Remy sighed. “Great, another war. Just what we need.”
The two angels stood silently in the parking lot, at a loss for words.
“Where to now?” Remy asked his friend.
“I was thinking of heading over to Newbury Street.”
“Have you introduced yourself yet?”
Francis shook his head. “It’s not like that,” he explained, reaching to open his car door. “I couldn’t do what you did.” The fallen angel paused. “Not sure how I would’ve survived what you’ve been through.”
Surviving, Remy thought. Was that what he was doing now?
He thought of the Throne representative, and its request for him to return to Paradise, but quickly pushed it away. He didn’t want to think of such things.
“One does what one has to,” Remy answered, not wanting to talk about it anymore.
He too went to his car, opening the door. “I’d tell you to say hi for me, but there’s really no sense in that, is there?”
“It’s the thought that counts,” Francis answered, climbing up into the Range Rover.
In the rearview, Remy watched Francis leave the lot, two quick toots from his horn, and then he was gone.
It was an odd sensation, and it surprised him, but he was actually a bit jealous over what Francis had, a level of intimacy suddenly absent from his own life.
“Look at what you’ve done to me,” Remy muttered beneath his breath, imagining he was speaking with his departed wife. “It’s a sad day when I’m jealous of Francis for anything.”
He turned the car’s engine over and reached into his pocket for his phone.
It was time to make the call.
Dialing the number, he waited through quite a few rings before the phone was picked up.
“Mr. Karnighan,” he said, putting the car in drive and leaving the parking lot. “This is Remy Chandler. I’m on my way over. I believe there are some things we need to discuss.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Remy was just about to get onto Route 128, heading north, when he got the call. It was Steven Mulvehill, and he was speaking in careful whispers.
“You might want to come over to Huntington Ave,” he said, his voice barely audible over the sounds of traffic leaking into the car.
“What’s up?” Remy asked, nearing the exit that he would need to take if he was going to continue on to Lexington.
“Let’s just say something that has Remy Chandler written all over it, and leave it at that.”
Remy didn’t take the exit, instead reversing to head back in the direction he had come. He hadn’t been too far from the address Steven had given him, and it wouldn’t take him long to get there.
Something’s come up that has Remy Chandler written all over it. Nice, he thought.
Traffic was relatively light for that time of day, and he was able to get to Huntington Ave in almost record time. Even being nearby didn’t gurantee anything in Boston traffic; this just happened to be one of the good days. Who knew, maybe it was a sign of good things to come.
Yeah, right.
He had no trouble finding the right building—the police cars, ambulance and coroner’s van a dead giveaway. Slowly, he drove by the run-down tenement building.
Finding a parking spot proved to be more difficult than the entire ride, but he finally managed, leaving his car on the next street over, and hoofing it to the building in question.
The police had put up yellow crime scene tape around the entrance, keeping the gawkers at a safe distance. Remy stood across the street with the growing crowd, searching for a familiar face.
Eventually Steven Mulvehill came through the door of the building with his partner, Rich Healey. They were talking, Mulvehill removing a pack of cigarettes from his suit coat pocket and putting one in his mouth. Healey nodded, going back inside as Mulvehill walked down the steps to the street, butt dangling from the corner of his mouth while he scanned the crowds of curious onlookers.
Their eyes locked as they found each other, the detective motioning for Remy to follow. He moved through the rubberneckers, watching Mulvehill doing the same on the other side.
Remy crossed the street, navigating traffic that had slowed to a crawl to take a peek at the scene. The detective was standing out in front of McVee’s Liquors puffing on his cigarette.
“Not sure how McVee’s is for old Scotches, but maybe we can find a vintage bottle of Mad Dog.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Mulvehill said, sucking on the end of the cigarette as if it were life support. “After what I just left, being three sheets to the wind would suit me just fine.”
“What’s going on?” Remy asked.
Mulvehill dropped what remained of his cigarette, rubbing it out as he exhaled a foul-smelling cloud of smoke. “Follow me,” he said as he started back toward the building. “Oh, and do that thing you do,” he said, turning slightly and waving his hand in the air. “You know, so you can’t be seen and shit.”
It would raise a whole lot of questions for Mulvehill if Remy were to be spotted at the scene of an active investigation. Remy’s being invisible would make it easier for everyone and would give him the chance to really look around.
Remy followed close to his friend as he maneuvered through the crowds outside the crime scene tape. A beat cop lifted the tape so that Mulvehill could get under; Remy had to practically jump onto his back so that he could make it under with him.
“Do you mind?” Mulvehill spoke softly from the corner of his mouth. “You weigh a freakin’ ton; I thought angels were supposed to be as light as a feather.”
