The evening news caught his attention, every story worse than the one before it. Escalating violence in the Middle East, hunger and disease running rampant in the African nations, and then the disconcerting report on how scientists from all over the world had begun to take note of a sudden decrease in death rates, and how dangerous it was becoming to an already strained ecosystem.
Dangerous isn't the word, Remy thought with a sigh, picking up the remote from the arm of his chair and turning off the set before yet another story could send him plummeting further into the depths of depression.
The evening had become pretty much a wash, and Remy decided that he might as well go up to bed. Maybe a few more chapters of Farewell My Lovely would help ease his funk.
He headed for the kitchen, calling Marlowe, for one last trip outside. When the canine didn't answer, Remy strolled down the hallway to the spare room that the dog had claimed for his own. The black Labrador was curled into a tight ball on his tattered blanket, the floor about him strewn with stuffed toys.
“I'm going to bed now,” Remy said. “Do you need to go outside?”
“No outside,” the dog mumbled, not even lifting his head.
“Are you sure?” Remy asked.
“Sure,” the dog answered, obviously still very upset over the news that Madeline was not returning to his pack.
“Well, good night, then,” the angel said, waiting to see if the dog was going to join him in bed, as he often did. But Marlowe remained in his own place, closing his eyes with an elongated sigh. He didn't even want his bedtime snack.
“I guess I'll see you in the morning.”
In all actuality, Remy didn't have to sleep, but he had learned to do so out of boredom and loneliness during the early morning hours while he waited for the rest of the world to awaken. It hadn't taken him long to teach himself, and he soon found that he quite enjoyed the act of shutting down to recharge his batteries. It felt good to escape the constant conflict between his angelic nature and the human guise he worked so hard to maintain, even if it was for just a short time.
Once again Remy found it difficult to focus on Chandler's words, and finally decided that it was time to call it a night. He laid the book facedown on his bedside table and was reaching to turn off the light when he sensed that he was no longer alone.
Marlowe stood in the doorway to the bedroom, staring.
“What is it, bud? Do you have to go outside?”
“Leave pack too?” the animal asked. “Leave Marlowe like Maddie?”
Remy sighed, a wave of empathy for the animal's sadness passing over him. “No, Marlowe,” he said gently. “I won't leave you.”
He patted an area of bed beside him, and the Labrador bounded from the doorway up onto the bed, tail twitching nervously. Remy rubbed the dog's floppy black ears, allowing the animal to lick his face.
“You're the best boy,” Remy told him. “How could I ever leave you, huh? How could I?”
“Marlowe best,” the dog said, happily panting. “Marlowe best boy ever.”
“Yes, you are,” he told the animal. “Why don't you lie down now?”
The dog plopped heavily beside him, and even though there was plenty of room for both of them, his butt was pressed firmly against Remy's leg as he settled down.
“That's a good boy.” Remy patted Marlowe's side. “We'll get a good night's rest and be able to look at things more clearly in the morning. How does that sound?”
“Love Remy,” Marlowe said, tail thumping upon the mattress, looking, with deep, soulful eyes, over his shoulder at the angel.
“I love you too, pal,” Remy answered, reaching over to turn off the bedside light. “Now let's get some sleep.”
Remy lay in the darkness, the rhythmic changes in Marlowe's breathing as he gradually drifted off helping him to relax.
It wasn't long before he too was asleep.
And dreaming.
It was like something out of a spaghetti western.
Remy found himself standing in front of an old train station. The wood of the place was weather beaten and dry, and the floorboards creaked noisily as he shifted his weight.
The angel was alone.
He looked out across the broad expanse of desert, following the dark, metal tracks as they curved off into the horizon, where an angry orange sun was just starting to rise. A sudden wind kicked up, blowing thick clouds of dust and sand off the desert, and Remy shielded his eyes from the grit and grime. He looked down at himself and
saw that he was wearing his Brooks Brothers suit – his best suit – the one that he wore to weddings and funerals. Offhandedly, he wondered what the occasion was.
At first, he mistook the sound for the wind, a low, moaning sound that seemed to come up out of nowhere, filling the empty expanse around him. But then he heard it in tandem with another sound, and he knew exactly what it was.
A train was coming.
He put a hand upon his brow and squinted into the morning light.
The train appeared as an unsightly blotch against the orange of the rising sun, a thick plume of black smoke trailing from its smokestack.
Remy walked down the length of platform toward the oncoming locomotive. It was big, larger than any train he'd ever seen before, its metal body blacker than the smoke that plumed from its unusually tall stack. But it wasn't just its appearance that was strange; the way the train moved along the track was almost as if it were somehow more than just a machine – strangely alive, like some huge, prehistoric predator, slithering down the length of track, following the scent of its prey.
He knew then, as he stood upon the lonely platform, that the train coming into the station carried no more than four riders. And each of these riders brought with them a means by which to begin the Apocalypse.
