I guess it’s safe to say that you’ll take the case?” he asked with a cautious smile.

Remy nodded. “Of course. It’ll be two hundred and fifty dollars a day plus expenses, if that’s agreeable?”

The old man reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and removed a check. He unfolded the piece of paper and looked at it before handing it to Remy.

“I took the liberty of writing this up before you arrived.”

Remy stood to take it from him. “That’s very generous,” he said, glancing at the amount.

“An advance, plus a bonus for your anticipated hard work. There is more where that came from, Mr. Chandler. It may seem pathetic to you, but I’ve come to realize that without these items my life seems suddenly meaningless.”

Remy listened to the man as he refolded the check and placed it inside his own shirt pocket. “I’ll do everything I can,” he told the old man. “There are no guarantees, but I won’t stop working on the case until all possible leads have been exhausted.”

“Very good, sir. I believe we understand each other perfectly.”

Karnighan struggled as he attempted to stand.

“No need to get up,” Remy told him. He approached the collector and again extended his hand. “I’ll see myself out.”

Remy bid the man good-bye, leaving him to finish his coffee, when a question that he had been meaning to ask Karnighan again rose to the surface.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, stopping momentarily in the doorway of the study. “I was wondering, Mr. Karnighan, where was it that you heard about my agency?”

The old man smiled, china cup in one hand, saucer beneath it in the other. “I really don’t remember, Mr. Chandler,” he said, taking a careful sip of his beverage. “But whoever it was, spoke very highly of your abilities.”

It wasn’t quite the answer he was looking for, but it would do.

He left the house and started toward his car, spying the guard dogs watching him from an open area that ran alongside the house. He wondered how Karnighan kept them from running away, or from getting into trouble with neighbors, when he noticed the thick collars around their necks. An electric fence, he guessed. A brief electrical shock would be transmitted through the collars if they wandered too far from the property.

Then he had an idea and wandered back over to the animals.

“Luthor, I’ve got a question for you,” he said to the pack leader.

The dog came over to him, again looking for some attention, with which Remy obliged him. How could he refuse?

“When your master’s things were stolen, do you remember seeing anything or maybe hearing something out of the ordinary?”

“No,” the dog said, eyes closed with pleasure as Remy rubbed behind his ears. “That’s why bad dogs. Useless. Master say useless.”

Daisy and Spike tried to muscle in on Luthor’s attentions, the pack leader turning his square head to growl at them. The pair whimpered sadly as they backed up.

“That’s not true; you’re very good dogs,” he assured them. “Your master is just upset that somebody was able to get inside and take his things without you knowing. Are you sure you didn’t notice anything?”

The dog pressed his cold, wet snout to Remy’s hand.

“Yes,” the dog said in between snuffles. “Strange smell.”

Daisy and Spike were now sniffing Remy’s pants, and he reached down to give them each a scratch before Luthor noticed.

“What kind of strange smell? Can you describe it to me?”

The rottweiler looked up, his dark brown eyes deep and soulful like Marlowe’s.

“Like you,” the dog said, a spark of realization in his eyes. “Smell like you.”