Where Angels Fear to Tread

CHAPTER ONE

Boston, now

Remy Chandler watched the older woman as she sat across from him, sipping her gin—no, her Tanqueray—and tonic from a short brown straw.

She’d been quite specific with the waitress.

He was trying to figure out what it was exactly that he didn’t like about her.

She leaned forward, placing her glass precisely in the center of the cardboard coaster in front of her. “My grandmother, God rest her soul, used to have two Tanqueray and tonics every day,” Mrs. Grantmore said, straightening the coaster. “She said they helped her keep her wits about her. She was ninety-eight when she finally passed.”

It was obvious that Remy was supposed to be impressed.

“Isn’t ninety-eight the new eighty-five?” he joked, taking a sip of his soda water with lime.

Mrs. Grantmore’s daughter, Olivia, sitting quietly beside her mother on the love seat in the lobby bar of the Westin Copley Place hotel, chuckled before taking a drink of her Diet Coke.

Remy liked Olivia. She seemed like a sweet kid.

“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Grantmore said dismissively, reaching for her drink and bringing it to her mouth, careful not to drip any of the condensation from the glass onto her white silk blouse.

Remy crossed his ankle over his knee, pulling the cuff of his dark jeans over the tongue of his brown loafer.

This meeting was exactly what he had expected, and one he would have preferred to have had at his office. Having it at the Westin, out in the open, was uncomfortable, especially with Olivia present.

“So . . . ,” Remy began, faking cheerfulness. He leaned forward in the overstuffed chair and placed his drink on the glass-topped table before him. “You’re probably wondering about my findings.” He grabbed the folder from the seat beside him and opened it.

Mrs. Grantmore turned to look at her daughter as she returned her glass to the coaster.

“Of course, Mr. Chandler. I’m sure you’re a very busy man. Go on. Tell us what you’ve found.”

Olivia, who had been silently staring into the bubbles of her soft drink, looked up, making eye contact with him.

He tried to assuage her fears with a comforting smile.

“You asked me to look into the background of one James Wardley,” he said, looking down at the file.

Mrs. Grantmore reached over and took her daughter’s hand. The look Olivia flashed her made it clear the gesture was not appreciated.

“Go ahead, Mr. Chandler. What did you learn?”

Remy shrugged. “To be honest, not a whole lot.”

He watched as the older woman’s features momentarily tightened, her stare becoming more intense.

Olivia looked as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“You found nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing,” Remy said, continuing the litany of his findings. “James Wardley of Lynn, Massachusetts, born August 16, 1988, to Harriet and Robert Wardley. Attended Lynn Classical High School, graduating in 2006 at the top of his class. Enrolled at Northeastern University, currently majoring in electrical engineering and—”

“There was nothing . . . out of sorts . . . say, a criminal history?” Mrs. Grantmore interrupted.

Remy slowly shook his head. “Not really. There was something about a party and some underage drinking, but no charges were ever filed.”

He closed the file and met the older woman’s eyes. She was speechless. Obviously it wasn’t the result she was looking for.

“See, Mother?” Olivia said, still clutching her mother’s hand. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. James is a good boy.”

Silently Mrs. Grantmore removed her hand from her daughter’s.

“I seem to be developing a rather bad headache,” the older woman said. “Probably the humidity and this air-conditioning.” Her handbag was on the floor at her feet and she bent forward, plucking out a wallet. Fishing inside for a moment, she found a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to Olivia.

“Would you be a dear and buy me a bottle of Tylenol from the gift shop?” she asked, a forced smile upon her strained features.

“Mother, you promised to let this go if I agreed to . . .”

“Please, Olivia,” her mother snapped. “Go to the gift shop.”

The pretty young woman rose from her seat, briefly glancing at Remy with pleading eyes before making her way across the hotel lobby toward the gift shop.

As soon as Olivia was out of earshot, Mrs. Grantmore turned back to Remy.

