Dancing On the Head of a Pin

CHAPTER SIX

Remy wanted to call Karnighan right there and then but realized that it was a bit too late for business.

In the morning for certain.

Leaving Francis’ brownstone, he’d driven home, his head buzzing with questions. Was it possible? Had Karnighan somehow managed to find these priceless, legendary weapons? And since he’d failed to mention what these weapons actually were, was there anything else that he’d neglected to share?

Questions, with a heaping portion of questions on top of those.

There wasn’t a parking space to be found anywhere on the Hill, forcing him to park down on Cambridge Street. He locked up the vehicle, and he and Marlowe walked up the rather steep incline of Irving Street, turning right onto Myrtle.

Remy didn’t mind the walk and certainly neither did Marlowe. It was a pleasant spring night, and the exercise would do them both good.

Trudging up the street, Marlowe slightly ahead, gently tugging on the leash, Remy reviewed what Francis had shared with him about the weapons… about the Pitiless. The former Guardian had known about the Japanese katana crafted by Asamiya, but had heard only whispers about the other weapons that made up the deadly arsenal. Supposedly the weapons had found their way into the hands of individuals throughout the centuries, and had been responsible for some of the largest body counts ever to be chronicled. Their notoriety grew with the spilling of each new drop of blood.

And because of that, their value became immeasurable.

At the corner of Myrtle and Anderson streets, Marlowe stopped to sniff at the left-turn-only sign, running his dripping nose up and down the metal before lifting his leg and splashing it with urine.

“Anybody you know?” Remy asked him casually.

“Doone,” the dog grumbled, sniffing again to make sure his scent was the strongest. Doone was a Weimaraner who lived farther up Pinckney Street, and who had attacked Marlowe when he was just a puppy. The two had been sworn enemies ever since.

“He’s got some nerve peeing on your signpost,” Remy said.

“Yes,” Marlowe agreed. “My signpost. Not Doone. Mine.”

“Exactly,” Remy chuckled as they headed for the house.

Marlowe stood in front of the door to the brownstone, tail wagging, as Remy fished in his pocket for his keys. He opened the door and held it for Marlowe, and that was when he sensed them.

He quickly closed the door on Marlowe and was turning as they came up from behind him. One put his arm around Remy’s throat, and yanked him backward away from the door. Marlowe started barking furiously on the other side, obviously sensing danger.

He wasn’t sure how many of them there were, taking a guess at three. One of them hit him in the stomach hard, and he tried to pitch forward but was held fast by the one behind him. The wind exploded from his lungs as he was hit again, the image of a balloon losing all its air as it sailed around a room filling his head.

Sometimes you think of the damnedest things when you’re getting the shit kicked out of you, he thought, feeling himself released and falling to his knees upon the street, gasping and gagging.

He was surprised that he hadn’t sensed these Denizens creeping up behind him sooner, but clearly he had to show them what a mistake they had made in attacking him outside his home.

The Seraphim waited patiently just below the surface, as if it had somehow known that its fury would be called upon. Dropping the mental barriers just a crack Remy allowed a small portion of the power to emerge, feeling the fire of Heaven flow through his body to ignite his hands.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” one of his attackers warned.

Remy ignored him, preparing to satisfy the Seraphim’s hunger for battle. He looked up—and noticed one of the Denizens standing at his door.

The fallen angel was pointing a gun through the glass into the foyer of his home, where Marlowe still barked wildly.

Remy’s hands crackled and sparked.

“You just might make Balam nervous,” the Denizen continued from behind Remy, “and who knows what terrible things might happen then.”

The one called Balam tapped the glass in the door with the barrel of his gun, making Marlowe bark all the louder. The look on his face told Remy he was hoping he would be able to fire the weapon.

Fearing for the dog’s safety, Remy pulled back on his angelic essence. Though it fought him, he managed to force it again behind the mental barriers where it could do no harm.

“Good idea,” the spokesperson for the group commented as the fiery glow from his hands began to dim.