“It’s all that Scotch you’ve been making me drink,” Remy whispered from behind. “Because of you I’ll probably have my wings revoked.”
“Go screw,” Mulvehill said.
“Excuse me, sir?” a uniform asked as he pulled open the door for the detective.
“Nothing,” Mulvehill said quickly, entering the run-down lobby. “Talking to myself is all.”
The lobby was empty and for the moment strangely silent, as if something unnatural had stolen away the sound.
“Are you ready for this?” Mulvehill asked, starting up the creaking wooden staircase. The stairs were covered with what had once been a flowered print runner, the pattern now practically invisible from years of stains and the treads of countless feet.
Remy was thinking of cracking wise, maybe something along the lines of I was born ready. But it just didn’t seem like the time for that.
There was something in the air of the apartment building, and as they climbed the steps, getting closer, it became stronger, more oppressive.
Something unnatural.
They reached the top of the stairs and proceeded down the hallway. There appeared to be two apartments on this level, the one that they were looking for obviously being at the end of the hall, with police detectives, uniforms, and two guys who belonged to the meat wagon out front, standing in front of the open door chatting amongst themselves. The guys from the medical examiner’s had placed their stretcher across the doorway as they laughed it up with two of the uniformed police officers.
They noticed Mulvehill coming down the hallway and immediately changed their demeanor, standing taller and attempting to exude an air of professionalism.
“We’ll be removing the deceased shortly, sir,” one of the drivers said. “The photographers just left, and Detective Healey is finishing up. As soon as he’s done, we’ll—”
Healey appeared in the doorway, sliding the stretcher out of his way. “All right, boys; it’s all yours,” he said.
He then noticed Mulvehill standing there and shook his head, a look of unease upon his face.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said, removing a pair of rubber gloves from his hands.
“Do you think I could take another look before you pack ’im up?” Mulvehill asked, turning to the drivers.
They looked at each other and shrugged.
“Sure, take your time,” one of them said.<
br />
Mulvehill moved the stretcher out of the way so that they could both pass through with little difficulty.
“I’ve got no idea what could have caused that kind of damage,” Healey said, again shaking his head. “Maybe if we look together we can—”
“Go grab a smoke,” Mulvehill told his partner. “You’ve done your part; let me take it from here.”
“You sure?” Healey asked, already moving, eager to leave the building.
Remy maneuvered around both men, starting down the hallway inside the apartment, checking out the rooms on either side, pretty sure that he’d know the scene of the crime when he came across it.
“I’m sure. And if you hit the store, pick me up a coffee,” Mulvehill told the younger man. “I shouldn’t be long here, wait for me outside. We’ll head over to Brigham to see what we can get out of the girlfriend.”
“Got it,” Healey said, on his way toward the stairs.
Remy was standing in a doorway looking into a filthy kitchen as Mulvehill came up from behind.
“What’s this about a girlfriend?” Remy asked.
“We’re guessing that she walked in on what you’re about to see,” the detective said, continuing down the hallway. “It’s down here.”
Remy followed, noticing a strange, smoky aroma wafting in the air the closer they got to the room at the end of the hall.
“What do you make of that?” the homicide cop said, motioning with his hand for Remy to look into the room.
The first thing he noticed was the gaping hole in the wall, seconded by the body of a man, probably in his mid- to late thirties, lying on his back on the floor of the room. His stomach and chest had been exposed—set afire and extinguished. The man’s body still smoldered, explaining the drifting stink of roast pork in the air.
“I don’t know what to say,” Remy said, unable to take his eyes from the corpse. Though the stomach and rib cage appeared blackened, the rest of the man’s remains were untouched.
Remy moved closer and squatted beside the body. The frozen expression on the victim’s face was horrible, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening to him.
“Who is he?” Remy asked.
“Douglas Bender,” Mulvehill said from the doorway. “A familiar face to Burglary. They got a hysterical call from the girlfriend before we did. I guess she and some of the guys had bonded over their love for poor misunderstood Dougie.”
Remy’s eyes moved over the body and to the area around it. There were deep gouges in the hardwood floor surrounding the murdered man’s corpse. He was immediately reminded of something he himself had seen before, marks very similar to this left in the hardwood floors of his own home by Marlowe’s nails, only these appeared much deeper.
“Where is she now, the girlfriend?” He looked away from the corpse to his friend.
“She’s at the hospital, in shock. Whatever she walked in on practically pushed her over the edge.”
“Did she tell anyone anything? Anything that could explain this?” the angel asked, standing, eyeing the extensive damage to the room. It was as if somebody had driven a truck through it.