“A regular model citizen,” she said sarcastically, picking up her drink and taking a gulp from the glass, this time forgoing the straw.

“As your daughter said,” Remy answered, “he’s a good boy. You should be glad.”

“Glad, Mr. Chandler?” she scoffed. “It’s obvious you don’t have children.”

Remy felt himself immediately rankle. Having children had always been a sensitive issue in his long, otherwise happy marriage to Madeline. No matter how much she had said that she understood they couldn’t have a family, he had always believed a part of her resented him for it. Because she was human, and he . . . wasn’t, he had deprived her—them—of something special.

But it didn’t matter now, because she was gone. And at that moment, he realized that was the first time he’d thought of her that afternoon.

And it bothered him.

“No, I don’t have children,” he replied tightly. “But I think if I did have a young, attractive, intelligent, and respectful daughter like Olivia, I would be quite happy to see her dating someone with similar characteristics and not the local crack dealer.”

Mrs. Grantmore used the stirrer in her drink to move the ice around.

“No, not the local crack dealer, but close enough.”

Remy couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“What about the boy’s father?” she asked. “One of the other investigators mentioned that his father might have had some trouble with the law.”

“One of the other investigators?” Remy felt his pulse quicken.

“Well, you’re certainly not the first I’ve hired since Olivia told me she was dating,” the conniving woman scoffed. “Did you look into the father’s background?”

It took all of Remy’s strength to remain calm and professional.

But he could feel it stirring inside him.

The power of the Seraphim had been much more active and more difficult to silence of late. If he let his guard down, even just a bit, he could only imagine what the power of Heaven would do to the woman.

“His father did some time in a juvenile detention center for car theft more than twenty years ago, but he hasn’t been in any kind of trouble since,” Remy said. “But I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“That’s good,” she said, ignoring him. “We can work with that; maybe make some connection to genetics.”

“Genetics?” Remy started to laugh in disbelief. If he hadn’t, he wasn’t quite sure what he—what the angelic nature he had squirreled away inside him—might have done.

For an instant he imagined the fires of Heaven, leaping from the tips of his blackened fingers and consuming the woman’s hateful flesh.

“This might seem funny to you, Mr. Chandler, but I assure you it is not,” Mrs. Grantmore said with obvious annoyance. “My daughter is the most important thing in my life. Everything my husband and I have worked so hard to acquire will someday belong to her. . . .”

“And to someone you deem worthy,” Remy completed, not bothering to hide his disgust.

“The key word is worthy,” Mrs. Grantmore agreed. She finished her Tanqueray and tonic, slamming the ice-filled glass down with enough force to rattle the tabletop. “I’m not about to allow some worthless piece of riffraff to use my daughter—”

“Mother.”

Olivia had returned, although neither Remy nor Mrs. Grantmore had noticed her approach, so wrapped up were they in their . . . discussion.

The older woman took a deep breath and composed herself. “Did you find the Tylenol?” she asked.

Her daughter let the bag containing the bottle of pills drop into her mother’s lap.

“Thank you, dear.”

Remy wasn’t sure how much the young woman had heard, but the look upon her face told him it was enough.

“I think we’re finished here,” Mrs. Grantmore stated, shoving the bag into her purse.

And Remy couldn’t have agreed more. For a brief instant he imagined the woman on her knees, begging forgiveness from the frightening visage of what he truly was, golden armor glistening, powerful wings beating the air as they held his mighty form aloft.

A soldier of God.

Seraphim.

But no matter how his true nature fought him, that wasn’t who he was anymore.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Chandler,” the woman said stiffly, offering her hand as they stood.

“You’re welcome,” Remy said, taking and quickly releasing her hand, yet again resisting the urge to end her hateful existence in a searing release of Heaven’s fire. “I’ll send you my final invoice before week’s end.”

Without comment, the woman bent to gather her things, and Remy turned to her daughter.

“It was very nice meeting you, Olivia,” he said, holding out his hand.

