Things that weren’t meant for someone like him to know.
So he had driven all the way from Boston to Brockton in rushhour traffic, no mean feat, out of respect for what Remy was, and the things he had done in service to humanity, but mostly he did it because Remy was his closest friend.
And, of course, he’d been promised dinner at the Capital Grille, and a twenty-five-year-old bottle of Macallan.
Score one for the homicide cop!
Steven left the warmth of his car and walked up to the house. It was a nice place, a Dutch Colonial, but it was starting to look a little run-down.
Remy had mentioned that he thought Fernita might be showing the first stages of Alzheimer’s. He could understand why Remy had asked him to check up on the woman. Steven wasn’t entirely sure of the connection between the old woman and the private eye, vaguely recalling something being said about her hiring him to find something that she had lost, but that was all Steven could remember.
He walked up the wooden steps onto the porch and wondered if Fernita knew that he was coming. He had called Remy about an hour ago to ask that very question, but the call hadn’t gone through.
Standing in front of the door, he hoped that Remy had mentioned him in passing to the old gal, so that he was at least vaguely familiar to her. Raising a knuckle, he rapped on the glass panel. Steven waited a little longer, pulling the collar of his winter coat up tighter around his neck, before knocking again. There was still no response, so he leaned into the door, listening, and heard movement from inside.
“Fernita?” he called out, knocking again a little louder. “Hi, I’m Steven Mulvehill . . . Remy Chandler’s friend? He asked me to stop by.”
The sounds inside grew louder, more frantic.
“Fernita?” he called again. “Is everything all right?”
Steven was reaching for the doorknob when the door came suddenly open, and Steven stood face-to-face with an older black woman who could only have been Fernita Green.
“Hi,” he said again. “I’m Steven. . . .”
And then he noticed the look on her face, and the wild glint in her eyes behind her thick glasses—never mind the fact that she was wearing green rubber gloves.
“I don’t have time for this bullshit,” she said furiously. “Everything’s coming together and here I am at the door talking with the likes of you. Get offa my porch or I’ll call the police,” she snarled, ready to slam the door in his face.
Mulvehill was startled. This wasn’t the nice old woman Remy had talked about; this lady was crazy with a capital C.
“I am the police, Fernita,” Mulvehill told her, placing a hand on the door to keep her from closing it. “And Remy Chandler . . . You remember Remy, right? He asked me to stop by . . . to make sure you were . . .”
She abruptly turned her back, leaving the door open as she disappeared inside the house muttering to herself.
Steven had no idea what to do. He stood there for a moment, then took a deep breath and followed her in, carefully shutting the door behind him. “Fernita?” he called out. “Hey, Fernita . . .”
He immediately noticed the stacks of magazines and newspapers just inside the door. Remy had hinted that she was a bit of a hoarder, and from what he could see he had to agree.
“Hello?” he called again, moving tentatively down the hallway, turning slightly to the side to avoid knocking over any piles.
“Remy was worried, and asked me to . . .” Mulvehill came to the archway into the living room and found his voice immediately stolen away.
The amount of stuff . . . Boxes and bags and stacks and piles were everywhere, making it look as though she were packing her things to move, but he knew that wasn’t the case.
He couldn’t see Fernita, but he could hear her.
Mulvehill gingerly stepped into the room, careful not to disturb anything as he searched. He found her in a far corner, on her hands and knees, a bucket of dirty, soapy water beside her. She was using a brush and scrubbing at a section of wall in front of her.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes going to the strange writing in black that she was working hard to erase. Mulvehill stared at the writing, his eyes tracing over the unknown alphabet, certain that he had never seen anything quite like it before, and he felt the hair at the back of his head begin to stand up, and he realized that this wasn’t just a case of him being asked to check in on a potentially sick old woman.
No, this was more than that.
This was one of those other cases . . . the cases that he preferred that Remy not talk about.
It was one of those weird-as-shit cases.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” Mulvehill muttered beneath his breath, watching as the old woman continued to furiously scrub at the bizarre writing on the wall.
Desperate to make it go away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Arkansas, 1932
Fraciel drove the blade of the Enochian dagger through the angel’s heart, closing his eyes as he listened to the final cries of the once-Heavenly creature.
The angel tried to escape him, spreading its powerful wings and flapping wildly in a futile attempt to take flight, but Fraciel held him tight as he twisted the blade, stealing away the angel’s last bit of strength.
“Nothing personal,” he said softly as he lowered the body of the angel to the wet ground of the alley—a soft Southern rain falling upon them.
The angel, who had taken the human name of Luke, looked up at him with wide dying eyes.
“F . . . Fra . . . Francis,” he said in a strangled voice as dark blood oozed up from somewhere inside him and ran from the corners of his gaping mouth. “Why?”
Fraciel—Francis—did not respond. Instead, he removed a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit coat and cleaned the angel’s black blood from his blade. But the question echoed inside his troubled mind.
Why? It was something he’d asked himself a lot recently.
Why? Because God said so. That was why.
Francis was a killer for the Allfather, ending the lives of those who ran afoul of Heaven, penance for his own terrible sin.
He watched as Luke died on the filthy ground, his last breath trailing off in a whistle as the light of life left his eyes.
He had found this particular angel in the tent of a traveling church revival on the outskirts of Oak Bluff, Arkansas, preaching to those who believed that the Lord God was actually watching them.
Francis had been amused; as far as he knew, the only ones being watched were those humans who posed some sort of threat to Heaven and angels who had escaped to Earth after the Great War to avoid punishment. But the country was in the grip of a depression, and people were desperate.
Desperate for God to notice them.
Francis had attended the revival meetings, participating in the fervent praise to God, waiting for the opportunity to carry out his mission. Finally, at the end of a particularly zealous meeting, he had approached Luke, and although he was able to mask his true identity, even to other angels, Luke must have sensed a kindred spirit.
For some reason, Francis had allowed friendship to blossom, breaking his own cardinal rule. Though it was painful to admit, he had enjoyed having a friend, and hated to see it end in such a way.
But there was no choice.
Francis could sense his Masters’ impatience, and knew it was time to finish the job. He and Luke had been passing out flyers announcing a special meeting dedicated to asking for God’s forgiveness, and were on their way back to the revival tents when Francis saw his opportunity, suggesting they take a shortcut through the alley.
Luke had been so happy, brimming with excitement at the chance to preach God’s mercy to such a large gathering. Francis could practically feel the energy radiating off of him.