A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

  “Want an apple now?”

  Marlowe snapped to attention, his missing pack member almost instantly forgotten.

  “Apple noow? Yes. Yes.”

  Remy grabbed a Red Delicious from a fruit bowl on the microwave table and brought it to the counter. He plucked a knife from the strainer, cored the apple, and cut it into bite-sized pieces. Marlowe followed him excitedly across the kitchen as he tossed the chopped fruit into the metal bowl.

  “Here you go. Eat it slow so you don't choke.”

  Marlowe dug in. “Applegood. Chew. Not choke. Good,” he said between bites.

  Remy returned to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. He leaned against the counter, watching the dog inhale his treat, and wondered how long it would be before Marlowe again asked for Madeline. Not the best of situations, he thought, his eyes going to the fruit bowl.

  And they were almost out of apples.

  It was after eight when Remy finally retired to the rooftop patio to unwind from the hectic day. It was getting cooler, but he didn't notice. He sat in a white plastic lounge chair, sipping his coffee and reading Farewell My Lovely for what was probably the tenth time. Remy never tired of Chandler. In fact, he'd chosen his human name and that of his “baby“ as a kind of tribute to his favorite author. There was something about the man's prose, his keen observations of the mean streets of 1940s Los Angeles, that usually soothed the angel, but not tonight. He placed the paperback down on the patio table.

  Marlowe lay on his side at Remy's feet, legs extended as if dropped by gunfire. He lifted his head and grumbled.

  “Yeah, me too, boy. Even Chandler's not doing it tonight.” Remy leaned forward in his chair and ran his fingers along the dog's rib cage. The Labrador laid his head back with a contented sigh.

  Then, coffee mug in hand, he stepped over Marlowe and walked to the patio's edge, looking out over the city. He sipped at the cooling liquid as the day's disturbing events replayed inside his head. Mountgomery saw him in a guise he had not taken in years.

  Remiel, an angel of the heavenly host Seraphim.

  How he hated to be reminded of what he actually was.

  The angel listened to the sounds of the city, of the night around him, knowing full well that if he so desired he could pinpoint the individual prayers of every person speaking to Heaven at that moment, but Re-miel had given up listening to the prayers of others a long, long time ago. He didn't want to be something prayed to; he wanted to be like those he walked beside and lived among everyday. Remy Chandler wanted to be human, and until today, he was doing a pretty good job.

  The door buzzer squawked below, and Marlowe climbed to his feet with a bark and bolted down the stairs, gruffing and grumbling threateningly. Remy took one last look at the city, wondering how many out there had asked for favors from Heaven tonight; then returned to the table for his book and followed the dog down the three flights.

  He pushed the response button on the wall in the kitchen, leaning in toward the two-way speaker.

  “Yes?”

  There was a bit of a pause. Then he heard the rustling of a paper bag.

  “Hey. It's me. Let me in.”

  It was Steven Mulvehill, and it sounded like he had brought refreshments. Remy buzzed the man in and went to a cabinet for some glasses.

  Marlowe watched his master with a tilted head.

  “Who? Play?”

  Remy pulled down two tumblers, running his finger along the inside of each glass to clear away any dust. “It's Steven,” he said as he placed the glasses on the countertop.

  The sound of the inner door opening sent Marlowe into spasms of barking fury. The dog bounded down the hall as Mulvehill entered, waiting patiently as the excited Lab sniffed him over.

  “Hey, fella, how's it going?” Mulvehill thumped the dog's side with the flat of his hand as Marlowe leaned against him, as if starving for attention, his tail, of course, wagging crazily.

  He straightened and strolled down the hallway to the kitchen, where he handed Remy the paper bag he was carrying. “I come bearing gifts. Make mine on the rocks, please.”

  Remy took the bag from his friend and removed the bottle of Seagram's whiskey. Marlowe lurked at Remy's side.

  “Have?” he asked.

  Remy tossed the paper bag down to the dog. “Rip it up in here. Don't get it all over the living room, okay?”

  The Labrador quickly snatched up the satchel in his mouth and happily trotted into the living room.

  Mulvehill laughed. “I'm always amazed by the amount of control you have over that animal.”

  “Marlowe does what Marlowe wants to do,” Remy replied as he closed the freezer door and plunked a handful of cubes into each glass. “I can only make suggestions.”