She took it with a small smile.

“I’m truly sorry about this,” he told her as his gaze drifted to a displeased Mrs. Grantmore.

“As am I, Mr. Chandler,” Olivia said, releasing his hand.

Remy left the two women then, feeling Mrs. Grantmore’s eyes burning into his back as he walked toward the stairs, certain in the knowledge that it would take much more than Tylenol to kill the disease that grew inside her.

Outside the Westin, it was hot and humid, but how else would Boston be in August?

A quick glance at his watch showed Remy that if he didn’t hurry, he would be late for his early dinner date with his friend Steven Mulvehill. Not that it really mattered; the homicide detective was never on time anyway.

Remy walked up Dartmouth Street toward Beacon, not a little concerned about his reaction toward Mrs. Grantmore. It was taking less and less these days to rouse the angelic nature he had worked so hard to contain. A sign of the times, most definitely, he mused as he stopped to let a cab pass that would certainly have run him down if he’d stepped in front of it.

And what then? he thought. Would the Seraphim have emerged to smite the vehicle and its driver?

A few years ago, a thought like that would have been just plain foolish. But now, since the death of his beloved wife, he couldn’t be so sure. Everything had changed—in the earthly world, as well as in the unearthly.

He looked around him. Things looked the same, but the difference was there, an undercurrent. Whether they knew it or not—the pretzel man, the student, the teller at the bank stepping out for a quick cigarette break—the world was different.

And not in a good way.

Remy’s own world had begun to change dramatically when his wife first became ill. From there it was as if a row of cosmic dominoes had begun to fall, with the disappearance of the Angel of Death and then the narrow averting of the Apocalypse, the nearly unbearable pain of Madeline’s death, the return of Lucifer Morningstar to Hell, and the loss of Francis, the former Guardian angel who had been Remy’s friend and frequent comrade in arms.

And it was just the beginning; of this Remy was sure.

He turned down Beacon Street, and the disturbing realization of how dramatically different things were suddenly became a reality when he caught sight of the bedraggled form of Steven Mulvehill waiting in front of the restaurant.

On time.

And the world became that much stranger a place.

The restaurant was pricey, even for an early dinner, but Mulvehill had a gift certificate he’d gotten from another detective whose wife had developed a wheat allergy and, according to Mulvehill, couldn’t go out to eat anymore.

Remy was pretty sure there was more to the story; there always was when it came to things surrounding Mulvehill, but he didn’t feel the need to dig any further. A free dinner was a free dinner, and he would leave it at that.

“Working today?” Mulvehill asked, reaching for his glass of water, in which a fresh lemon slice floated amongst the ice.

Remy popped another french fry into his mouth, nodding while he chewed.

“More of the weird shit?” Mulvehill asked, leaning forward to pick up the second half of an amazingly large hot pastrami sandwich that he had slathered with dark mustard.

Remy was having a cheeseburger, and, like the fries, it was excellent. He didn’t have to eat; his sustenance came from the life energies around him, but eating had become one of his biggest pleasures and he wouldn’t give it up for anything.

“Nope, nothing weird this time,” he said, picking up his burger. “Just a very wealthy woman looking to put the kibosh on her daughter’s relationship.”

“That bitch,” Mulvehill snarled, wiping his mustard-covered hands on the cloth napkin. Remy noticed that some of the dark condiment had dribbled onto his friend’s tie, but there were so many other stains there already, it wasn’t worth mentioning. “Did you set her straight? No, wait—did you get paid, and then set her straight?”

“Final bill hasn’t gone out yet, but it will,” Remy said around a large bite of burger. He hesitated a moment, then continued.

“She really pushed my buttons; I had to stifle the urge to fry her where she sat,” he said, not looking at his friend. He pulled a slice of red onion from his sandwich and stuffed it into his mouth.

