A Hundred Words for Hate (2 page)

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For Mulder

A hundred words . . . far too few to describe how much it hurts that you’re gone. Until we see each other again, you will always be in my thoughts, and in my heart.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

With love to my wife, LeeAnne, and to our newest addition, Kirby, for not sending
me
back to New Jersey.

Thanks are also due to my pal Christopher Golden, Ginjer Buchanan, Liesa Abrams, James Mignogna, Dave “Do These Slacks Make Me Look Fat?” Kraus, Pam Daley, Mom and Dad Sniegoski, Mom and Dad Fogg, Pete Donaldson, Kenn Gold, Thomas “Blessed” Hope and the lovely Rachael, Timothy Cole, and the Evolution Revolution down at Cole’s Comics in Lynn.

Tom

PROLOGUE

The Jungles of Paraguay: 1929

T
he first of humanity lay as if dead in the cool semidarkness of the underground chamber and dreamed of another time—of the Garden, of what he had lost to the poison of original sin. It had been so very long ago, but the memories lingered, as sharp as a viper’s tooth and three times as venomous.

Adam had lived every moment of his multitudinous years with endless regret. The apologies to He who had created him—who had breathed life into what had once been dirt—were far too numerous to count, yet always fresh upon his lips.

Even when he dreamed, he begged for forgiveness. In the land of sleep he was free of the ravages of time, and he scraped and bowed before the glory of his Creator, praying for blessed forgiveness and eternal rest beneath the grounds of Eden.

And of late, he had entertained the idea that it might just happen.

For he’d been dreaming of the Garden like never before.

She was returning.

Soon.

Jon shielded his eyes, squinting as he gazed up through the jungle canopy at the noontime sun. He was late; a game of marbles with one of the younger boys—in which he’d won a cat’s-eye, an aggie, an oxblood, and three new clearies—had delayed him. The teenager hoped he wouldn’t be met with a lecture as he ran, sandaled feet slapping rhythmically along the worn jungle path.

He knew they all had a responsibility in tending to the needs of the patriarch. To the novice’s eye, the withered form appeared as though dead; even Jon’s grandfather could not remember a time when he had moved. But to the Sons of Adam, this ancient man was so very much more.

He was the first father, and their sole purpose for existence.

Jon and his people were the direct descendants of the first children of the world. They were charged with caring for the father of them all, and praying for the day when they could return to Paradise.

Although he would never dare voice it, Jon doubted that would ever happen. The patriarch had already lived for thousands of years, existing in a state of living death. Why would a God who allowed this to happen to the first of His creations show mercy after all this time? Most in the order believed He would.

But Jon was skeptical.

He stopped before the entrance to an ancient, vine-covered Incan temple. He expected to find Nathan waiting for him, an annoyed look upon his face.

This wasn’t the first time Jon had been late.

But Nathan wasn’t there; neither was Josiah, nor any other member of the order. Jon was suddenly filled with an odd sense of foreboding that made the guilt he was already feeling expand into full-blown panic.

What if something had happened to Adam? What if the first father had needed something and he, Jon, hadn’t been there?

His mind raced as he climbed the decaying stone steps and made his way down the cool, torchlit passage toward the patriarch’s resting chamber in the belly of the temple.

As Jon grew closer, he noticed an eerie, pulsing orange glow emanating from within the normally semidark room. He reached into the pocket of his robes, feeling the leather pouch that held the spoils of his latest victory, and took strength from them. Then he quickened his pace.

Jon’s imagination flared. Perhaps some of the oil used to keep the passage torches lit had spilled—
ignited
—and his brethren were attempting to extinguish the flames before any harm could come to . . .

But there was no fire burning within Adam’s chamber.

As Jon passed through the stone archway, he saw the cause of the unearthly glow, and struggled to believe his eyes.

How is this possible?
he asked himself in disbelief. But wasn’t the entire order based upon things that the rational world would find unbelievable? Why, then, would this sight be any more implausible?

Josiah and Nathan were kneeling just inside the chamber, held in rapt fascination by the sight of the angel (for what else could it be?) that stood before the patriarch’s sleeping alcove.

The being seemed to be comprised of light, and the huge wings upon its back radiated a warm, pulsing glow. It was at least seven feet tall, its powerful body covered in layers of flowing robes that appeared to be cut from the fabric of the night sky, and decorated with the stuff of stars.

And when it turned to look at him, Jon felt the strength leave his legs, and they began to tremble with uncontrollable fear.

The angel’s face was fierce, its eyes like bottomless caverns of pitch, its pale features sharp and angled as if chiseled from stone—its flowing hair and beard seemingly composed of fire.

Jon wanted to run, but it was as if a large pair of invisible hands had clamped down upon his shoulders, forcing him to kneel beside his friends.

And then came its voice, sounding like every instrument in the world’s largest symphony playing the same beauteous note at once.

“The Gardener’s life draws to a close,” the strange being proclaimed.

In the confines of the stone chamber it was the loudest sound Jon had ever heard, and he winced in agony as he covered his ears.

“From across the void I have heard his plea,” the angel continued.

Josiah and Nathan fell upon their sides, writhing under the assault of the messenger’s booming voice.

“Eden draws near . . . .”

Its voice was like knives relentlessly stabbing into Jon’s brain and he opened his mouth in a scream of agony that he could not hear.

“And I have come to bring him home.”

CHAPTER ONE

F
ernita Green could not remember what she had lost, and that was why Remy Chandler was there.