  The homicide detective shook his head and looked toward the living room, where sounds of paper being torn to bits drifted out to them. “Spoken like a true pet owner,” he chuckled. “Did you visit Maddie tonight? How's she doing?” the cop asked, suddenly serious.

  Remy shrugged. “As good as can be expected. She wanted to know if you were coming by soon.”

  Mulvehill hadn't been to visit Remy's wife since she had entered the hospital more than six months earlier. He claimed he had a “thing“ about hospitals, but Remy suspected it had more to do with the fact that Steven could not face the loss of a close friend in his lonely life. Even now he ignored the question, instead motioning toward the stairs that led to the roof.

  “Shall we go up? I need a smoke.”

  Remy didn't allow his friend to smoke in the house. Madeline and Marlowe were both allergic, and besides, it left an odor on the furniture that the angel's acute senses found offensive. Mulvehill plodded up the stairs, and Remy followed close behind.

  The detective took his usual seat with a grunt, and reached into his coat pocket for the first of what would likely be many cigarettes. Remy put the ice-filled glasses and the bottle down on the tabletop.

  Lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, Mulvehill reached for the bottle of whiskey and cracked the seal. “Ain't a finer sound to be heard after a day like today,” he offered.

  Remy watched him pour the golden liquid over the ice in his glass, filling it halfway. “Should I hit you or do you want to do it yourself?” Mulvehill asked, gesturing toward his friend with the bottle.

  Remy signaled with a wave of his hand for him to pour, as he sat down across from Mulvehill.

  The detective offered a sinister smile. “I'm drinking with either a brave man or a stupid one.”

  The ice inside the glass popped and cracked as the whiskey drenched it. “Depends on what you're talking about,” Remy responded as he reached for his drink.

  Mulvehill set the bottle down, not bothering to screw the cap back on. He sampled his own drink with an eager gulp, and Remy could sense that something was bothering his friend.

  “You sure you don't want this one too?” Remy asked, holding his glass out toward his friend. “I could get another glass and some more ice.”

  Mulvehill had already finished the first and was pouring a second. “Lousy day. Very long and lousy day.” He finished filling his glass, avoiding Remy's eyes.

  Quietly, Remy sipped his drink, allowing the alcohol to burn his throat as he swallowed. It had taken him many years to learn how to appreciate the effects of drink, but with the proper practice, he now did quite fine. Fire blossomed in the pit of his stomach as he let the whiskey enter his bloodstream and course through his body.

  Marlowe came up the stairs to see what the rest of the pack was up to. He strolled over to Remy and nudged his master's hand with his snout, hoping for a pat.

  “Did you make a mess with that bag in the living room?” Remy asked. “If you did, I'm afraid you'll have to go to the pound.”

  The dog made a pitiful sound of hurt and slunk dejectedly toward Mulvehill. The cop leaned forward in his chair to scratch behind the dog's floppy ears, as Marlowe licked his hand and the glass it held.

  “Don't w
orry, boy,” he told the dog. “You can live with me. How about that?”

  Marlowe licked the man's cheek, and Remy laughed, taking another sip of his drink before setting it down.

  “He'd have to go out for a walk more than once a month. Dogs are like that, you know.”

  Marlowe gave Remy a blistering look and laid his bulk down beside his new best friend. The animal wasn't about to forgive Remy so easily.

  Mulvehill was in the midst of pouring his third drink when Remy finally decided to pick up the conversation again.

  “So, your day?”

  His friend was silent for a moment, stirring his drink with his finger, the melting ice tinkling happily in the tumbler. “Mountgomery and his secretary? I checked on them tonight. They're both still alive.”

  The angel shook his head in disbelief, reaching for the bottle. “I still don't know how that's possible.”

  The cop lit another cigarette before he responded. “I have a buddy at Mass General, emergency room doc. He checked them out when they came in.” He took a long drag, letting the smoke plume from his nostrils and mouth as he exhaled. “Said they were fatal injuries; no way those two should still be alive. He was pretty spooked by the whole thing.”

  Mulvehill fell silent and stared into space. Absently, he swirled the drink around in the glass, then drained the contents. “They should be dead, but they're not.”

  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 connection?”

  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, annoyed that he had been disturbed, and put his square head back down with a grunt.

  “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.