Mulvehill was strangely silent, and Remy looked up. The homicide detective knew all of Remy’s secrets, and he was the only one Remy could share this with—now that Maddie was gone. He knew Mulvehill often wished he didn’t know what he did, but that cat had been let out of the bag some time ago.

And besides, it always led to really interesting conversations.

“Seriously?” Mulvehill finally asked. “You really wanted to burn her alive with your angel superpowers?”

Remy halfheartedly nodded, shrugging his shoulders as he tried to explain. “It wasn’t really me per se, but, y’know, the part of me that . . . you know.”

Mulvehill slowly nodded. “Yeah, I know, but damn. Remind me never to piss you off unless we’re near a fire extinguisher or a lake or something.” He picked up a half-eaten pickle spear from his plate and took a bite.

“I’d never burn you alive,” Remy said. He set what was left of his burger on his plate. “With all the booze you drink, you’d probably go off like some great big, fleshy Molotov cocktail.”

“Oh, you’re a fucking riot,” Mulvehill said sarcastically. He reached for his water and held up the glass. “See, water.” He took a drink.

“Only because you’re on duty,” Remy teased. “If you were off today, we’d probably need another three gift certificates to handle the bar bill.”

“See if I invite you out on my dime again,” the homicide cop said, going back to his mustard-drenched sandwich.

“It’s a gift certificate,” Remy reminded him.

“Yeah, that I could have used with any number of hot babes trying to become the next Mrs. Mulvehill.”

Remy laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Any number of babes?” he repeated. He pulled a few more fries from his plate. “That’s good.”

“What, you don’t think I’m desirable?” Mulvehill asked with a smile, a giant gob of brown mustard oozing down his chin.

“If we weren’t in a public place, I’d take you now, you gorgeous hunk of man,” Remy said.

They both laughed, then turned their attentions toward finishing their meals.

“Did you really want to burn her?” Mulvehill asked suddenly, breaking their silence. “Seriously?”

Remy looked up into his friend’s worried gaze. He couldn’t lie to him. “Yeah, I did,” he answered quietly. He took the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth.

“I have to say that isn’t such a good thing.”

Remy agreed. “No, and it worries me. Since Madeline . . . I feel myself drifting. . . . Not all the time, but sometimes, when certain things push a button.”

Mulvehill noisily chewed the last of his pastrami sandwich and wiped the grease and mustard from his face. “The next well-done corpse I find in the city, I’m looking for you, pal,” he said.

Remy gripped his water glass, staring at the ice and lemon slice. “It scares me.”

His friend remained quiet. No snarky comeback; it wasn’t the time.

“I’m afraid of the day when I can’t . . . when I don’t want to keep it inside anymore.”

“Is that a possibility?” Mulvehill asked.

“Could be.” Remy shrugged. “Probably not right now, but there could come a time when I won’t have the things around me that keep me anchored to this world.”

“Like Maddie,” Mulvehill said quietly.

Remy silently nodded. “She was the most amazing thing in my life here, but now there’s just this giant void where she used to be.” He could feel a darkened mood descending on him, as it had a tendency to do when he thought too hard about things connected to his fragile humanity.

“I know what your problem is,” Mulvehill said, tossing his napkin onto the tabletop. “I should’ve given you the gift certificate.”

Remy looked across the table at his friend. “Should’ve given me the gift certificate? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You could’ve used it for a date,” Mulvehill said. “You could’ve taken somebody out for a nice dinner and maybe found a new anchor—not that anybody could ever replace Maddie. I’m just saying it might help.”

Remy had to laugh. “You think I should date?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah, why not?” Mulvehill asked. “What was the name of that woman you told me about?” He snapped his fingers. “The waitress . . . you know who I mean.”

“Linda,” Remy said, focusing on the water in his glass again.

“Yeah, Linda. Why not go out with her?”

It was all so very complicated. Remy had met Linda Somerset through Francis. During the Great War in Heaven, Francis had chosen the wrong side, but then saw the error of his ways and was desperate to make amends. The Almighty had given him the duty of watching over one of the passages to the Hell prison of Tartarus, which just so happened to be in the basement of the apartment building that the Guardian angel owned on Newbury Street.