The Horsemen were coming.
And the end of all things followed them.
Remy awakened with a start, the image of the fearsome locomotive barreling toward him as he stood upon the station platform seared into his mind's eye.
His heart was racing, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his entire body. He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, an occasional car passing by on the street below causing oddly shaped shadows to slide across the white surface. But he paid them little attention; his thoughts replaying the events of the bizarre dream.
He heard the train whistle, moaning somewhere in the back of his memory, the rhythmic pulse of the locomotive engine as it drew closer.
The Horsemen on the way.
It was then that he realized he was alone. He turned his head on the pillow, looking for Marlowe where he'd normally be, curled up into a tight ball near his head. But the dog wasn't there.
He sat up, looking down at the foot of the bed. He wasn't there either.
Remy was about to call out the dog's name when he heard a soft whimper from somewhere in the room.
“Marlowe?” Remy asked in the darkness.
Something scrabbled beneath the bed, nails scraping across the hardwood floor. Remy rose and knelt down, lifting the blanket and sheets that hung over the side of the bed and peering beneath. Marlowe's dark, glistening eyes stared back at him.
“What the heck are you doing under there?” Remy asked the animal.
“Scared,” the dog told him.
“Scared of what?”
“Something coming . . . something big.”
Remy felt an electric jolt of surprise. Had the animal shared his dream? “A train?” he asked. “Did you dream about a train?”
“Train,” the dog agreed. “Train coming. Bad. Scared.”
Remy reached into the shadows and scratched the dog behind the ear. “You don't have to be afraid,” he soothed him. “Come on out.”
“Scared,” the dog said again.
“Well, okay, then,” Remy said, dropping the sheets and beginning to stand. “Guess I'll just have to go for a walk by myself.”
“Walk?” Marlowe barked, creating a racket as he clambered to extract his s
eventy-five pounds from the cramped confines beneath the bed.
“I thought you were too scared,” Remy said, slipping on a pair of dark gray sweatpants.
Marlowe emerged from his hiding place, standing alert, tail wagging furiously, his fear already forgotten.
“Yeah,” Remy chuckled as he pulled a sweatshirt on over his head.
“Walk.”
CHAPTER SIX
Remy loved the dawn.
If the day before was lousy, it was a chance to try it all again. And if the new day didn't work out, well, there was always tomorrow.
A fresh start every day.
Before he had abandoned his angelic nature, there had been no dawn, no todays or tomorrows for him. After all, what was the passage of time to a being that would live forever? If nothing else, his decision to live as a human among them had made him realize how precious each new day really was.
Marlowe trotted along beside him, his chain collar jingling cheerfully. They stopped at the corner of Joy and Beacon Street, and Marlowe's tail began to wag happily as he caught sight of the Boston Common across the way.
“Common,” he said, over and over again, his pink tongue flopping from the side of his mouth as he panted excitedly.
“Can't pull the wool over your eyes, can I, pal?” Remy said, eyeing the early morning traffic.
A yellow Boston Herald truck slowed down with a squeal of old brakes, and the driver motioned for them to cross.
Remy waved his thanks, then gave a gentle tug on the leather leash. “C'mon,” he said to Marlowe, and the two sprinted across the street and down the granite steps into the Common.
It was still relatively dark in the park, the sun not yet high enough to penetrate through the trees. Remy scanned the shadows, and seeing only a few joggers on the paths here and there, reached down to unclip the leash from Marlowe's collar. There was a leash law in Boston, but as long as it wasn't crowded and the dog didn't bother anybody, Remy didn't see the harm in letting him run a bit.
“Don't bother any of the joggers,” he reminded, releasing the Labrador.
“No bother,” Marlowe agreed, and trotted off through the trees. His black form merged with the shadows, the glint of the chain around his neck sometimes the only thing separating the dog from the darkness as he darted from tree to tree, nose pressed to the grass.
Marlowe was searching for rats. There was nothing the retriever loved more than chasing rats in the early morning hours on Boston Common. Remy didn't have to worry about his four-legged friend catching any of the vermin that prowled the public park; it was all about the chase with Marlowe.
The Boston Common and adjacent Public Garden formed Boston's equivalent of New York's Central Park. It was the oldest public park in the United States, and Remy could actually remember when its land was used for cattle grazing, and when British troops had camped here before marching out to face Colonial resistance at Lexington and Concord.
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; runners; bike riders; a gaggle of old Chinese women doing t'ai chi; a few businessmen, briefcases in hand, walking with robotic purpose down the twisting paths toward the financial district or the Park Street T station.
As Remy neared the bandstand, he could see an encampment of sleeping bags, blankets, and shopping carts filled with all manner of refuse near its base. It would be getting colder soon, and the Common would no longer supply the city's homeless with the freedom they so craved. Some would rather die than spend a night in a shelter, and the bitter New England winters often obliged.
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.