Thomas Sniegoski: Walking In the Midst of Fire

“I was thinking about one of the classics, like the Old Ball and Chain.”

The words had barely left his mouth when she started to laugh while in midsip.

Remy knew right then how impossibly special she was, still sexy as hell even with wine coming out of her nose.

Jericho

26 AD

Simeon soon learned that no matter how hard he tried, the bliss of death was now denied him. Driven nearly insane by the Nazarene’s actions, the resurrected man wandered, searching for a way to return to the bosom of God.

His body still bore the effects of the time he had spent rotting in the grave, his seeping flesh a home for insects, muscles pulled away from bone. He was a monstrosity, feared and reviled wherever his travels took him, and his hate of life grew, even as his body healed, for he remembered what had been taken from him.

And a hate of God, and all that He was, blossomed, as well.

It was in the place called the Skull, a place named Golgotha, that Simeon finally came to understand his purpose for being in this world. The Nazarene, now an adult, had been arrested and tried for his crimes. He had been sentenced to die, crucified between two common thieves. From the crowd Simeon watched the King of the Jews suffer, reveling in the fact that the one who had snatched him from death was suffering as he himself had.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” the Nazarene cried out as he hung upon the cross, and Simeon took great pleasure in seeing that the Almighty seemed to ignore this man, as well, this man who called Him father.

Simeon wanted to go to him, to stand beneath the slowly dying man and ask him to take back his gift of life, that perhaps the Lord of Lords would look kindly upon this act, and allow him release, as well.

And just as he was about to force himself through the lingering crowd, the skies grew gray, then black, and the ground beneath his feet began to move as if alive.

“It is finished,” the one called Jesus cried out from the cross.

Sensing that his opportunity was fleeting, Simeon pushed against the mass of people, some weeping for their assumed savior, others waiting eagerly for his death.

“Nazarene!” Simeon cried out, finally breaking through the throng.

A Roman soldier stepped forward and struck him across the temple with the butt of his sword, sending Simeon to the ground, fighting to remain conscious.

And it was then that he heard the last words of the one who had taken away perhaps his only chance at regaining the rapture he had briefly known.

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

And it was done. Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews, was dead.

Simeon looked upon the face of his tormentor through the blood that dripped from the wound on his head, and saw the peace of death.

And he knew then and there that if he was to be denied that bliss, he would do everything in his power to see that it was denied to all.

He would take away their Heaven.

The evening had been next to perfect, and Remy did everything he could to hold on to the satisfying feeling of contentment he was experiencing. As they drove back to Boston, Linda Somerset snuggled close to him in the front seat of his Toyota, her head resting upon his shoulder as the new Brandi Carlile CD played on the stereo.

But when he drove, his thoughts tended to wander, and that very seldom lent itself to anything good. He found himself thinking of the dream he’d experienced, the one where he talked with the Almighty in the form of an old man, who Remy had once imagined was the personification of a perfect, human existence. Everything that he had wanted and would ever want for himself.

“I need your help, Remy,” God had said in the dream, his bare feet awash in the coming tide. “The Kingdom of Heaven needs your help.”

Remy reached for the radio, turning up the volume in the hope that Brandi’s gorgeous voice would drown out the memory of the words and what God had asked of him.

“There is a war coming, Remy Chandler,” the old man had told him. “And I need you to stop it.”

No pressure.

“It was a nice night,” Linda said groggily, as Brandi sang.

“Yeah, it was,” Remy answered, grateful for the distraction.

He put his arm around her and pulled her closer.

“You know it doesn’t really bother me,” she said.

“What doesn’t?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

“When you’re gone . . . for work and stuff,” she explained. “It doesn’t bother me ’cause I know that’s your job . . . and I know you’ll be back.”

Remy pulled her even tighter to him. “That’s good to know.”

“And if you don’t come back I get to keep your dog.”

He laughed, happy that she and Marlowe had become so close. Remy wouldn’t have had a clue as to what to do if the black Labrador hadn’t liked Linda, but that was something he would never have to concern himself with. The dog had been pretty much smitten the first time he’d laid eyes on her.

“Don’t let him find out about that,” Remy said. “He’ll try to figure out a way to keep me out of Boston indefinitely.”

She laughed, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “Aw, Marlowe loves you more than he’s letting on.”

“Oh yeah? How can you tell?”

“He told me,” she said.

“Really,” Remy said bemusedly. “He talks to you now?”

“I can understand him,” Linda said. “We chat all the time about stuff.”

Remy found the conversation particularly amusing since he actually did have the gift of language. He was able to speak the languages and understand the tongues of all life upon the planet, including Labrador retrievers.

“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.