A sudden barrage of barks distracted him from the oddity of nature, and Remy quickly stood to find his dog.
The sun was just about ready to rise, and he could see Marlowe had something pinned against one of the new trash barrels. He was darting from side to side, barking and growling.
“Marlowe, no,” Remy commanded, knowing exactly what he’d find as he headed for the ruckus.
The rat was huge, fat, and it glared at the dog, its beady eyes glistening red in the first light of morning, bristling, brown-furred back pressed against the barrel.
“Rat,” the dog barked angrily. “Rat take bread.”
“What bread?” Remy asked as he approached, careful not to slip on the packed snow as he left the relative safety of the paved walkway.
“My bread,” Marlowe barked again, lunging at the now hissing rat.
“You don’t have any bread,” Remy reminded the frenzied animal. And then he saw it. The overweight rodent had taken possession of the end of a submarine sandwich roll . . . a roll to which a certain Labrador retriever, even though he’d been warned not to eat any garbage, had taken a particular shine.
“No,” Remy ordered, reaching over to grab his dog’s collar. “It’s not your bread. . . . It’s garbage, and what did I tell you about garbage?”
“Not garbage.” Marlowe’s eyes were riveted to the roll. “Bread.”
“If you found it on the ground, it’s garbage.” He tugged on the collar as Marlowe tried to pull away.
Remy looked at the rat and spoke in its primitive tongue. “We’re sorry,” he said. “Take your prize and go.”
The rat glared at him, its damp nose twitching in the air, testing for danger. It did not trust him.
Remy pulled Marlowe away.
“No!” the dog protested with a pathetic yelp.
“No?” Remy repeated. “How about yes?”
The rat’s bulk loomed over the piece of roll as it eyed them cautiously. “Mine,” it squeaked. “Hate dog. Hate man,” it added with a dismissive hiss, as it snatched up the bread and scampered off.
“And furthermore, what did I tell you about rats?” Remy asked the dog, releasing the hold on his collar.
“Filthy,” Marlowe said, already sniffing at the ground and ready to move on.
“Yeah, filthy,” Remy said. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearing five thirty. “Want to go home and get some breakfast?”
That caught the dog’s attention.
“Eat?” Marlowe asked.
“Would I lie to you?” Remy questioned, smiling, the love that he felt for this simple animal nearly overwhelming.
“No lie,” the Labrador said, excitement in his doggy voice. “Eat. Eat now.”
“Well, c’mon, then.” Remy gestured for Marlowe to follow him.
As he turned, he caught sight of three figures on the path up ahead of him, and took Marlowe’s leash from his pocket. “Come here.” He reached down to clip the leash to the dog’s collar. “Just in case you get any ideas about bothering these early risers.”
“No bother,” Marlowe said, but his tail was already wagging furiously. Marlowe loved people, but could never understand that some people didn’t love dogs, especially big ones that seemed overly excited.
“Behave yourself,” Remy told him, pulling up on the leash as they grew closer to the three figures.
He saw that they were eyeing him and he made it a point to pull Marlowe even closer.
“Good morning,” Remy said to the first of the men, a short, dark-haired, dark-skinned fellow, probably in his mid-twenties, bundled up in a heavy woolen cap and puffy jacket. The other two men were similarly dressed.
The three stopped and watched Remy as he passed, Marlowe struggling, desperate to say hello.
“Don’t worry about him,” Remy explained with a smile. “He just gets excited around people. Doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his body.”
He tugged at the dog’s leash, continuing toward the exit when he heard one of them speak.
“Remy Chandler?”
He stopped and turned.
“Yes?”
“You are Remy Chandler . . . the private investigator?” the shortest of the three men said.
“I am,” Remy answered. “And you are?”
“My name is Jon,” the man said, pulling off one of his gloves as he stepped toward Remy, offering his hand. “We’ve been looking for you.”
Remy shook the man’s hand as the other two nodded. The handshake was warm and firm.
“Really,” he said. The man had an odd speech pattern, as if he was quite hard of hearing.
Marlowe pulled forward on the leash, barking for some attention.
“Knock it off,” Remy said, giving the leash a tug.
“That’s all right,” the man said, squatting down to vigorously pet the dog behind the ears. “He seems like a good dog.”
“Very good,” Marlowe grumbled, finally getting the attention he so desperately craved.
“He tries,” Remy said, giving Marlowe’s butt a swat. “So, you say you’ve been looking for me?” There was a strange vibe coming off the men, but one he couldn’t quite read. The only thing that he could tell—could feel—was that they weren’t dangerous, and meant him no harm.
“We have,” Jon said, his breath coming in roiling clouds of white as he slid his hand back into his glove. “We were told you were here, but we didn’t know where exactly. It’s so cold we were about to give up.”
The others smiled as they nodded again, obviously pleased they had managed to stick it out.
“That’s funny,” Remy said. “I don’t remember telling anybody that I’d be here.”
“You didn’t have to,” Jon said. “We listen to our surroundings, and in turn, they tell us what we need to know.”
Okay, not dangerous, but very likely crazy.
“So your surroundings said I’d be at the Common, walking my dog?”
Jon bent at the waist in a stiff bow. “They did indeed. I believe it was an elm. . . .”
“Maple,” one of the others corrected.
“Ah, yes, thank you. A maple tree on Pinckney Street told us that you had passed with your friend here.”
Remy smiled carefully. “A tree told you I went to the Common?”
“It mentioned you had passed, as did the others you walked by on your way here.”
“More than one tree talked to you?” Remy asked incredulously.
“All plant life upon this planet talks to us,” Jon said with a beatific smile. “You probably think we’re mad,” he added.
Remy laughed. “Well, since you brought it up.”
“We are the Sons of Adam,” Jon said, pointing to his comrades, and then to himself.
It took a moment for their identities to sink in.
“Sons of Adam,” Remy repeated slowly as the meaning of the words began to permeate his thick skull. “The Adam?”
“Exactly,” Jon said. “And he’s sent us here to find you.”
Marlowe, tired of all the talking, flopped down onto the cold path, lifted his leg, and began to lick at his lower regions.
A real class act.
Remy was silent, anticipating what was coming next.
“The first father has need of your special skills,” Jon continued.
“Adam needs you to find something for him. He asks that you find the key . . .
“. . . the key to the Gates of Eden.”
Hell
Francis really didn’t know what to expect when he died, but it wasn’t this.
Every inch of his body ached. Even thinking hurt, and although he tried to throw himself into a pool of sweet, sweet oblivion, it just wasn’t meant to be.
He’d always said thinking could be bad for you, but this was the first time he had actual physical proof.
Tiny hand-grenade blasts were going off inside his skull, all over the surface of his brain, and they forced him to scream like a little girl.