A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

He replaced the pot on the burner and slowly brought his hand up to his face to gaze at the still-trembling digits. He could feel his heart rate quicken, the blood pound through his body. It was times such as this when he truly felt like them.

  When he believed that he really understood what it was like to be human.

  But this . . . this is all so much bigger than that.

  Remy carefully picked up his mug, leaning forward for a large, slurping sip so as not to spill coffee on himself. He returned to his desk, mind racing. The more thought he put into it, the worse the situation became.

  As if it wasn't bad enough that the Angel of Death was missing, but with the five scrolls gone as well . . . Remy shuddered, trying to force thoughts of the Apocalypse from his mind.

  He had some more of his coffee and then tried to distract himself with work. He turned on the computer that sat on the corner of the desk. He had to finish the estimate on a surveillance job he'd been offered, as well as the final bill for services to Mrs. Mountgomery, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't get it together.

  Remy couldn't stop thinking about the Angel of Death, and the Horsemen galloping toward the end of the world.

  Exasperated, he finally switched off the computer and gathered up his things, resigned to the fact that nothing was going to be done in the office that day. Whenever he felt this way, there was only one thing that could help him focus.

  As he shut off the office light and closed the door behind him, Remy noticed that he could still smell a lingering scent of the angelic, and made a mental note to bring a scented candle from home, just in case the loathsome stink was still there when he returned to the office tomorrow.

  First he would stop off at home to pick up Marlowe.

  His mind a jumble with thoughts of Seraphim, angels of death, and a possible apocalypse, Remy knew he had to see Madeline.

  He needed to see his wife.

  Marlowe tensed, his dark brown eyes riveted to the yellow-green tennis ball clutched in Madeline's bony hand.

  She made the gesture to throw, once . . . twice, before finally letting the ball fly across the well-kept lawn at the back of the Cresthaven Nursing Center.

  Her laugh is the most wonderful thing to hear, Remy mused as they both watched the black dog bound across the grass in pursuit of his prize.

  The weather was warm again, with just the slightest tease of the cooler months to come, but Madeline still pulled her sweater tight about her dwindling frame as she sat in the green plastic chair.

  “He looks good,” she said to Remy standing beside her, watching as the dog happily snatched up the ball and rolled it around in his mouth. “Thought for sure he'd be fat with all the crap you give him.”

  “Me?” Remy said with a laugh. “Who's chair did he sit beside every morning, waiting for toast?”

  “Oh, those were just little pieces of bread,” Madeline said, and clapped her hands together, summoning Marlowe back to her. “That never hurt him.”

  She gave Remy a smile and that sly look out of the corner of her eye that even after fifty years of marriage still got to him. He put his arm around her and she leaned into his side, resting her head on his hip.

  “I miss him terribly,” she said wistfully.

  Marlowe trotted back toward them, ball held proudly in his mouth. Until suddenly, something distracted the goofy animal, probably a smell in the grass that he hadn't noticed before, and he dropped the ball, sniffing furiously.

  “And don't even get me started on how I feel about being away from you,” Madeline continued quietly.

  Remy felt an invisible fist squeeze tightly around his heart. “Then come home,” he said, watching as the dog rooted around in the grass. “We'll go in right now, gather up your things, and bring you back to Beacon Hill.”

  “I'm sick, Remy,” she said, head still resting against his hip.

  “I'll take care of you.”

  Madeline raised her hand to his butt and patted it lovingly. “You're a good guy,” she said, sounding weaker than he ever remembered hearing her sound. “But it wouldn't be fair to you, or to Marlowe. The kind of care I need... “

  “I told you I'd take care of you.”

  “And you would. I haven't a doubt in my mind about it, but that's where the trouble would start.”

  Remy looked down at her then, seeing past the illness that was slowly stealing her life away, staring into the eyes of the woman who had taught him the beauty and power of love, and to whom he had so willingly given his heart.

  “I can't have you sitting around watching me die,” she told him with a slight shake of her head.

  Remy looked away, hating to hear her talk about the inevitable. Marlowe had found a new friend. An old man in a heavy winter jacket sat in his wheelchair, patting Marlowe's big head while the dog did everything he could to try and lick the old-timer's face.

  Madeline took Remy's hand in a disturbingly icy grip, pulling his attention back to her. “I know you don't like to hear me talk about it, but it's all right,” she said with a small smile. “I know I'm going to die, Remy, and I accept that, but I don't want you to die with me.”

