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Remy was seldom affected by temperature, but he felt a sudden chill course down his back, and shivered.
His friend noticed, smiling thinly. "It's creepy, isn't it?" He plucked the smoke from between his lips. "I've seen a lot of weird shit on the job, but nothing quite like this." He took another substantial drag. "And you know what? It gets worse. Back at the station, I hear from other guys that shit like this is happening all over the city. People who should be dead, car wrecks, gang shootings, suicides — they're all hanging on. The hospitals are packed."
Mulvehill put his cigarette out in an ashtray littered with the remains of others he'd smoked in recent weeks. "Just like Mr. Mountgomery and his little girlfriend."
The two men were quiet again, each absorbed by their own thoughts, the rattling of Marlowe's snores filling the air.
Mulvehill had been looking out at the city, but now he met Remy's inquisitive gaze. "You said Mountgom-ery saw what you really are before he shot himself. Do you think there's any co
Remy ran a finger along the rim of his empty glass, remembering the strangeness in the air he'd been feeling all day. "It's possible. But I haven't a clue as to what it means."
He reached for the whiskey. They were doing quite a job on it. The bottle was half-empty already. The angel poured about an inch of fluid into his glass. The ice was almost gone, and he thought about going downstairs for more.
"Leave it to you to get involved with another weird case," his friend said, as he leaned back in his chair, taking another cigarette from the pack on the table.
"They're not all weird," Remy said, feigning offense. "I've had some normal cases. The few bizarre moments just spice things up some."
Mulvehill had closed his eyes, letting the alcohol work its magic, but now scoffed loudly and opened them. "A few bizarre moments? Obviously you've lost your ability to distinguish, my friend." He sat up and ran his fingers through his mop of curly black hair with a sigh.
Remy downed what was left of his drink and made a face. He smiled in surrender. "Well, now that you mention it —»
They both laughed, and Marlowe came awake with a start, looking up from his place beside Mulvehill's chair to see if everything was okay. He grumbled deep in his throat, a
"You are a fucking weird magnet, Remy Chandler," Mulvehill proclaimed. "Maybe being an angel makes you some kind of draw for this shit."
Remy had been allowing himself to feel the inebriating effects of the alcohol, but suddenly was stone-cold sober. He put his glass down. It was something he had often thought about, that his presence on the planet could somehow be responsible for these outbreaks of strangeness, that the unearthly was attracted to its like.
"That would certainly suck, wouldn't it?" He looked at his friend and smiled sadly. "When I first came here I didn't even want to be noticed. I just wanted to help when I could, but never interfere. I wanted to get lost in the crowd, to live like them — to be like them."
He got up from the chair, walked to the roof's edge. Marlowe also climbed to his feet, wondering if they were going somewhere. Mulvehill poured another drink and eyed his friend.
"Sometimes it's hard to remember I'm not human," Remy said softly. "And sometimes it's hard to forget."
Mulvehill sipped his drink and swished it around in his mouth. He swallowed, smacking his lips. "You're more human than half the scumbags I'm forced to deal with every day," he told the angel. "Shit, you're more human than everybody down at the Registry of Motor Vehicles."
Remy came back to the table but didn't sit. "You always did know what to say to make me feel special."
Mulvehill raised his glass with a dopey grin.
"What are friends for?"
Remy fixed him with a serious gaze.
"There may be something to what you suggested — weirdness being drawn to me."
The homicide cop didn't respond.
"It's times like these when I wonder if coming here was the right idea. Am I being selfish — doing more harm than good? Gives me a headache if I think about it too much."
Remy picked up his glass from the table.
"Looks like I need more ice — want some?"
Mulvehill drained his and handed it to Remy.
"More ice would be good. Better bring up a bucket, to be safe. There's still a lot of drinkin' to be done."
Remy went toward the door, talking over his shoulder as he did.
"Don't start drinking from the bottle. I'll be right back."
Marlowe followed, just in case there might be a treat at the end of the journey, the possibility of food making him forget his earlier anger.
"Hey!"
Remy turned as Steven Mulvehill called to him. The homicide detective was lighting up a new cigarette.
"I know it's probably none of my business, but I'm too drunk to give a shit, and to tell you the truth, I've been curious about this for years." He closed up his lighter and took a short drag before continuing. "Why did you come here?" he asked. "Why would an angel want to leave Heaven?"
Marlowe stared at his master and whined, sensing a sudden change in the man's mood.
The angel Remiel remembered the sounds of war, the screams of the vanquished as they were tossed down to the depths by the One they had always believed to be a merciful and loving Creator.
Remy stood there awkwardly, not wanting Mulvehill to see the hurt on his face. "Heaven isn't all it's cracked up to be," he said simply, driving the recollections from his mind. "Let's just leave it at that." He doubted there would ever come a day when those memories weren't agonizingly painful.
"I'll be right back with the ice."
He was almost down the first flight when his friend called out again.
"Listen, do you want ice or not?"
Mulvehill puffed casually on his latest cigarette.
"I don't mind you're here," he said, turning his head away to look out over Boston. "That's all. Go get the ice."
Remy nodded, sensing that it took a great deal of i
Chapter three
The drive to Salem from Boston was relatively easy.
Except for the usual traffic jam in the Ted Williams Tu
His appointment with Janice Mountgomery was for 9:30, and he pulled into the driveway of the home on Prescott Street right on time. This was the part of his job that he found most difficult — the final meeting with the client, where suspicions were either confirmed or denied. He reached for the manila envelope on the seat beside him and got out of the car. Dressed in black jeans, a white shirt, and wool sports coat, the private investigator climbed four orange brick steps to the front door, rang the bell, and waited.
He found himself listening to the noise of the suburbs. The sounds were different here than in the city; calmer, slower, less frantic. The angel opened his senses and heard light snoring, morning television, and young children at play. A dog angrily barked at a bothersome cat trespassing in his territory, and a trapped housefly buzzed in frustration as it bounced its tiny body against an unremitting pane of glass. Then Janice Mountgom-ery opened the door, and Remy tuned it all out.
The woman looked tired, even more so than the last time he had seen her. It was obvious she hadn't been sleeping. Her eyes were red, the skin beneath them puffy and dark. She looked as though she would collapse at any moment.