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It seemed like only yesterday to him, but then again, so did the fall of the Roman Empire.
A sudden excited bark drew him from his memories, and Remy searched the darkness for his dog, finding him in the distance in hot pursuit of a decent-sized rat. "Careful!" he called out to the animal, but he needn't have worried.
At the sound of Remy's voice, the dog abandoned his chase and ran to him. "Rat!" Marlowe exclaimed, his normally soulful brown eyes wild with excitement.
"Certainly was," Remy replied. "And a big one at that."
"Big rat," the dog agreed.
"Listen, I'm going over to the bandstand to look for Lazarus. Why don't you see if you can find some more rats?" Remy suggested.
Marlowe was off in a flash, nose to the ground in search of new prey.
Remy turned and headed for the far corner of the Common. It was lighter now, and the city on either side of the park was slowly coming alive. There were more people in the park: walkers; ru
As Remy neared the bandstand, he could see an encampment of sleeping bags, blankets, and shopping carts filled with all ma
A man wrapped in a heavy green blanket was leaning back against a tree, smoking a cigarette. He was the only one of the group that appeared to be awake, and he eyed Remy suspiciously as he approached.
"Morning," Remy said cheerfully. "Lazarus around?"
The man snarled, showing off a set of yellowed teeth. "Who wants to know?" he asked, finishing his cigarette and pulling his blanket closer around him.
"A friend," Remy replied, and he could almost feel the man's eyes scrutinizing him, searching for any sign that he wasn't telling the truth. "Is he at the bandstand?" Remy continued, reaching into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulling out a twenty-dollar bill.
The man slowly nodded.
Stepping closer, Remy bent down and held out the folded money to the transient. "Why don't you buy some breakfast for you and your buddies," he said. "Bagels and coffee would be good. It feels like that kind of day."
Without a word, the homeless man's hand snaked out from beneath the blanket and snatched the offering.
Remy rose and headed down the brick walkway toward the Parkman Bandstand. His thoughts again drifted to the past, memories of warm summer nights with Madeline, the music of Mozart and Beethoven wafting from the circular concrete structure while they sat upon a blanket, sipping wine from paper cups.
A bittersweet smile played at the corners of his mouth; this memory seemed even farther away than revolutions and the fall of empires. He made a mental note to call Cresthaven, just to hear his wife's voice, as soon as he went home.
It was dark on the bandstand.
"Hey, Laz?" Remy called into the shadows as he climbed the steps to the stage. "It's Remy. Are you up here?"
And then he smelled it, the sharp, metallic odor of spilled life. How many times had it filled his lungs in his countless years upon the planet?
He searched the darkness and found Lazarus on the floor, back pressed against the wrought iron railing that surrounded the structure, head slumped to his chest, arms splayed on either side of him. Then he noticed the bloody knife resting in his lap, and the dark, glistening puddles of crimson that had expanded outward from beneath the man's slashed wrists.
"Son of a bitch," Remy hissed in disgust.
When is he going to learn?
He leaned his hip against the railing and crossed his arms, looking out over the Common for a sign of his dog as he waited. He caught sight of Marlowe in the distance, sitting before an elderly couple who appeared to be eating their breakfast on one of the park benches.
Remy brought his fingers to his mouth and let out an ear-piercing whistle. The Lab glanced over his shoulder at Remy, then turned his attention back to the poor couple. Of course, they had food, and if there was one thing to say about Labrador retrievers, it was that they certainly had healthy appetites.
"Marlowe," Remy yelled. "Leave them alone and get over here."
Clearly, the dog was torn, but finally he stood, wagged his tail, and headed for the bandstand.
"That whistle could rupture eardrums," Lazarus suddenly said, and Remy looked at the crumpled figure still slumped upon the ground.
The blood that had pooled around his slashed wrists was gone, and he was closely examining the new lines of scar tissue that adorned his flesh, along with the remains of so many others.
"Any different this time?" Remy asked, pushing off the railing and walking over to Lazarus. He reached out a hand to help the man up from the ground.
Lazarus took hold of the offered hand in a powerful grip, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. "Not really," he said, scratching at his short, black beard. "But you can never tell… This could've been the time it stuck."
Remy felt the same pangs of sympathy he had when he'd first met the man nearly two thousand years before. Stricken by leprosy, Lazarus had lain dead in his tomb for four days, until the Son of God raised him.
"Lazarus, come forth."
At first, the miracle had been a blessing, but soon after, Lazarus began to realize that he was no longer aging. And finally, as he watched everyone he loved wither and die, he began to think of the Lord's gift as a curse.
Lazarus had been trying to kill himself for centuries, and who knew? Maybe someday he would succeed. But there was certainly no chance of that now, not with Is-rafil among the missing.
"Not this time, Laz," Remy said, slowly shaking his head. "We got big troubles brewing."
Lazarus leaned back against the metal railing, fishing through the pockets of his Navy pea coat. "Thought something might be up," he said, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He tapped one from the pack and placed it in his mouth. "I can feel the change in the air — that's why I thought it might work this time." The unlit cigarette bobbed between his lips.
Both men glanced at the knife still lying on the ground, and Remy reached down to pick it up. It too was clean of blood.
"That's not the change you feel, I'm afraid," he said, flipping the blade in his hand to give it back to his friend, handle first. "Israfil has dropped off the radar."
"No shit," Lazarus said, carefully taking the blade and slipping it inside his coat with the pack of cigarettes.
"You're not dying, and neither is anybody — or anything — else."
Lazarus reached up and took the unlit smoke from his mouth. "Got a light?" he asked.
Remy shook his head. "Sorry."
"Things'll kill me anyway," he chuckled, shoving the cigarette back inside his pocket. There wasn't a hint of humor in the laughter, only a deep, tortured sadness.
Lazarus was tired of living, and Remy had even gone so far as to promise the man that if ever there came an opportunity to find the solution to his problem, he would help him — free of charge. It was the least he could do, for Lazarus had helped him out on a number of cases. He had a real knack for hearing things on the street, which was why Remy had sought him out this morning.
"So the Angel of Death is missing," Lazarus said, ru
Remy nodded. "I had a visit from the family and everything."
"No shit," Lazarus said again. "Seraphim?"