The last time Remy saw Francis, he had been badly wounded in the effort to prevent the Morningstar’s catastrophic return to Hell. Remy still held out hope that somehow Francis had managed to survive.

Although as time passed, it was becoming less and less likely.

Francis had been obsessed with Linda Somerset, even though she knew nothing of his interest. Remy had spoken to the attractive waitress at Newbury Street’s Piazza restaurant a few times since Francis’ disappearance, and he could understand his friend’s fixation.

There was definitely something about Linda Somerset.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Remy said, hoping, but doubting, that would be the end of the discussion.

Their waiter approached the table. “Are you gentlemen finished?” he asked, reaching for their plates.

“Could you wrap that last piece of burger in some foil for me?” Remy asked the well-groomed Hispanic man who had introduced himself as Harry.

Harry smiled. “You must have a dog?” he asked, lifting the plate from the table.

“No, he’s gonna have that as a snack later,” Mulvehill offered. “He’s really cheap.”

“Will you shut up,” Remy snarled. “Yes, I do, and if I don’t bring him something, I’m going to be in trouble.”

“No problem,” Harry said. “Any coffee or dessert?”

They both declined, Mulvehill sticking out his belly and patting it as a sign that he was sated.

The waiter said he’d be back with Remy’s food, and the check, excusing himself as he left with their dirty plates.

“So, why not?” Mulvehill started up again

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Remy said, trying not to become upset with his friend. He did not want to even think about burning his best friend alive. “It’s far too early for me to even be thinking about things like this; Madeline hasn’t even been gone six months.”

“Stop right there,” Mulvehill said. “I don’t mean to be cold or heartless, but you just said the magic words.”

Remy tilted his head inquisitively to one side, as he’d so often seen Marlowe, his four-year-old Labrador retriever, do.

“Madeline’s gone, Remy,” the detective said. “I know how you felt about her—I loved her too—but if her being gone and your being lonely mean you’re going to start losing your shit and frying people every time you get annoyed, maybe you should think about the benefits of some female companionship.”

Mulvehill’s words were like a kick to the teeth, and Remy really didn’t know how to react.

“You’re not pissed that I said that, right?” Mulvehill asked cautiously as Harry returned to the table with their check and Remy’s leftovers wrapped in foil.

“No,” Remy lied.

“You’re not gonna cook my ass?” he asked, pulling the wrinkled gift certificate from the inside pocket of his sports jacket and placing it in the leather folder with the check and an equally wrinkled twenty-dollar bill.

At first Remy didn’t answer.

“You heard what I said about the dangerous levels of alcohol in your body.”

“Screw you. Are you mad at me or not?”

“I’m not mad. I just don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Remy said, slowly getting up from his seat.

“You said Maddie’s been gone for less than six months, and I bet it’s been the longest almost six months of your life, hasn’t it?” the normally unemotional man said, gripping Remy’s elbow. “I hate to see you like this and then to hear you say things about losing control. It just gets me thinking that . . .”

“I’m all right, Steven,” Remy said, forcing a smile. “Really, I’m all right. I think this case just brought out my bad side, but it’s done now, and I can get back to my naturally cheerful self.”

He felt his friend studying him, searching for a sign, a crack in the armor. Remy started for the door so Mulvehill couldn’t look closer.

“Hey, Chandler,” his friend called.

Remy turned slowly.

The homicide detective was holding the piece of foil-wrapped hamburger.

“You taking this or do you want to be on your dog’s shit list?”

Remy returned to take the package from Mulvehill.

If there was one shit list he couldn’t bear to be on, it was Marlowe’s.

Marlowe paced excitedly in the backseat of Remy’s Corolla.

“Rabbits.” Remy heard the dog muttering beneath his breath in the guttural language of his breed. “Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits.”