Remy slowly rose to his feet, eyeing the gathering standing around him. There were actually four of them, three around him and Balam at the door.

“You’ve got my attention,” Remy stated.

“Good,” the leader answered with the hint of a smile. “That’s a very sweet-looking dog you have, and I’d hate to have anything—”

“Cut the menacing bullshit and get to the point,” Remy interrupted. “I get it; you’ll hurt my dog if I don’t behave. Fine. What the fuck do you want?”

The Denizen leader started to laugh, and seeing that it was okay, so did the others. “If we didn’t need you, I’d do something about that smart mouth,” he said.

“Lucky for me,” Remy answered.

“Yeah, it is,” the leader agreed.

They glared at each other, Remy searching the fallen angel’s dead features for something familiar. Had he known this angel once? Had he once called him brother before the fall? Remy couldn’t tell. The time spent in Hell changed them outside, as well as in.

“My employer is very interested in your current job,” the fallen said. “So interested, in fact, that he wants to know all about your progress.” The angel removed a business card from inside his coat. “No skimping on the details. Do you understand… Remy?”

They moved toward him as their backs suddenly became illuminated in the glare of approaching headlights. The fallen leader let the card drop from his hand as he passed.

“Nice,” Remy said.

“I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you,” the leader said over his shoulder.

Remy squatted down to pick up the card, giving it a quick read before stuffing it into his coat pocket.

Old Scratch Contracting.

Cute, Remy thought, watching as the four men climbed into the black BMW truck and pulled out of the parking spot in front of his house.

How’d they manage such a good space? he ruminated, remembering where he’d have to walk tomorrow to retrieve his car.

The vehicle whose headlights had prompted the party to end pulled into the spot, the window coming down to reveal a familiar face.

“This was meant to be,” Steven Mulvehill said as he put the car in park. He turned the engine off and climbed out of the vehicle with a paper bag held lovingly in his arms. “While at the liquor store I said to myself, if I was meant to share this bottle of fifteen-year-old Scotch, there’ll be a spot for me in front of the lucky individual’s humble abode.”

He partially pulled the bottle of alcohol from the bag to give Remy an enticing peak at the contents. “And as luck would have it, you were the first house on my list.”

Remy smiled in spite of what had just transpired there on the street. It was good to see his friend, and a drink was just what he could use about then.

Marlowe continued to bark as if insane from inside the hallway, capturing the homicide detective’s attention.

“What’s the matter with him?”

Remy shrugged, retrieving his keys again and heading to the door.

“I think he smells something bad in the air.”

“So who were they again?”

Mulvehill poured himself some more Scotch as he waited for Remy to answer.

“I thought you didn’t like to know about the weird shit,” Remy said, swirling the ice around in his glass as he reclined farther in the patio chair on the rooftop deck of his building.

Mulvehill dropped a handful of ice from the full bucket into his finger of alcohol. “Normally I don’t, but I’m fascinated by the concept of anybody smacking you around.”

Remy set his glass down on the patio table and reached inside his pocket to remove the business card.

“They were Denizens,” he said in explanation. “Fallen angels.” Mulvehill returned to his seat across from his friend, sipping on his ice-filled drink as he sat down.

“And these are the guys that used to be in… y’know.”

He motioned with one of his hands, pointing to the ground, not wanting to say the word.

“Hell,” Remy finished for him. He found it interesting that the legends and stories of the prison realm had made it so that humanity was terrified of the place as well, even though their kind would never see it. Hell was only for those who had fallen from their servitude to Him.

“Right. They used to be in Hell, but now they’re here and they like to beat you up.”

Remy was taking a drink and laughed. “That’s right,” he said, wiping a dribble of Scotch from his chin. “They just love to kick my angel ass.”

Marlowe, who was resting by his chair, suddenly sat up at attention.

“No kick ass. Marlowe will bite them,” the Labrador said with what he intended to be a menacing growl.

Remy reached down and stroked the dog’s soft black fur. “Of course you would have. You’re the bravest animal I know.”