  He was suddenly thinking about Nathanuel's visit to his office – about the missing Angel of Death, and what it meant to the world.

  What it means to me.

  “What if I told you that you weren't going to die,” he said aloud, before he even knew the words were coming out of his mouth.

  “I'd say that you were kidding yourself. I am dying, Remy. No matter how much you hate to think about it. I have cancer, and I will die soon.”

  One of the nursing assistants had picked up Marlowe's ball and was playing with him now.

  “Nathanuel came to visit me today,” Remy said, holding Madeline's hand tighter, willing some of his own warmth into her icy grip.

  “Nathanuel . . . the angel Nathanuel?” she asked with disbelief. His wife was fully aware of his past dealings with the Seraphim, how they felt about him, and his feelings toward them. “What on earth did he want from you?”

  “Israfil is missing,” he said, looking back to her.

  “Israfil,” she repeated. He could tell she was playing with the name inside her head.

  “The Angel of Death,” he clarified. “The Angel of Death has gone missing, and there's nobody doing his job.”

  Madeline let go of his hand suddenly, grabbing at the collar of her sweater, pulling it up closer around her neck as if protecting herself from a sudden chill. “Does this have anything to do with the case you were talking about yesterday? The one where the man could actually see you?”

  Remy nodded. “It does,” he explained. “Before he shot himself, he said that he'd been dreaming about the end of the world.”

  “Then he killed himself,” she stated, her voice almost a whisper.

  Remy slowly shook his head. “He tried... but he hasn't died.”

  And then it seemed to hit her. He could see the meaning of his words flooding into her expression. She reached for his hand again, pulling herself to her feet.

  “Nobody is doing his job,” she repeated, her stare intensifying. “Nothing is dying.”

  He took her into his arms, hugging her close to him, not caring if anyone noticed the intimacy in the embrace between the supposed mother and son.

  “They want you to find him, don't they?” Madeline said, her cheek pressed against his chest. “They want you to find Israfil.”

  “Yes.” Remy held her tightly.

  She pulled away from him slightly, looking up, trying to find his eyes, but Remy was looking elsewhere, focusing on the dog at play, doing everything he could to not think of the repercussions of what he had been asked to do.

  “You're going to do it... right?” Madeline asked.

  Remy remained silent.

  “Remy?”

  He lowered his gaze to finally meet hers and saw that she was crying.

  “I know what you're thinking,” she told him, her voice trembling with emot
ion. She raised a hand to his face, cupping his cheek. The hand was freezing, but at the moment Remy could feel nothing.

  “And I want you to stop.”

  Remy brought his hand up to hers, taking it from his face and kissing it softly.

  “I love you,” he said, the words almost excruciatingly painful as they left his mouth.

  “And I love you too,” she told him. “But I don't want to live if it has to be this way. I need to go soon, darling,” Madeline said. “I don't want to, but I'll need to. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, understanding completely, but not wanting to accept it.

  “I love you now, and will always love you, Remy Chandler,” Madeline said, smiling at him wistfully. And he was reminded of his wedding day, when she had said the very same thing to him.

  “And I love you now, and always will, Madeline Chandler.”

  “That's nice,” she said, and hugged him again.

  Remy hugged her back, kissing the top of her gray head. And they stood there like that for quite some time, breaking apart only when Marlowe finally found his way back to them, tennis ball in his mouth.

  “There he is,” Madeline said happily, and Marlowe's tail began to wag. She squatted down, putting her arms around the black dog, hugging him close, pressing her face to his. “Thank you so much for coming to visit me, you goofy thing.”

  Marlowe licked her face, and she began to laugh.

  Again, Remy thought of how much he loved that sound.

  And how much he would miss it when it was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Maddie come home?” Marlowe asked from the backseat of the car, tilting his head and pointing his moist, jet-black nose toward the flow of air coming in from the partially open windows.

  “No,” Remy responded more sharply than he meant to as he tried to navigate Huntington Avenue's rush-hour traffic.

  It had to have been the fourth time the dog had asked about Madeline since they'd left Cresthaven. Remy understood exactly where the pup was coming from, which just made it all the harder for him to explain why Marlowe's favorite female wasn't going to return to the pack.

  Remy brought the car to a gradual stop at a traffic light near the Pru and casually looked into the rearview mirror to check on his buddy. He found himself staring into the dark, reflective eyes of the Labrador.

