Where Angels Fear to Tread

  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.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Clifton Poole took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled, awaiting the effects of the drug combination he’d just taken.

  It was a special cocktail of barbiturates and antidepressants made just for him after years of trial and error. It was the only thing that would silence the voices.

  Everything in the world had a voice—psychic impressions left by contact with living beings—and Poole could hear them all, whether he wanted to or not, which was why he so enjoyed his special medication, and the numbing bliss it provided him, no matter how short.

  He lay naked in the windowless room of his country estate in Lincolnshire, England, surrounded by nothing. Built to his own specifications, the room was only cold plaster walls and ceiling and a wooden floor. No more than three people were involved with its design and construction, and the materials had come from local merchants.

  The voices that radiated from this room were minimal, and the drugs readily dulled them, allowing him to slip into sweet, restful oblivion, without too much of the usual commotion.

  Poole felt himself drifting down, down, down, into the darkness of the abyss, the prattling voices growing softer and less defined by the second.

  He was just about to succumb to the embrace of his beloved mistress, oblivion, when he noticed the pulse of color through the lids of his closed eyes. He tried to ignore the yellow flash that was trying to pull him from his rest.

  But he opened his eyes instead.

  The room clamored to tell its story, as over the single, wooden door, a yellow bulb flashed for his attention.

  Look at me. I come from a factory in China where . . .

  He watched the light continue to flash, praying it would stop, but it didn’t. He sighed, blocking out the voices, and climbed awkwardly to his bare feet.

  “This had better be good,” he slurred as he stumbled numbly to the door and opened it to find his valet, Broughton, standing on the other side, white handkerchief pressed to a bleeding nose.

  “There’s someone here to see you,” Broughton said, his voice sounding nasal.

  “Tell him I’m busy.” Poole started to pull the door closed, but Broughton’s foot blocked it.

  “No, sir,” the man said, a disquieting look in his eyes. “You must see this fellow now.” The valet took the handkerchief away from his nose, allowing the blood to flow freely. “He’s quite insistent.”

  The voices from the hallway were louder now, buzzing, insistent that he listen, even
though he’d heard their stories millions of times, and would continue to do so as long he was alive, or sober. He desperately wanted his rest and was tempted to refuse Broughton, but the look in his valet’s eyes—and the blood streaming from his nose—told him that might not be wise.

  “Give me my robe,” Poole finally ordered, stumbling out of the special room.

  Broughton handed his employer a terry cloth robe.

  “Make a very strong pot of coffee,” Poole instructed as he slipped his pale, naked form into the warmth of the thick white bathrobe. It too tried to tell him how it had come to exist, and Poole shook his head violently to dislodge the images.

  Broughton bowed slightly, handkerchief again pressed to his nose, and turned to leave.

  “Who is it?” Poole asked suddenly, holding the ends of the terry cloth belt in each hand.

  “Excuse me, sir?” The valet turned back to him.

  “Who’s the visitor?” Poole asked. “What’s his name?”

  “Mathias, sir,” Broughton said. “A Mr. Mathias from America.”

  “American,” Poole grunted, cinching the belt tightly about his waist. “Bloody hell.”

  Mathias hated to be away from his mistress, and hoped this bit of business wouldn’t take long.

  He glanced down at the knuckles of his right hand, and the hint of blood that stained them. Nothing could stop him from seeing Poole.

  Delilah needed him, and she would have him.

  He got up from his chair in the elaborate den of the English country estate and walked to one of the large windows, looking out on what appeared to be miles of lush green grass and blossoming trees. Peacocks roamed the grounds, letting loose their strangely haunting call as they strutted about.

  Mathias wondered how they would taste roasted on a spit over an open fire, the image bringing a smile to his face.

  He turned back to the study, taking note of its ancient statuary and heavy, wood-framed glass cases filled with all manner of priceless artifacts, from jeweled goblets to bracelets made of gold.

  Objects of great worth, no doubt found by Poole using his unique ability, Mathias wagered. But did this man have the talent required to find what his mistress most desired?

  “Admiring my baubles?” asked a voice from behind him, a voice Mathias immediately found annoying.

  He turned to look at the man standing in the doorway to the study. He was thin, and dressed in an expensive cream-colored suit, his white shirt unbuttoned to display a pale, hairless chest.

  “Just a few of my private acquisitions, ones I couldn’t bear to part with,” the man said, stepping farther into the room. “I’m Clifton Poole, and you must be Mr. Mathias.”

  Mathias smiled coldly, walking toward the man, hand extended. “Just Mathias.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t shake hands,” Poole said nervously. “I hope you understand.”

  Mathias moved with the quickness of a cobra snatching the man’s spindly, cold appendage in his.

  “No, I hope you understand,” he said, holding tightly to Poole’s hand.

  If what Mathias understood about Clifton Poole’s unique ability was true, the man was able to read psychic impressions from anything he touched, a strange mixture of psychometry and remote viewing, a kind of voice Poole could use to track items of great wealth and power.

  Poole was a Hound of the highest esteem and someone Delilah believed could assist her.

  Poole fell to his knees, his pale features almost gray, reminding Mathias of meat left to spoil in the hot summer sun.

  He wondered what Poole was seeing . . . experiencing. Mathias had most certainly led an interesting life, a professional soldier since the age of eighteen, eventually leaving service to his country and committing his extensive talents to the highest bidder. The life of a mercenary had been his pleasure, but he hadn’t really known the true meaning of the word until he had found her.

