“You talk about stuff,” Remy repeated.
“We do,” Linda answered. “All kinds of stuff.”
“I’m sure it’s very interesting,” he said.
“You’d be surprised,” she answered.
The search for the ever-elusive parking space on Beacon Hill went as poorly as it usually did, forcing him to put his car on Cambridge Street, which meant that they had to endure the hike up Anderson Street to his home on Pinckney.
By the time they reached Revere Street, Linda was hanging all over him, jokingly telling him that she wasn’t able to go any farther and that he was going to have to carry her. He joked about leaving her there and going for help, which got them both laughing and holding each other close. And that just led to kissing.
At this rate they’d never get to the house, and the neighbors would be calling the cops for the indecent public display of affection.
“We should probably take this inside,” Remy said, looking deep into her eyes.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she answered, reaching up to touch his face, her fingernails on the roughness of his five-o’clock shadow sending currents of electricity down his neck and into his spine.
She suddenly didn’t have any problem climbing the remainder of the hill, urging him to follow with a seductive wag of her finger.
Remy pushed himself the rest of the way, catching up to her at the top of the street, and grabbing her around the waist. He was about to kiss her again, when he saw that they weren’t alone.
Steven Mulvehill sat on the front steps of Remy’s brownstone, legs splayed out onto the sidewalk.
“Hey,” the Boston homicide cop said as he casually looked up from his phone. Steven was one of the few people who Remy truly called friend, even though that relationship had been going through some difficulties of late.
“Hey back,” Remy said.
Steven had gotten a little too close to the secret world that Remy navigated, and had almost paid a deadly price. The friends hadn’t really spoken since.
“I was hoping I’d catch you,” Steven said. “Didn’t realize that you’d have company.” He reached down and picked up the paper bag at his feet. “We can do this another time. I’m Steven by the way,” he said to Linda, sticking out his hand as he stood. “You must be Linda.”
“Yeah.” She gave him a spectacular smile and took his hand. “Yeah, I am. It’s really nice to finally meet you.”
Steven’s own smile slowly waned as he returned his attention to Remy. “Give me a call. I know I’ve been out of touch, but I’m back now. We need to talk.”
Remy was about to reply, when Linda beat him to the punch.
“Hey, you know, I’ve got to get up early tomorrow,” she said, her eyes darting to Steven and then to Remy. “I was planning on going right to bed. Why don’t you stick around, Steven?”
Linda looked at Remy. He saw what she was doing, and loved her all the more for it.
“Why not,” Remy agreed.
She smiled briefly at him, and then turned it to Steven. “Promise you won’t keep him up all night.” Her eyes dropped to the paper bag in his hand. “Or that you won’t get him too drunk.”
“Promise,” Steven said, holding up his hand in a Boy Scout salute. “I know what a sloppy drunk he can be and I wouldn’t want to subject a sweet thing like yourself to his shenanigans.”
Linda laughed out loud.
“Shenanigans?” she repeated. “Who uses these words? Let me guess, you have a word-of-the-day desk calendar, too.”
“He gave it to me for Christmas,” Steven said with a completely straight face, pointing at Remy. “Why?”
The silence on the roof of Remy’s brownstone was practically palpable.
He and Steven had grabbed some glasses and filled a bucket full of ice in the kitchen before heading up to the rooftop deck. Marlowe had been ecstatic to see his friend Steven and had insisted on joining them. He now lay beside Steven’s chair, looking up at him lovingly, tail wagging.
“How ya been?” Steven finally asked, breaking the silence, reaching down with his free hand to pet the black dog’s blocky head.
“Are you asking me or the dog?”
“Both,” Steven said. He brought his tumbler of Glenlivet 18 to his mouth and carefully sipped at the scotch.
“I’m doing all right,” Remy said, having some scotch of his own. “How are you doing, Marlowe? Steven wants to know.”
“Well?” Steven asked.
“He says he’s good,” Remy said, not bothering to share the extent of the dog’s emotions. “He said he missed you.”
“I missed you, too, buddy,” Steven said, leaning over in the chair to scratch Marlowe behind the ear and accept a wet, sloppy kiss.
Remy swirled the ice around in his glass, deciding to tackle the six-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. “Here’s the real question,” he said. “How are you?”
Steven moved uneasily in his chair, looking out at the twinkling lights of the city.
“I’m good now,” he said. “I’m getting there . . . getting better. I’m all healed up physically.”
“You know I’m sorry for what happened,” Remy told him. “If I had known what I was asking you to do would put you in any danger I would never . . .”
“It’s cool,” Steven said. “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
“When you wouldn’t answer my calls . . .”
“If we talked then it wouldn’t have been all right,” Steven said, downing the remaining contents of his glass. He set the empty tumbler down on the patio table and fished a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, tapped one out, and lit it. “I just needed some time to think about stuff,” he said, blowing a stream of smoke into the cool night air. “I needed to think about what I’d seen . . . and how it was connected to you.”
Remy listened, sensing that his friend had more to say.
“I know you’d told me stuff in the past,” Steven said with a nervous chuckle. “But I never imagined . . .”
Steven’s voice trailed off, cigarette smoldering in his hand as he stared off into space. Remy was certain that he was experiencing it all again—his nearly fatal brush with the supernatural.
“I never meant for you to be exposed to that part of my life,” Remy said. “You asked me to keep it as far from you as possible, and I thought I’d done a pretty good job until . . .”
Steven looked at him with fear in his gaze. “It’s terrifying,” he said. His hand was shaking as he brought the cigarette up to his eager lips. “The things I saw . . .” Steven finished the smoke, stamping out the remains in an ashtray on the table.
“I know,” Remy said. “I’m sorry.”
“How do you sleep?” Steven asked, pulling the stopper from the bottle and pouring another few fingers of scotch into his glass. He added some ice as an afterthought.
“I’m not sure you remember, but I’m not human,” Remy said. He quickly looked to the doorway that led onto the roof, just to be sure that Linda wasn’t there to overhear, before looking back to his friend. “This kind of thing —I’m sort of built for it.”
“And I’m not,” Steven Mulvehill said, bringing his glass to his mouth for a sip of his drink. “But now I know what’s out there . . . not just what you’ve hinted at . . . what’s
“I figured as much,” Remy said, sipping what remained of his drink.
The two were silent, the sound of Marlowe’s deep snoring the soundtrack to the moment.
“So how about now?” Remy finally asked him. “Are you still scared of what’s out there? Of me?”