“And maybe squirrels,” Remy contributed, looking at the dog’s reaction in his rearview mirror.

“Maybe squirrels,” Marlowe repeated. “Rabbits; maybe squirrels.”

Remy had returned to his Pinckney Street home, strangely agitated after his dinner with Steven Mulvehill. His friend had definitely touched on a particularly sensitive nerve.

Putting his signal on, Remy took a right into the parking lot of Mount Auburn Cemetery. He had the pick of the lot and eased into a space in a nice patch of shade thrown by an oak tree.

His wife had been gone for nearly six months and he still felt the magnitude of her passing each and every day. The idea that he could push aside her memory, and the love he still felt for her, was unthinkable.

So why was it that deep down, he knew his friend was probably right?

Marlowe was panting like a runaway freight train as he turned off the car’s engine and opened the door to a blast of August heat.

“All right, all right,” Remy said, opening the passenger-side rear door.

Marlowe leapt out, immediately placing his nose to the ground and beginning to track his prey.

“Anything?” Remy asked.

“Rabbits; maybe squirrels,” Marlowe reported quite seriously.

“Thought so,” Remy answered.

There was no one in sight, so he let Marlowe roam. He followed his dog through the metal gateway onto the winding path that led through one of the prettiest cemeteries in the Greater Boston area. Marlowe continued the hunt, nose moving along the ground, and off the path to the grassy areas around the trees and grave markers.

“Hey!” Remy called.

The Labrador stopped and lifted his head.

“No peeing on the headstones,” Remy reminded him.

“No pee,” Marlowe grumbled.

It was certainly hot, but there was a hint of a cooling breeze from the north, a harbinger of less-stifling weather, and perhaps even some much-needed rain, the angel thought.

The vast lawns surrounding the grave sites were dappled with dried, brown patches of grass, and even the trees had that parched, withered look with branches hanging low.

But things couldn’t have been more different at Madeline’s plot.

The green around her grave site was lush, dark, and healthy, with wildflowers more vibrant than all the colors of the rainbow surrounding her concrete marker as if in celebration. This was how it was year-round, a special gift to her memory—a thank-you from the Angel of Death, Israfil, to Remy, for his help in preventing the angel from triggering the Apocalypse.

Remy approached the grave as he normally did, feeling the same pangs of sadness then that he’d had during his very first visit.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, reading her name on the stone, while admiring some of the more unusual blooms that flourished there. He was pretty sure that most of the flowers weren’t even native to this hemisphere, but here they were, growing just for her.

“How’re things?” he asked, kneeling upon the grave. There were some weeds growing up amongst the flowers, and he reached down, plucking them from the always-fertile ground.

Remy knew his wife wasn’t actually there anymore.

He knew full well that when she had passed, her remaining life energies had immediately left her body and returned to the source of power in the universe that made all things. The stuff of creation; Madeline was in the sun and the stars, the trees and the grass; a part of everything that flew, crawled, swam, slithered, ran, and walked upon the surface of the earth.

Yes, Madeline as he remembered her wasn’t there anymore, but he liked to come to this place of beauty to honor her memory. It was a monument to the amazing person she had been and to the special love they had shared.

Remy found himself pondering Mulvehill’s words. They’d struck a chord deep within him.

It wasn’t as though he’d never had the thought himself. Remy knew he was lonely, and in moments of weakness, had briefly considered the what-ifs of seeking companionship. But his thoughts would always return to Madeline and how it all felt like some sort of horrible betrayal to her memory.

That was why he had come today, just the thought that Steven Mulvehill might be right sending him to his wife’s grave site for penance.

“There could never be another you,” he used to tell her, and he remembered the smile that would appear on her face. It still had the same effect on him, even if it was only from memory.

His stomach sort of dropped, as though he were on an elevator suddenly starting down to the next floor, and then he smiled, recalling how lucky he had been to have had her in his life.