  A powerful mixture of lust, fear, love, and awe flushed through his body as it always did with the thought of his beloved Delilah.

  The Hound was crying, weakly attempting to pull his hand away, but Mathias continued to hold fast.

  “What do you see?” Mathias asked, taking a certain amount of pleasure from the man’s discomfort.

  “Please,” Poole begged through streaming eyes, “please let me go.”

  “Do you see her?” Mathias asked urgently. “She is my world. . . . Nothing matters except her happiness. Do you see, Clifton Poole?”

  “You . . . you gave it to her.” Poole’s voice was strained, barely able to speak the words. “You gave her your soul.”

  Mathias at last released Poole’s hand, and the Hound slumped to the floor of the study, whimpering.

  “Yes, I did give her my soul,” Mathias said with a smile. He held his hand out, gazing at the strange scars on the back of it, the marks that she had given him, marks to show that he belonged to her. They were of two lips, a kiss, burned into the flesh of his hand. He wore the red, raised scars proudly. “And why not? I wasn’t using it anyway.”

  Poole managed to crawl to a cabinet and used it to haul himself up from the ground. “What do you want?” he asked weakly, turning toward Mathias, the sound of fear in his voice.

  Mathias liked that sound; fear was good, an excellent motivator.

  “My mistress has need of your talents,” he said, “and is willing to pay quite handsomely for them.”

  The Hound shook his head. “I couldn’t possibly—”

  Mathias lunged forward and drove his fist down through the front of the case next to Poole, sending fragments of glass flying into the air and falling into the case.

  “And that is why she sent me,” he said. His knuckles were bleeding as he fished around inside the case for a beautifully intricate gold bracelet he had spied earlier. “I don’t take no for an answer.”

  Mathias removed the bracelet, slipping it onto his wrist. “I think she’ll like this,” he said with a smile.

  The study door opened and Poole’s valet entered, carrying a silver serving tray with coffee. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw his employer and the glass on the floor around him.

  “Broughton . . .” Poole beckoned pathetically.

  “Bring that in here,” Mathias instructed Broughton, ignoring Poole. He motioned the servant toward a nearby table. “I think a cup of coffee would be just the thing before we begin our journey.” He turned toward the Hound. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Poole?”

  And Mathias smiled as Poole slowly nodded, a look of utter resignation on his pale, sickly features.

  It was when she slept deeply that she remembered them.

  Their faces flashed by her dreaming eyes, breaking what remained of a shattered heart into razor-sharp slivers of sorrow. The pain was excruciating, but it was also her fuel—the fuel that fed the fires of her rage.

  They were her husbands and her children, her countless attempts at a normal, peaceful existence.

  But He would not let her have that.

  No matter how much she begged or prayed to be forgiven, He would eventually take notice of her happiness and steal it away with a swipe of His hand. She should have learned by now, but perhaps that was part of the curse as well—the belief that maybe, this time, she would be forgiven her trespasses and allowed to love with all her heart.

  She remembered them, their beautiful faces haunting her from the past; she also remembered how they had died. From natural disaster to debilitating disease, one by one by one they were taken from her, leaving her only the memory of what she’d had, and the deep, burning pain of her loss.

  She wanted to die, but He would not allow that either.

  Although with each loved one lost, a piece of her humanity did die, and it had been a very long time since she’d last thought of herself as truly human.

  In her dream, the children were crying for her, for their mother, a symphony of sorrow. She wanted to hush them, to hold them to her bosom, and tell them that soon they could stop crying.

  That soon she would end the curse.

  And they would all be together a
gain.

  Delilah awoke, not with a start, or a scream, or a cry dancing upon her lips. She awoke perfectly calm, a sense of satisfaction growing in her breast.

  Mathias had returned; she could feel him, his sense of anticipation.

  She stretched languidly upon the four-poster bed, then rose and slipped into a robe of Chinese silk. She pulled open her double bedroom doors just as Mathias drew near.

  There was no question of whether or not he had succeeded in his mission.

  For those who loved Delilah would rather die than fail her.

  Her first impression wasn’t the best.

  A frail, silly-looking man in a dirty white suit, he was sitting on the balcony of her home, which overlooked the Bicol River in the Philippines, while sipping from a tumbler of whiskey.

  “Mr. Poole?” she asked, stepping out through the open doors. The diaphanous material of her long dress floated in the humid breeze blowing from the river. “I’m so happy you came.”

  Mathias followed close behind her like the obedient dog he was, and the sight of him made Poole begin to tremble, the ice in his whiskey tinkling like bells.

  “I had no choice,” Poole said in an attempt at defiance.

  Delilah clucked. “Oh, don’t be like that.” She seemed to float across the balcony and onto the divan across from him. Mathias remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, as if awaiting his next command.

  “I have need of your special skills,” Delilah continued.

  A boy came from the house carrying a crystal pitcher filled with ice water and lemons. There was a tall glass on the table in front of Delilah, and he filled it without making eye contact.

  “Thank you, Maynard,” she said, taking a sip of the cold water. “Mr. Poole, would you like more whiskey?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, staring angrily into his glass.

  Delilah motioned the boy away, and he left them alone.

  Back to business.

  “You need me,” Poole said with a laugh, before bringing the whiskey to his mouth. “What if I refuse?”