Remy turned back to the notes, surprised to see that he had actually made two separate piles.
“More play now!” Marlowe demanded, attempting to shove the stuffed animal beneath the arm of the chair and into his lap. “Monkey! Crazy monkey! Throw! Pull!”
“What did I say?” Remy grabbed the monkey from the dog and tossed it over his shoulder, never taking his eyes from the two stacks. The dog took off again after the toy as Remy began to examine the piles. One contained most of the information on the weapons, but the other he had no recollection of ever seeing, never mind making a separate stack.
He sensed that Marlowe had returned and ignored him, pulling the smaller stack that he had made over for a closer look. It contained the information on four specific weapons. He removed the photos, lining them up in front of him on the desk—Japanese katana, a medieval battle-axe, an intricately etched Colt 45, and the beautiful simplicity of twin daggers.
What was it about these particular weapons that seemed to so interest him?
Marlowe sighed, dropping his seventy pounds to the floor beside Remy’s chair with the stuffed monkey, depressed that he’d been rejected.
“Sorry, buddy,” Remy apologized. “But I’ve got to figure this out.”
He picked up the photograph of the Japanese sword, staring at it before carefully reading the notes that accompanied the fearsome blade. According to the information, the katana was created in the year 1565 by master sword maker Asamiya.
“I know that name,” Remy muttered, leaning back in his chair. Marlowe lifted his head, thinking that maybe it was time to play again. “Where do I know that name?”
It wasn’t long before he remembered.
Remy wasn’t sure how many years ago it was, but he was certain that it was no more than three or four. Francis had returned from one of his out-of-state assignments with something that he couldn’t wait to show to his friend. The special something had been a Japanese sword crafted by Asamiya, supposedly the greatest Japanese sword maker who had ever lived.
He looked at the photo of the sword a bit longer before stacking it with the other information and placing everything back inside the envelope in which it had been delivered. What he had to do, then, was obvious. If anybody could give him some insight on these weapons, it was Francis.
He pushed his chair back and stood up, reaching over to turn off his desk lamp.
Marlowe was already standing, limp monkey dangling from his mouth, the anticipation of more playtime twinkling in his dark brown eyes. But what Remy was about to ask the animal was even better than playtime.
“Do you want to go for a ride?”
The response was as he expected.
A ride in the car trumped chasing a stuffed monkey hands down.
It wasn’t common knowledge, but there was an entrance to Hell on Newbury Street.
It had been there for nearly forever, even before there was a Newbury Street, when the Back Bay was underwater. And Remy was sure that the fissure had existed even long before that. There was no specific reason why it was there, no violent series of events so horrible that it had ripped the very fabric of reality. Nothing so dramatic. It was just that all over the planet there were places where the barriers between this world and the worlds beyond it were quite a bit thinner, and doorways between these planes of existence had been established.
As luck would have it, Remy had found a parking space at a meter that still had close to an hour left on it. He didn’t figure he’d be that long, but he popped a few quarters into the meter anyway. One never could tell when a legion of meter maids could descend, dispensing their forty-dollar greetings. The seventy-five cents was much more palatable.
“I’m a good dog,” Marlowe said to him as they stood beside the car, Remy sliding the chain collar attached to the leash around the animal’s neck.
“I know you are, but you still have to wear the leash when you’re in the city,” Remy explained.
“Good dog, won’t run away.”
“I know you won’t run away, but some people are afraid of good dogs and don’t appreciate you trying to say hello.” Remy placed the file folder of his latest case beneath his arm.
“Say hello,” the dog said, wagging his tail at a man in a very expensive suit who walked by talking on a cell phone.
“I doubt that man would like slobber on his suit. C’mon.” Remy gave the leash a slight tug and the two of them headed down Newbury. “Let’s go see what Francis is doing.”
“Say hello, Francis?” Marlowe asked, looking up at Remy as they navigated the somewhat busy sidewalk.
“You can say hello all you want to him. Francis likes slobber.”
The former Guardian angel’s brownstone had been built in 1882. Francis had actually supervised its construction himself and had lived there ever since, acting as doorman and parole officer between the prison realm of Hell and Earth.
It was his job to guard this passage, allowing only those fallen who had served their time in the pit to pass. Some really did try to live good lives, hoping that someday they would be allowed to return to Heaven, while others seemed to be permanently altered by their time in the pit, gravitating toward a life of crime as a Denizen.
Marlowe stopped at the tree in front of the brownstone, before angel and dog started up the steps. Remy pulled open the heavy wooden door, allowing the dog into the entryway first. He was about to push the buzzer to let Francis know that he had arrived, when the door into the building opened from the inside.
A man was backing out of the door, holding a box in both hands, a long duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He turned to leave the building and nearly fell over Marlowe, whose tail was wagging so hard it made his whole body shake.
The man gasped, throwing himself back against the door, so frightened that he nearly dropped the large cardboard box.
Remy reached over, grabbing hold of Marlowe’s collar and pulling him away. “Sorry about that,” he apologized, forcing the dog to stand at his side as he reached to hold open the door to the brownstone. “He thinks everyone is his friend.”
“Say hi!” Marlowe barked happily.
The man glared at them, eyes filled with both fear and anger. The look was one Remy had seen before, of someone who had once known the glory of Heaven but had been subjected to the tortures of Hell.
Which way will you go? Remy thought, as the man quickly left the building without a word. Will you seek the forgiveness of God, or the company of those tainted by the netherworld?
“Not nice,” Marlowe said.
“No, he wasn’t,” Remy answered as the two entered the lobby.
Francis lived in the building’s expansive basement, and that’s where Remy headed, opening another door to the left of the lobby. Marlowe excitedly passed through first, his nails clicking on the wooden stairs as he descended.
“Careful,” Remy called after him.
“See Francis,” the dog woofed. “Get cheese.”
Isn’t it just like a Labrador, Remy thought, holding on to the banister as he walked down the steps. Only excited to see you if there’s a promise of food somewhere in the equation.
Marlowe had already disappeared through a doorway at the end of the stairway, and Remy expected to hear Francis respond to the dog’s appearance, but he heard nothing.
Remy entered the apartment. The place was simple in its furnishings, an old leather couch by the wall, a recliner not too far from the ancient furnace that squatted like a monster in the center of the living room area. Gray metal heating ducts snaked from its squat body across the ceiling, exiting up to the multiple residences above. A blocky armoire across from the recliner hid the big-screen TV. A framed movie poster from The Wild Bunch hid a door to a closet where Remy knew his friend kept a large majority of the weapons he used during his freelance work.