“I wanted to thank you,” the fallen angel said, playing with the corner of his bedsheet.
“For what, not killing you?”
“Yeah, there’s that,” Prosper answered. “But also for getting me out of there.”
The fallen angel looked at Remy. His eyes were still bloodshot, his face swollen and bruised in places.
“I have no doubt in my mind that they would have killed me if . . .”
Remy took a sip from his coffee mug.
“And you would have deserved it.”
Prosper shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s also because of me that they’re still alive.”
Remy silently considered that.
“They would have been tossed in the trash, whether they were dead or alive.”
“So you think of yourself as some kind of savior? That they owe you?”
“No, nothing like that,” Prosper said.
Remy drank some more coffee, watching the fallen angel.
“You did me a solid, so I wanted to do the same for you,” Prosper continued.
“And what are you going to do for me?”
“I called off the hit,” Prosper said. “You don’t have to look over your shoulder for the Black Choir anymore.”
“Until they come for me again.”
“Yeah, but it won’t have anything to do with me.”
“What about the others?” Remy asked. “The Bone Masters.”
Prosper looked at him strangely. “Bone Masters?”
“The other assassins you sicced on me—the guys with the freaky guns that shoot teeth.”
Prosper stared, then slowly shook his head.
“I only hired the Choir,” the fallen angel said. “I don’t know anything about any Bone—”
Malatesta appeared behind Remy.
“We should probably head back,” he said, his voice low. “The Keepers should be there within the half hour.”
Remy nodded, and looked back to Prosper.
“You be sure,” Prosper said, hands flitting nervously over his bedclothes as Remy prepared to go.
“Sure about what?”
“That you’re doing the right thing,” Prosper said. “That it’s okay for those things—children, if you want to call them that—to remain alive.”
“Of course I’m sure,” Remy said, disgusted at the notion that the children of Gunkanjima should be denied the right to exist.
He left the fallen angel and followed Malatesta back to Prosper’s office. Some of Prosper’s girls were there already, bags packed and stacked beside them.
“What’s this?” Remy asked as he came into the room.
“They want to be with their children,” Malatesta explained.
“How could we not be with them now that we know they’re alive?” Natalia asked.
“What kind of mothers would we be?” asked Morgan.
It all sounded perfectly reasonable to Remy. He simply nodded as Malatesta reopened the passage to Gunkanjima.
• • •
The microwave beeped, announcing that Mulvehill’s Hungry-Man Salisbury steak dinner was done. He went to the oven on the counter and pulled open the door, reaching in to withdraw his meal.
“Shit!” he swore, as he burned his fingers on the hot packaging.
He dropped the dinner on the counter, and blew on his fingertips as he went to the fridge for a bottle of water. He’d already had a glass of Irish whiskey to relax after a particularly insane day, and would probably have a second before calling it a night, but he preferred some water with his meal.
Twisting the cap off the water, Mulvehill took a long drink, then returned to his dinner on the counter. Cautiously, he peeled back the plastic covering, careful not to get too close to the cloud of steam that billowed out from underneath. He tossed the damp, plastic covering in the trash, then placed the still-hot plate on a dish towel for easy carrying. Retrieving his water, he took his meal toward the living room, hoping there would be something worthwhile to watch on television.
As he left the kitchen on his way to the living room, Mulvehill happened to glance down the hallway and saw that his door was partially open, moving ever so slightly in the phantom breezes that passed through the old Somerville apartment building.
I could’a sworn I locked that, he thought. He placed his dinner atop the towel on the coffee table, then went back to the door. He pulled it open first, looking up and down the corridor outside the apartment, before closing it firmly, and sliding the bolt in place.
His mother referred to this feeling as somebody walking over your grave, that strangely electric sensation that ran down one’s spine for no apparent reason. Mulvehill could never understand how somebody could be walking on his grave when he wasn’t dead yet, but he still thought of his mother every time he had that feeling.
Steven Mulvehill was thinking of her now.
He wasn’t sure why he moved when he did. Perhaps it was that strange, grave-walking chill that caused him to suddenly twitch, convulsing to one side, or maybe it was that sixth sense that cops often develop after so many years on the street, that sense that tells them that something is about to happen.
Whatever it was, Mulvehill moved, just before he heard the noise—like somebody blowing air through a hollow tube—and the wood to the right of the doorframe exploded into splinters.
Pure instinct kicked in then as he dove back into the kitchen where he knew he’d left his gun on the kitchen table along with his car keys. He heard that noise twice more, followed by breaking glass and the sound of something punching through the metal body of the stove, before he was able to retrieve the Glock from its holster.
Mulvehill crouched near the wall of the kitchen, flicking off the safety on his weapon. He was just about to peer around the corner into the living room, when everything went dark.
Son of a bitch. His mind raced as he tried to calculate his next step. His eyes went to the phone cradle hanging on the wall beside the fridge, and he saw that there was no phone there. Most likely it was in the living room, where he’d used it last. His cell phone was in the bedroom, charging. He remembered how proud he had been for actually remembering to charge his phone. Normally he would have left it on the kitchen table with his gun and keys, almost dead.
But at least then he could have made a call. He cursed his unusual efficiency and pledged never to charge his phone again until it was completely dead, and he clutched his gun, tilted his head toward the living room, and listened. Something was moving in the darkness, waiting for him.
Panic started to set in and he was immediately transported back to the day when he was first made painfully aware that the world in which he lived wasn’t at all what it had seemed, and that his best friend, Remy Chandler, was the one who had left the door open for all the weirdness to come inside.
And that was what this was. He was certain of it. Sure, it could have been a run-of-the-mill break-in—there wasn’t a shortage of junkies in the area—but something told him otherwise. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, a sensation like no other.
He guessed it was a variation on that cop’s sixth sense that he had; it had become more finely attuned of late, almost as if it were picking up a brand-new channel. It was the weird shit channel, and alarm bells were going off inside his head now.
His body had become drenched with a cold sweat, and he could smell the aroma of his Hungry-Man dinner cooling in the living room on the coffee table. He’d been really hungry when he set that meal down.
Like he didn’t have enough to be pissed off about.
Mulvehill had faced things in the dark before and had survived. In fact, he was starting to become really good at it. With each new exposure he gained a certain amount of knowledge that he could apply to the next time that something from Stephen King’s closet tried to kill him.