He stood in the kitchen of the old woman’s home, surrounded by the accumulations of her very long life. Plastic bags filled with other plastic bags and scraps of what he could describe only as trash, but kept by Fernita because it just might—one day—be important. Stacks of newspapers like ancient rock formations grew up from the rubbish-strewn floor, some leaning dangerously, but somehow defying the laws of physics.

The counter near the sink was covered with empty bottles and flattened cereal boxes. Tin cans and glass jars had been rinsed clean and stacked amid the debris.

Remy found the teakettle behind a stack of plastic Meals On Wheels containers. They had been washed out as well.

The inside of the sink was relatively clear, and he placed the empty kettle beneath the faucet. He turned on the water, gazing over a row of knickknacks and through the grimy window at the lushly overgrown backyard while the kettle filled.

A little more than three weeks ago, Fernita had started calling his office. She had wanted him to help her find something, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Remy had tried to dissuade her, encouraging her to call a family member instead. But she had continued to call him—sometimes leaving as many as four messages a day—until he had finally agreed to pay her a visit.

That had been two weeks ago, and he’d been visiting regularly since.

“How do you want your tea this time?” he called out from the kitchen as he turned off the faucet and took the kettle to the stove. He had to push aside a stack of fine-china plates that he didn’t remember seeing there last time.

“With some milk, baby,” he heard Fernita call out from the living room.

Sometimes she liked her tea dark . . . “
like the color of my skin
,” she would say with a chuckle, letting the bag steep in her cup for a good long time. Other times she’d take it with milk, like today.

Remy moved the plates to a tiny dinette set in the corner under a pair of windows. He had to push aside Easter baskets filled with green plastic grass to make way for them.

He returned to the stove only to find Fernita’s cat, Miles, sitting in the center amid the four burners. The black cat with the white bib of fur stared at him with intense green eyes.

“Hello, Miles,” Remy said as he placed the kettle on one of the electric burners and turned it on. “Careful, now; this is going to get hot.”

“
Hungry
,” the cat said in its feline tongue.

Remy looked over at the two dishes on the floor beside the refrigerator. One was filled with water, and the other had some Friskies in it. “There’s food in your bowl,” he told the cat, turning around to search out two clean cups.

“
No
,” the cat growled.
“Hungry.”

Remy opened the cabinet to the left of the sink, catching a stack of recipes torn from the pages of magazines before they could drift to the floor. There were plenty of cups inside as well—enough to offer tea to the whole city of Brockton.

“And I said there’s food in your bowl.” Remy pointed to the dish on the cluttered floor.

The cat jumped down from the stove, his paws crinkling some stray plastic bags that lay there as he padded over to his dishes.

“See?” Remy said as he opened the box of tea bags that was left on the counter. He would have much preferred coffee, but finding the coffeemaker in the chaos that was Fernita’s kitchen was far too daunting a task. Tea would have to suffice.

“
No
,” the cat said again, pawing at the nuggets in his dish.

“Stop playing with your food,” Remy scolded, but Miles didn’t listen.

One by one he removed the pieces of food from his dish and left them on the floor. “
No, hungry
.”

“Did anybody ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?” Remy said as the teakettle began to whistle.

Miles answered no.

One can of tuna and two cups of tea later, Remy was sitting in an overstuffed wing-back chair across from the old black woman as she went through box after box of
stuff.

“I just don’t know where it all came from,” Fernita said, picking up one piece of wrinkled paper, dropping it back down into the box, only to pick up another. “I think I might’ve been saving these for the tax man.”

The pieces of paper appeared to be old, very old, and Remy doubted the IRS would have any interest in them now. “Why don’t you just throw them away?” he suggested. He placed his cup on a coaster beside his chair and reached for a plastic trash bag that he’d brought from the kitchen. “Just throw them right in here and you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Remy watched as the old woman seemed to consider this. “I guess I could,” she said slowly, and he almost believed he was getting through to her. “But what if I should need them?”

“Do you really think you will?” he asked, his tone urging her on.

Fernita’s wrinkled hand reached into the box again and picked up some of the papers that she’d already looked through. “I’d better hang on to them,” she said with a pretty, yellowed smile. “It would be just my luck to have the tax man bang on my door, and me not have my papers in order.” She put the box atop three others also filled with things she might need someday.

In the old days, she would have been called a pack rat, but now, in this more politically correct age, when everyone’s quirks were diagnosed with a fancy name and a weekly series on the Discovery Channel, she was definitely a hoarder.

And perfectly fine with it.

“And what if what I’m looking for . . .” Her voice trailed off as she gazed around the cramped confines of the sitting room. It was stuffed with old furniture and boxes of God knew what.

“What if what I’m looking for is inside one of these boxes?” she finished.

“I suppose.” Remy sighed, drinking more tea and wishing it were coffee.

“All right, then,” she said with finality. “I’d better not be putting anything in that trash bag.” She leaned back in her chair and took a sip from her cup, looking at him through the thick lenses of her glasses. They made her dark, watery eyes look huge as they fixed upon him. And then she began to laugh.

Remy couldn’t help but do the same.

When he’d asked her why she had called him, Fernita told him that an old friend named Pearly Gates had once told her that if she ever had a problem to give the detective a call. She’d produced an old business card from the pocket of the flowered apron she was wearing. It had been a long time since Remy had used that particular card—at least thirty years.

He had no idea who Pearly Gates was, but the name amused him.

Fernita was suddenly very quiet, staring off into space as if seeing something beyond the room.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

She seemed startled by the sound of his voice and looked at him inquisitively. For a moment Remy was certain she had no idea who he was.