Where Angels Fear to Tread (21 page)

Remy opened the door and let Marlowe out into the backyard.

"I just let him out," Ashley bellowed from the living room.

"He told me you didn't," Remy said.

"Well, he's a big fat liar then," she said.

"How dare you call my faithful canine companion a liar," Remy said, opening the screen door to let the dog back inside. "I bet she hasn't given you any snack either," he addressed the Labrador, knowing full well she probably had.

"
No snack
," Marlowe said, sitting down at Remy's feet, his tail sweeping the floor.

Remy got a few dog cookies from a monkey cookie jar on the counter.

"He's had a bunch of treats too," Ashley called out again.

"I know she lies," Remy whispered loud enough for Ashley to hear as he gave Marlowe two cookies, which he promptly inhaled.

"
Lies
," Marlowe agreed, hoping Remy would give him some more.

"That's enough for now, buddy," Remy said, reaching out to pat the dog's square head.

"All right, I'm getting out of here," Ashley said sleepily, standing in the doorway, her overstuffed book bag slung over her shoulder.

"Thanks for coming by," Remy told her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded bills. Removing two twenties, he gave them to her. "Here ya go."

"What's that for?" she asked with a scowl, not taking what was offered.

"Your pay," he said. "Take it."

"No thanks," she said, walking to the door. "This wasn't an official gig," she told him.

"I'll catch you later then," he said.

"You do that," she agreed, giving him a smile that he was sure melted teenage boys' hearts all over Boston.

She was opening the door when she stopped.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey what?" Remy answered, about to make a pot of coffee.

"Who's the artist?" she asked, and gestured toward the living room.

He remembered he'd been going over Zoe's drawings last night and had left them out.

"A little girl who's gone missing," Remy said. "She's pretty good, eh?"

"Pretty freaky," Ashley stated. "I can't believe some of the stuff she drew."

"Anything particularly freaky?" he asked.

"The one of that hand thing," she said. Ashley dropped her bag at the door and went back to the living room. Remy and Marlowe followed her.

She had picked up the pieces of paper and was going through them. "When I first saw the drawing, I couldn't believe it, y'know? Why would a little kid be drawing something like that?"

Finding the drawing, she handed it to Remy. The picture was of what looked like a hand, with a stick, or nail, going through the center, blood dripping down the wrist from the entry point.

"Do you know what it is?"

"What, you don't?" she asked. "Don't tell me there's something I know that you don't?"

"Keep this up and I'll never call you again at a moment's notice to take care of my dog," he said in mock seriousness.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chandler, sir; I'll be good."

They laughed, then turned their attention back to the drawing.

"Seriously, what is it?" Remy asked.

"It's a statue out in front of the old Boston archbishop's mansion in Brighton," she explained. "When Mom was working for Catholic Charities, she used to take me there for special meetings and luncheons and stuff, and I used to see this creepy statue right out in front of the building. I think it's supposed to be Jesus' hand or something like that."

Remy continued to stare, ideas starting to formulate.

"I think the church is supposed to be selling the building to Boston College," she continued.

"I think you're right," Remy said.

"All right, I'm leaving," she said, walking to the door again.

Remy said nothing and did not move.

"Don't worry about me," she said sarcastically, opening the door and hauling herself and the heavy book bag out into the hall. "I can get the door and this two-ton book bag perfectly fine all by myself."

"Take it easy," he said, responding to the teenager on the most rudimentary level.

The detective's thoughts were elsewhere.

"Why would she have drawn this, Marlowe?" he asked.

The dog had climbed up onto the couch and was watching him.

"Why this?" he asked. "She must've seen it," he said. "It must mean something if she drew it."

The Labrador lowered his face between his paws and sighed. He wasn't at all interested in anything Remy had to say, not unless it had something to do with food, or a nighttime walk.

He'd left his cell on the kitchen table and went for it. From a wrinkled piece of napkin scrawled on at the China Lion, Remy read and punched in the number Samson had given him. It rang three times before being answered.

"Yeah," said a distinctly female voice.

"Carla?" Remy asked.

"No, this is Carol."

"Is Samson there?" Remy asked, concerned that he might have the wrong number.

"Yeah, wait a second," Carol said. A hand was placed over the phone, and he heard the girl call for her dad.

Another kid?
Remy mused as he waited.

He paced around the kitchen, listening to the vague sounds from the other end. He could hear scuffling and the distant sound of music, something old, like big band music.

"Yeah?" Samson boomed.

Remy held the phone slightly away from his ear.

"It's Remy."

"Miss me already?" the old man asked, and laughed a rumbling laugh.

"Sure, that's it," Remy said. "I think I might have something."

The voice on the other end became suddenly serious.

"Let's hear it."

"Think I might have a location . . . the old archbishop's mansion in Brighton."

"And what makes you think this?" Samson asked curiously.

Remy had again walked into the living room, and was staring down at the drawing of an impaled and bleeding hand.

"Let's just say my source is pretty good."

The old man was silent for a bit, and Remy was about to ask if he was still there, when he spoke.

"We should probably move on this pretty quick," he said. "Delilah is not the nicest of people . . . if you could even call her
people
anymore. The longer your client is with her, the smaller her chances are of . . ."

"Why don't we meet in about an hour?" Remy said. "There's something I need to do before we do this."

"An hour it is," Samson said. "Just want you to know if this is what we think it might be, it isn't going to be a walk in the park. There are a lot of people willing to die for that bitch."

The ancient warrior's words slowly sank in.

"I understand," Remy told him. "I'll see you in an hour."

There was nothing more to say, and the phone went quiet in his hand.

CHAPTER TWELVE

M
arlowe was awake.

Remy had hoped to sneak out, but he should have known that was asking a little too much.