The detective shook his head. “We found her in the entryway pretty banged up. She’d fallen down the stairs and just kept screaming and crying.” Mulvehill shook his head. “It was pretty bad, and of course I thought of you immediately.”
“Thanks.” Remy looked around the room. There were boxes stacked everywhere, some of the contents having spilled out onto the floor in the apparent struggle. The boxes were filled with an odd assortment of things: video-games systems, a toaster oven, stereo receiver and speakers, an iPod or two.
Something caught Remy’s eye and he moved toward it. The box was jammed into a corner, an old VCR having tipped off of it, pulling open the flaps of the box.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice,” Mulvehill said. “When I found them I figured I should call you.”
Remy pulled back one of the cardboard lids and looked down into the box. Though they were wrapped in pieces of bubble wrap, and even some newspaper, there was no mistaking the antique nature of the items within. He reached inside.
“You might not want to touch those without gloves,” Mulvehill warned, reaching into his pocket for an extra pair.
“No worry. There won’t be fingerprints if I don’t want there to be,” the angel said, carefully removing one of the tightly wrapped objects.
“Fucking show-off,” the police detective growled.
Remy unwrapped the bundle, seeing that it contained an antique dagger, vaguely recalling that he had seen a photo of this knife in Karnighan’s paperwork.
But not one of the supposed Pitiless.
“Did you happen to find anything else of interest?” Remy asked, rewrapping the blade and placing it back inside the box. He looked about the room again, his eyes constantly drawn to the condition of the dead body there.
What did this to you?
The detective shook his head. “Poked around some, but that’s pretty much all that I could find in regard to what you were asking about. I gather that isn’t all of it?”
“No,” Remy said, looking into the box again to be sure. “There were a few other pieces of more considerable value,” he explained.
“The guy on the third floor said that Dougie and the missus had somebody crashing with them for the last few weeks. We’re working on a name. Maybe he’ll know where the other stuff is.”
If that was all they had, it would have to do, Remy thought, standing up from the box. He was thinking that maybe he would go over to Brigham and Women’s to speak with the victim’s girlfriend when his eyes were again drawn to the deep gouges in the wooden floor. Some of the planks had actually been splintered, partially pulled up to reveal the old floor beneath.
Remy poked the jagged furrows in the wood floor with the toe of his shoe.
“We should think about getting out of here,” Mulvehill said from the doorway. “I’m sure they want to get Dougie here over to the morgue before . . .”
It was as if Remy had stepped on a live wire, his entire body going rigid as violent images flooded into his head. Scene after scene of brutal acts, two delicate knife blades slicing through the air to cut short the lives of multiple victims. It was almost more than he could stand. Remy was blind to the world, seeing only one murder flowing into another.
From somewhere in the distance he heard his friend’s voice, filled with concern.
Sound became muffled, distant, and he found himself falling, dropping to his knees upon the floor. The images grew stronger, faster, more pronounced and more savage. Men, women, and children; the blades; whoever wielded them undiscerning in who was felled by their razor-sharp bite.
A cascade of savagery almost suffocating in its relentless onslaught continued, and multiple voices could now be heard, voices that did not wish to speak to him, but to his other side.
Voices that spoke to the Seraphim, urging it to come forward.
Here, they hissed inside his head as he watched the image of a woman’s throat being cut so deeply that it practically severed her head.
The visions halted momentarily, and Remy found himself staring at a section of flooring. It wasn’t obvious, but on closer examination he saw where the floor had been cut to create a hiding place beneath.
Compelled by the voices inside his head, Remy clawed at the floor, his fingernails digging into the edges of the boards.
He saw the dead man—Dougie—wrapping something in a towel, hiding something away. The next images were like a head-on collision: multiple flashes filled with muffled screams, frozen moments of death and destruction.
“What the fuck is going on?” he heard Mulvehill ask from what seemed like miles away, but he couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t speak.
Something had come through the wall, something large and bestial. It had first attacked Dougie before turning its attention to the room.
Searching.
The board came lo
ose from the floor, and Remy tossed it over his shoulder before plunging his hands inside the darkness of the hidey-hole.
The memory of a woman’s scream exploded in Remy’s mind; the scream had driven whatever it was—the beast—away. It hadn’t found what it was looking for.
But Remy had.
His hands emerged from beneath the floor holding something wrapped in an old, black-checked dish towel, the same something that he’d seen Dougie holding in the flash of the past. Remy dropped the wrapped object to the floor, pulling apart the cheap cloth to reveal what was hidden within.
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