But now she was gone, leaving behind a sucking void of loneliness that seemed impossible to fill.

And did he truly want to?

That was the question, and the reason he was so disturbed by Mulvehill’s observation that it might be time to let go of the past and look to the future.

“If I can’t have you, do I want anybody else?” he asked the grave, not expecting an answer.

He rose to his feet, brushing some stray blades of grass and dirt from the front of his jeans, and looked to see where Marlowe had gotten to. He could see the dog off in the distance, circling the base of an oak tree, and called to him. The dog glanced threateningly up the tree, then gave a single bark, a warning to a squirrel that next time it wouldn’t be so lucky, before bounding across the cemetery toward Remy.

“Did you give that squirrel the business?” Remy asked the Labrador as he lovingly patted his head.

The dog panted furiously, lapping up the affection.

“Gave business,” Marlowe agreed, his thick pink tongue lolling with the heat.

“I think it’s time to go,” Remy told him, and the dog agreed, turning toward the trail back to the parking lot and the air-conditioned car.

“Aren’t you going to say good-bye to Madeline?” Remy asked the back of the animal.

“Not there,” Marlowe said, not even turning around. “Madeline gone.”

Madeline gone.

They returned to Beacon Hill only a little late for Marlowe’s supper, but the dog nevertheless wasted no time in letting Remy know.

“I don’t remember your ever being this demanding,” Remy said. He picked up Marlowe’s water bowl and rinsed it before refilling it with fresh water. “Is this some new teenage phase you’re going through?”

“Hungry,” the dog said, his tail wagging.

“You’re always hungry,” Remy responded, pulling a plastic container filled with food out of a lower cabinet. Using a metal measuring cup, he dumped a full scoop of the nugget-sized food into another metal dish.

“This stuff looks delicious,” Remy said jokingly, giving the bowl a shake. The contents rattled enticingly.

Marlowe’s eyes were locked on the bowl as Remy crossed the kitchen to set it down beside the water.

“Go to it,” he said, stepping back as the hungry Labrador charged the bowl and immediately began to eat.

“Don’t forget to chew,” Remy warned. They’d had some problems with this in the past, usually on the living room carpet or in Remy’s bed.

“Is it all right if I have a moment to myself now?” he asked the animal.

The dog ignored him, chowing down on the tasty morsels that filled his bowl.

“I guess that’s a yes,” Remy said. He reached down and thumped the dog’s side with his hand, before turning toward the kitchen doorway.

And then he noticed the flashing red light of his answering machine on the counter.

“Huh,” he said, having a hard time remembering the last time he’d had a message on his landline, never mind receiving a call. Most of his calls these days came over his cell, or the office phone.

He stopped and pushed the PLAY button.

You have one new message, the machine told him in a clipped, mechanical voice, over the sound of Marlowe’s slurping at his water bowl.

At first there was the hiss of silence, and for a second Remy thought it might be a hang-up, but then a woman began to speak.

“Um, hi . . .” There was another pause, the woman grumbling something beneath her breath that Remy couldn’t make out.

He leaned closer to the machine.

“Yeah, ummm, this message is for Remy Chandler. . . . I’m calling because . . .”

Again she paused, and he listened as she whispered to herself, “How do I say this without your thinking I’m crazy?”

Marlowe had joined him, wiping his face, still wet from his drink, on the side of Remy’s leg.

Thank you very much, Marlowe, he wanted to tell the dog, but he was still listening to the message.

“I’m calling to ask . . . Why am I calling?” She sounded frustrated, and perhaps a little confused. “I was calling to ask . . . I was calling to ask if you had a big black dog,” she finally said.

Remy quickly glanced at Marlowe, who was looking up at him with that patented Labrador smile and tail wag.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I did this,” she finally said and, without another word, ended the call.

End of message, his machine then told him with a high-pitched beep.

“Okay,” he said to himself, and then to the dog standing beside him, “What the hell was that all about?”

But Marlowe didn’t have any answers either.