“Yes, Marlowe very brave,” the animal agreed.

“What’s he going on about?” Mulvehill wanted to know.

“He just wants to reassure me that he would have protected me from the bad guys that smacked me around.”

The homicide detective nodded. “Now, why were they threatening to shoot your dog again?”

Marlowe lay back down on his side with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and almost immediately drifting off to sleep.

Remy shrugged, the ice in his tumbler tinkling like the bells of Christmas.

“Do you have run-ins with these fallen guys… these Denizens… often?”

“They have a tendency to run in darker circles than I usually like to travel in, but lately I’ve found myself entering those places more often.” Remy had some more to drink.

“They’re not very nice,” he continued. “Like most organized crime families, really. They gather in groups, as if looking to find what they’d once had with their angelic hosts in Heaven, only there’s very little interest in serving God now.”

Mulvehill shook his head as he shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the complex world of the supernatural. “And you wonder why I drink so much?” he said, finishing the Scotch in his glass.

“No, not really. You’re just a drunk.”

They both had a good laugh. It had been quite some time since Remy had laughed—since he’d really laughed. It felt good, and for the briefest of moments, he had the most unusual idea that he wouldn’t be sad forever, that eventually he would be able to think about something other than how much he missed his wife.

Wouldn’t that be something, he thought, knowing that it was likely very far away, but still having a sense that it was there, somewhere beyond the horizon.

“So we’ve established that they’re bad guys and they like to do bad things as a way of flipping the bird at God,” Mulvehill said, grabbing the bottle of booze and pouring himself another. “Now do you have any idea what you did to piss these bad guys off?”

Remy shrugged again, attempting to form some kind of image from what little information he had. It was becoming more likely that Karnighan’s missing property could very well be the legendary Pitiless, and that they could have been stolen by persons of an angelic persuasion.

Smelled like you, the voice of the rottweiler Luthor echoed in his head.

He could only begin to wonder what the Denizens’ involvement in this would be.

“I think their Satan has an interest in the new case I’m working on,” Remy said as he tipped his glass toward his mouth, letting what remained of the ice fall into his mouth.

Mulvehill almost choked.

“Their Satan? Are you saying that their boss is the fucking Devil?”

Remy chuckled. “It’s not what you think,” he explained. “Satan is a title… a designation, like capo or don in the Mafia.”

“Almost gave me a heart attack,” Mulvehill said. “So their leader—their Satan, if you will—has an interest in your case?”

“It appears so,” Remy answered. “But at this point what that interest is I haven’t a clue. I suppose I should probably find out.”

Remy went for the bottle again, offering it first to Mulvehill.

“No, thanks,” the homicide cop said, placing the flat of his hand over his glass. “I think the drunk’s had about enough.”

“Suit yourself,” Remy said, splashing a bit more of the golden liquid into his glass.

Mulvehill rose from his seat and stretched. “Probably should think about getting home. For some reason it’s always harder for me to get my ass out of bed after a night of visiting with you. Wonder what that’s all about.”

Remy swished what he’d just poured around in his mouth before swallowing.

“Haven’t got a clue,” he said. “Maybe you could come by tomorrow night and we can discuss the possibilities as we finish this off?” He held out the half-empty bottle of Scotch.

“That’s a good idea,” Mulvehill said, slowly making his way toward the stairs that would take him down into Remy’s home.

Marlowe stood, gave himself a good shake and followed the homicide detective to the doorway.

“Steven,” Remy called out to his friend. He held the bottle in the crook of one arm, the two empty tumblers in his other hand.

Mulvehill turned, giving Marlowe’s black tail a playful swat as the dog passed. “What’s up?”

“Do me a favor?” Remy asked, coming to join him.

“If I can.”

“Keep your ears open,” he asked. “If you hear anything from your friends in Burglary about weapons—antique guns, knives, or swords—give me a call.”

“Antique weapons,” Mulvehill said, his eyes searching Re-my’s for more.