  “Why?” the dog asked.

  Remy sighed, turning the corner as the light changed to green.

  “You know why,” he told the animal. “Madeline's sick and needs to stay at the get-well place, where they'll take care of her.”

  The dog's head suddenly turned, zeroing in on a particularly interesting scent as they made their way down Boylston Street toward the Public Garden. Remy hoped that he would lose interest in the discussion of Madeline, but that wasn't the case.

  “When?”

  They always ended up in this uncomfortable place. He could tell Marlowe just about anything: tomorrow, two weeks from tomorrow, a year from next Tuesday, and to the simple animal it all meant pretty much the same thing. The dog, as with almost all animals, had no real concept of the passage of time. He lived for the moment, the now. That was what Marlowe truly wanted. He wanted Madeline home with them now, probably just as much as Remy himself did. Marlowe wanted the pack to be whole again, wanted life to be how it used to be.

  How it was supposed to be.

  But things had changed, and life never would be the same again. And how did he explain to this simple, loving animal that what it desired most could never be? Remy was the alpha male. . . . The master, the provider. How could he not make this happen?

  Instead, Remy ignored the dog, concentrating on getting home as quickly as possible. The remainder of the ride was filled with silent tension as Remy waited for the animal to press the issue, but Marlowe chose not to. In fact, he seemed more concerned with barking a greeting through the open window every now and again as they passed people walking their dogs.

  The gods of parking must have been feeling especially benevolent, for Remy managed to find a space right on Hancock Street, near the State House. With a dazzling display of parallel parking – one of the most difficult things I've had to master as a human – Remy parked the Toyota for the night.

  After a leisurely walk back to the brownstone, Remy retrieved his mail from the basket in the foyer and, unlocking the inner door, let them both into the hallway. The house was stuffy, and he walked around opening the windows to let in some fresh air. Marlowe followed at his heels, sniffing the influx of air for anything of interest.

  Remy glanced at the wall clock as he left the living room, and saw that it was past the dog's supper time.

  “Hey, pal, want to eat?” he asked, going into the kitchen. He got the dog some fresh water and then went to a cabinet beneath one of the counters for the container of Marlowe's food. With a plastic measuring cup he filled the dog's bowl and turned to put it down.

  Marlowe still stood just inside the doorway, his stare intense. Normally the Lab would have been pushing Remy out of the way to get at his supper, but tonight something was different. There was a look in the animal's eyes that the angel immediately understood – the conversation that had begun in the car was not yet over.

  “When?” Marlowe said pointedly.

  Remy set the bowl down on the place mat next to Marlowe's water. The Labrador still didn't move, showing a self-control that he'd never displayed before.

  The dog continued to stare, and finally Remy knelt, calling the Labrador to him. Tentatively, Marlowe approached, head low, ears flat, obviously thinking he was in trouble.

  “Not bad,” he grumbled.

  “No, not bad,” Remy said with a sad smile. He pulled the dog closer and lovingly rubbed the animal's ears. “You're a good boy, a very good boy.”

  He took Marlowe's blocky head in his hands and held his face close to his own. The dog's pink tongue shot out, licking Remy's face affectionately.

  “I am good boy,” he agreed, tailing wagging. “I am.”

  “Yes you are, but we need to talk about Madeline.”

  Marlowe's tail slowed, dropping down, only twitching slightly. “When coming home?”

  Remy gently held the dog's face, gazing into his deep, brown eyes. “She's not,” he said firmly, feeling his own heart break with the words. “Madeline has to stay at the get-well place, Marlowe. They are going to take care of her there, because we can't do that here.”

  The dog whined sadly. “No. Want Maddie. Now. Want Maddie. Home.”

  “I'm sorry,” Remy said. “But she is not coming home. She's very sick and . . .” He paused, trying to find the right words. There wasn't any easy way to say it, so he simply let the words come. “She's going to die, Marlowe.”

  The animal tried to pull away, but Remy held him in place.

  “No die,” he whined, the nails on his feet clicking upon the tiled floor. “No die.”

  Remy let the dog go and he left the kitchen, tail tucked between his legs. “I'm sorry,” he called after the animal, and no truer words were ever spoken.

  “I'm so, so sorry.”

  Remy thought he might be able to relax a bit by watching some of his favorite home-improvement shows, but he never got that far.