An Apple for the Creature

“I wouldn’t know what to call it,” Jackie said. She was sitting taller in her chair, her breathing coming quicker. Whatever it was, it was clearly frightening her. “It likes to slam doors and slide furniture around in the middle of the night. I hear barking inside my bedroom, but I don’t have a dog of my own.”

Suddenly, Remy heard that familiar alarm bell start to go off inside his skull; the one that signaled this was likely one of those cases. The weird shit, as his closest friend, Boston homicide detective Steven Mulvehill, liked to call them.

“And your business? You say you run a kennel?” Remy asked as he jotted down some random thoughts.

“Kennel and obedience school,” she answered proudly. “I’ve been in business for close to thirty years.”

“And the presence is affecting that as well?”

Jackie nodded grimly. “I teach obedience classes in an old barn, but I had to cancel my summer classes because none of the puppies would go into the building.”

Remy was looking at his notes, unsure exactly how to proceed.

“Ms. Kinney . . . Jackie, it’s not that I’m unsympathetic to your situation, but I’m really not too sure how a private investigator would . . .”

“My father had a collection of Civil War memorabilia that I was trying to sell a couple of weeks ago. I met a gentleman who was interested in some of Dad’s things, and as we were talking, I mentioned my situation to him. He said you’re the best person for my problem. He said that cases like this . . . of a more unusual nature, were your specialty.”

Remy frowned. “This gentleman,” he said. “Did he happen to have an interest in weaponry?”

“Yes, he did,” Jackie said. “He purchased some of my father’s cutlasses. His name was Francis . . . I didn’t get a last name. He paid cash.”

Remy nodded. Francis was once the guardian angel Fraciel, until he was banished to earth after siding with the Morningstar during the War. Fraciel, now going by the earthly moniker of Francis, had seen the error of his ways, and had begged for the Almighty’s forgiveness. Instead of imprisonment in the Hell prison of Tartarus, God had shown unusual mercy and had sentenced Fraciel to guard one of Hell’s entrances on earth, as well as to act as one of God’s own personal assassins.

The former guardian angel had a love for medieval weaponry—all weaponry, really—and often hired himself out to the highest bidder when the Almighty didn’t have anybody that needed smiting, so he could afford to expand his collection.

Remy often found Francis’s skills quite beneficial for some of his own more dangerous cases.

“Was Francis wrong in sending me to you, Mr. Chandler?” Jackie asked.

Remy thought for a moment. In spite of how Marlowe seemed to feel, there was something about this old dog trainer that Remy liked. And since his schedule happened to be open at the moment, he figured what the heck.

“No, that’s perfectly fine,” he said. “I’d be happy to take your case.”

“No, make leave,” Marlowe said in a doggy grumble as he continued to cower beside Remy’s chair.

Remy reached down to pet his dog’s head and said, “Since your problem seems to focus around your property, I’ll need to go there.”

“Of course,” Jackie agreed. She stood, ready to leave, looking relieved, as if a huge weight had been lifted. “In fact, why don’t you come tonight?” she suggested. “Our first class of obedience training for new dog owners actually begins tonight. Bring your boy there, and mingle with the class while you’re doing your thing.”

Marlowe peeked around the corner of the desk to watch the woman leave.

“Who knows?” Jackie said with a hint of a smile. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

NOW

Remy opened the back door of the car for Marlowe to get out.

The dog just sat there, looking everywhere but at him.

“Come on,” Remy urged. “Let’s go.”

The dog lowered his head, still not looking at Remy.

“No,” he said with a throaty grumble. “Not going . . . not a bad dog.”

“I didn’t say you were a bad dog,” Remy said. “I just want you to get out of the car.”

“Bad dogs go school,” Marlowe said. “Not bad dog. Good dog.”

“Of course you’re a good dog,” Remy said. “Who told you that only bad dogs go to school?”

The black Lab turned his dark brown gaze to his master’s. “You say.”

“Me?” Remy asked. “When did I ever . . .”

And then he remembered. Ever since Marlowe was a pup, Remy had been teasing the dog about his rambunctiousness, threatening to send him to obedience school if he didn’t learn to behave.

“Marlowe, I was only kidding,” Remy tried to explain, climbing in beside his friend.

“No kidding,” the dog said, refusing to make eye contact again.

“Really, it was just a joke.” Remy started to ruffle the dog’s ears. “Like when you said you were going to bite me back at the office.”

“Joke?” Marlowe asked, daring to look at him again.

“Just a joke,” Remy soothed. “I swear . . . you are not a bad dog.”

“No school?”