“Yeah, if you hear anything, think of me first, all right?”

The Boston homicide detective put an arm around his shoulder as they headed for the stairs.

“With the weird shit, you’re never far from my thoughts.”

It was like he had traveled back in time.

Except for the ringing of his cell phone.

Madeline had brought him back to her apartment, the two of them soaking wet after being caught in a sudden summer downpour. She’d commented on them looking like a couple of drowned rats before pulling him closer, kissing him hard on the mouth.

She’d said something about the two of them getting out of their wet things before they caught their death of cold. And then she’d laughed, one of the most arousing sounds he’d ever heard in his long lifetime, and started to remove their clothes.

The sound of his phone was distracting, tugging at him, pulling him from this special place in time.

It was the first time they’d made love, not even making it to her bed. They’d dropped down upon the living room floor, feeding each other’s passions their only intent.

He’d been with other humans before, more out of a perverse curiosity than anything else. If he was going to be one of them, he needed to experience everything, sampling all their wants and desires. Sexual dalliance was inevitable.

But nothing had compared to this.

She had awakened something within him, something that had become still over the centuries, deathly quiet since he’d left Heaven. She made him want to be part of something larger; she awakened his need to connect.

The feel of her body against his, the awkwardness of their attempts to satisfy a passion that grew in intensity over the passing seconds.

He had felt it. Actually felt it.

Connecting in the instant their bodies grew together, the rhythm of their furious lovemaking like the heartbeat of some giant, long-extinct animal.

No. Like the heartbeat of the world.

Remy knew what it was like to be them. He wasn’t just pretending anymore.

He knew what it was to be human.

The phone wouldn’t stop, soon drowning out the sounds of their lovemaking, and suddenly he wasn’t there anymore.

The harsh reality of the present had found him once more, as it always seemed to.

Lying in the darkness, he felt his wife’s touch upon his body, phantom caresses growing softer, and softer still, until all he had left was their memory.

Marlowe stirred at the foot of the bed, lifting his large head as if to ask Remy if he would ever answer that damnable piece of technology.

Remy’s hand moved like lightning, and he was tempted to throw the trilling device at the wall, but what good would come of that? He’d only have to buy a new one.

“Yes,” he said after flipping open the cell. He saw on the face of the phone that it was a little after four in the morning, and had a suspicion about who would be calling him at this hour.

“Did I wake you?” Francis asked. Remy could hear the sound of a television blaring in the background. It sounded like a game show, probably The Price Is Right. Francis had a thing for Bob Barker, thought he was the coolest MC that had ever graced a game-show stage.

“No, I was just lying here in the dark waiting for your call.”

“You need a good hobby. Collecting Hummels would suit you, I bet. Have you ever thought about collecting Hummels?”

“What do you want, Francis?”

Marlowe lifted himself up from where he lay, walked up to the top of the bed and plopped down again. It was like somebody dropping a seventy-pound bag of laundry beside him.

“Got somebody I think you should talk to,” the fallen Guardian said. The sound of a television announcer wailed, “Come on down,” as an enthusiastic crowd clapped, cheered, and whistled in the background.

“About Hummels?” Remy asked.

“Almost as good,” Francis answered without missing a beat. “I got somebody who knows a thing or two about missing property, and would be willing to talk to you.”

Remy reached over and began to scratch beneath Marlowe’s neck. The big dog reacted immediately, rolling onto his back. The Labrador preferred belly rubs.

“I guess it would be too early to talk to him now.”

“Your powers of observation are fucking amazing,” Francis said through a mouthful of something that could have been potato chips. “Have you ever thought about being a detective?”

“The thought’s crossed my mind. Would I make a lot of money and meet fabulously interesting people?”

Francis laughed. “Can’t really say about the money, but interesting people you’ll meet by the wheelbarrow full. In fact, I’ve got one that wants to meet you at lunchtime.”

“Awesome,” Remy said without an ounce of excitement.

“And, oh, yeah, you’re bringing the lunch.”