Thomas Sniegoski - Where Angels Fear to Tread

So Carl had made himself a promise. He would do anything to make his little girl well, even if it meant making amends with an angry higher power. He glanced at Zoe again; she hadn’t even reacted to his touch.

Thy will be done.

Remy eventually found Frank in the hospital’s cafeteria.

He’d gone by the therapy department, this time posing as a friend of Frank’s, and learned that he was on his break.

He grabbed a cup of coffee, which tasted as though it had been made with the finest dishwater, and then caught sight of a man wearing green scrubs. Could he be Frank? He was sitting by himself, reading from a pamphlet and sipping from a bottle of water.

“Excuse me,” Remy said, leaning in to be heard over the clatter of the lunchroom. “Frank Downes?”

Zoe had captured the man’s likeness pretty well, especially his protruding ears.

The black man looked at him with cautious eyes. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Remy Chandler,” he said, pulling out a chair and flashing his identification. “I’m a private investigator, working a missing person’s case. I was hoping you could help me.”

“I don’t know anybody who’s missing,” Frank said, screwing the cap back onto his water bottle.

Remy had removed the plastic cover on his coffee, hoping that somehow that would make it taste better. It didn’t.

“A little girl named Zoe Saylor, and her dad, Carl,” Remy said, sipping the foul fluid.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I know them,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Should I?”

Remy shrugged. “I thought you might. Zoe drew an awful lot of pictures of you, and your name was in her therapy notes.”

Frank smiled nervously, pushing back his chair as he stood.

“Mister, I see a lot of kids here every day,” he said. “Lotta pictures too. Sorry I can’t be more help.”

And that was that.

Remy watched as Frank left the cafeteria; he knew full well the man knew more than he was sharing.

Frank was hiding something. Now all Remy had to do was figure out what it was.

There was a Starbucks not far from Franciscan Hospital for Children, and Remy took a brief respite from his detective duties to grab himself a decent cup of coffee.

He sat in his car, the AC running against the August heat, while he sipped his coffee and mulled over his options. He figured Frank was probably his best, so he decided to wait until the therapy assistant’s shift ended, then follow him.

He found a parking spot on the street where he could easily see the comings and goings of the hospital, then used the time in the car alone to check his messages. Deryn York had called twice. He thought about calling her back but decided he’d wait to see if his suspicions about Frank paid off. Instead, he called Ashley, his neighbor and Marlowe’s longtime dogsitter. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be out, and he knew Marlowe would be frantic if his supper was late. They were lucky to have Ashley. She was always willing to help out, treating Marlowe as if he were her own dog. But Remy also knew the teenager would be off to college soon, and then what would he do? Well, that was a worry for another time. For now, Ashley agreed to feed and walk Marlowe tonight, allowing Remy to settle in and wait for Frank.

It was nearly four o’clock, and Remy was beginning to think he might have somehow missed Frank, when he caught sight of the man leaving the building, backpack slung over his shoulder. He was talking animatedly with a female coworker, who was clearly not interested in whatever Frank was saying. She nodded her head and tried to inch away, and finally, Frank pulled a flyer from his backpack and handed it to her. She took it, then quickly headed off toward the parking lot. Frank called something out to her, gave her a final wave, and turned toward the street.

Remy waited a few moments, then got out of his car, following the therapy assistant on foot as he sauntered down Warren Street toward Cambridge. Thankfully, the streets in this area bustled with people, providing Remy with enough cover to remain unnoticed, without having to use his angelic power.

He watched as Frank picked up his mail at the post office, then stopped to buy scratch tickets and a six-pack of Corona at a small Korean market. Finally he walked up the front steps of an apartment building on Saunders Street.

Remy stopped in front of a building a few doors down and watched Frank fumble through his backpack for a set of keys. He felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. There certainly didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about this man’s actions; he worked, and went home. He’d probably microwave a frozen dinner and watch the news while he downed a few beers. Then he’d doze in his favorite chair until it was time to go to bed, before waking up in the morning to do it all over again.

Sighing, Remy was just about to leave Frank to his night, when he caught sight of four men emerging from a black Range Rover parked across the street from Frank’s building.

They headed straight toward Frank, quickly climbing the steps and coming up behind him just as he unlocked the door. Frank turned toward them, an expression of surprise, then fear, on his face as one of the men grabbed his elbow and pushed him through the door.

This was what made Remy’s job interesting.

Life was always tossing him curveballs, and he had no choice but to swing.

Remy quickly climbed the steps to the front door of the apartment building. He peered through the glass, but the lobby was empty. Frank and his friends must have already gone to the therapy assistant’s apartment.

On the wall to Remy’s left was an intercom system with a listing of the last names and apartment numbers of the building’s residents. F. Downes was in number 306.

Remy ran his finger down the length of buzzers, pretty sure that at least one person would answer.

“Yes?” a woman asked after a bit of squawking feedback.

“UPS,” Remy said, lowering his voice.

The front door buzzed as another voice asked who was there.

Ignoring it, Remy pushed through the door and headed up the stairs in the lobby. On the second-floor landing, a woman in a bathrobe asked him if he had seen a UPS man in the lobby, and Remy told her he was on the way up. He continued up himself, listening to the sounds of the building—his hearing was good, inhumanly so—a television tuned to a newscast, an animal snoring, a microwave announcing that dinner was ready. .

There it is , he thought as he reached the third floor. The sounds of a struggle. And it was coming from number 306.

Standing on the threadbare runner outside 306, Remy knocked on the door, and the sounds of violence inside came to a sudden stop.

“Guys, it’s me,” Remy called, placing his mouth close to the door.

He heard sounds of movement inside and placed his thumb over the peephole. “C’mon, let me in,” he said.

The door opened a crack and Remy stared into the eyes of one of the intruders. “Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.

“Is Frank home?” Remy asked with a smile.

“Get the fuck out of here,” the man replied, getting ready to close the door.

“Now, is that any way to answer the door?” Remy said as he slammed his shoulder into the door, pushing the man backward and forcing himself inside. “What if I were from Publishers Clearing House?”

He quickly scanned the room.

Frank was down, lying on his side in the middle of the tiny kitchen floor, two toppled dinette chairs near him. Blood stained the front of his green scrubs top, making it look dark and wet; more seeped onto the linoleum in a crimson pool beneath him.

The four attackers were eerily silent, their eyes slack, void of emotion.