"I have to go out for a while," he told the animal, who was sitting at attention on the couch where mere moments before he had been sound asleep.

"
Where?
" the Labrador asked, his head cocked to one side.

"To work," Remy said.

"
Go with?
" Marlowe asked, getting down from the couch and stretching.

"Not this time, pal."

The dog walked over and stared up at him. His tail began to wag.

"
Go with?
" he asked again.

Remy didn't have time for this. "You heard what I said. Stop being a brat."

"
No brat
," Marlowe grumbled, insulted.

"Yes, you're being a brat," Remy told him.

The dog lowered his tail and slumped back toward the couch, lying down beside it, his face buried between his two front paws. He was playing the part of the saddest dog in the world, and Remy truly believed an Oscar might actually be in Marlowe's future.

"What's wrong?" Remy asked.

"Sad."
The Labrador refused to look at him.

"I'm very sorry you're sad, but I need to go." Remy went to the front door, feeling Marlowe's eyes on his back. And he couldn't stand it.

"I think I know what might make you less sad," he said, turning at the door and seeing the dog raise his head inquisitively.

Remy gestured for Marlowe to follow him to the kitchen and knelt down beside one of the lower cabinets. The dog had already figured out what was up, and he stood beside Remy, panting madly while his tail wagged furiously.

Remy reached into a bag inside the cabinet and pulled out one of Marlowe's favorite treats—a pig's ear. Madeline had always thought the greasy, rawhide delicacies were disgusting, but Marlowe loved them more than almost anything, and if something was to distract him from Remy's leaving, it would be this.

Marlowe was practically vibrating with excitement as Remy held out the pig's ear. "Will this make you happy?"

"
Yes
," he barked, snatching the treat and running off to the living room floor.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Remy called out, the sound of powerful jaws crunching on smoked cartilage escorting him out the door.

He walked back down the hill to Cambridge Street, grabbed his car, and drove up Charles Street on his way to Newbury. He had to pay a visit to Francis' place again.

There were certain things—certain dangerous things—that might be needed tonight, and he could think of only one place where they would be readily available to him.

He found a spot on the upper end of Commonwealth and jogged around the corner to the brownstone. Letting himself inside, he was again aware of the sad silence of the place and thought of his friend.

When Francis wasn't guarding one of the passages to the Hell prison of Tartarus, he was earning a living as one of this world's most deadly assassins. Working within the confines of his own strange moral code, he would kill for the highest bidder in order to afford one of the only things that made the exiled former Guardian angel truly happy.

Weapons.

He had a particular fondness for medieval weaponry, but anything he could use to end the life of some loathsome undesirable, for a ridiculous amount of money, was cool by him.

Remy unlocked the door to Francis' apartment and descended, going directly to the wardrobe where he'd found the key the other night.

He didn't want anything too obvious, so the swords and battle-axes probably weren't going to do the trick. But then he found it, in a velvet-lined drawer—a military Colt 45 Automatic. He hefted the heavy black weapon; it would serve him just fine. He found a shoulder holster and helped himself to that as well.

Remy then searched for some proper ammunition. Normal bullets were usually enough, but tonight, he would need something with a little more bite, especially if he intended to fight a soulless legion and Delilah herself.

And who knew how much more durable she'd become since being cursed by God.

Sometimes Remy had to wonder about the Lord's judgment on these things; it often seemed that He was just making things worse.

He found the supply of special bullets in a lower drawer, in a case that resembled a small treasure chest. They were pure silver, with intricate sigils scratched into their tips.

From what Francis had told him, these things were better than hollow points. Not only did they have amazing stopping power against the natural and supernatural, but the magick within the projectile that was released when the bullet entered cursed flesh was devastating.

He loaded the silver bullets into multiple clips, slid one into the butt of the Colt, and put the others in his jacket pocket.

Closing up the wardrobe, Remy climbed the stairs back up to the lobby and locked Francis' door behind him. He then left the building, locking that as well, and headed back to his car.

He wasn't sure exactly why he did it, but he found himself driving around the block to head back up Newbury Street, past the restaurant Piazza, in hopes that he might catch a glimpse of Linda Somerset.

Now, why am I doing this?
Remy asked himself, checking out the tables, as well as the waitstaff moving amongst the patio tables, and found himself growing annoyed at his surprising actions.

And disappointed that he did not catch a glimpse of her.

A kid named Elijah had brought them to Pastor Zachariah's home.

Carl was awash with emotion as he held Zoe's hand, following the young man across the compound; afraid he would not be welcomed back into the flock, and ashamed for what he had done so long ago.

Supposedly the leader of the Church of the Holy Abundance, though quite ill, wanted to see him at once.

Carl's mind was racing, going over how he would beg for the holy man's forgiveness. He looked down at his little girl walking by his side.

She would have belonged to them—to the Church of Dagon; she would have been born something so very special.

Instead of like this.

Carl owed his little girl an apology as well.

Elijah led them up a stone path to a simple, single-story home. He removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the front door, then turned and gestured toward them.

"Come in," he said. "The pastor is waiting."

Carl led Zoe through the door and into a small foyer.

"Why don't you two have a seat," Elijah said, escorting them into the living room. "I'll tell the pastor you're here."

The handsome young man disappeared down a darkened hallway, leaving Carl alone with his daughter. He noticed that her hands had started to twitch, and she was making small moaning noises as she began to rock from side to side.

"Hey," Carl said, kneeling down in front of her. "I'll get you some paper and crayons in a little while," he told her, holding her shoulders while trying to look directly into her eyes. "But first we're going to meet a very great man. Somebody who was supposed to be a part of our lives, but your dad lost sight of the big picture and did some very stupid and selfish things."