What are you gonna do?
The answer to old Dottie’s question still evaded him.
I honestly don’t know, Dottie. I really don’t.
He was doing the last bit of paperwork on a workman’s comp job he had done for an insurance company out of Lexington—an incapacitating neck injury that wasn’t so incapacitating that it kept the claimant from participating in a bodybuilding competition—when there was a knock at his office door.
“Come in!” Remy called out, stapling the pages of his report together and placing them inside a file that also contained some photos taken at the Mr. Power Competition in Tampa.
The door into the office swung open and a man stepped in. He was wearing a dark suit on his average-sized frame, his blond hair cut short. He looked around the office, taking it all in as he carefully closed the door behind him.
Something wafted off of him like the smell of aftershave.
Something with the potential for danger.
“Can I help you?” Remy asked as he stood, all of his senses on alert.
“Remy Chandler?” the man asked, a hint of an accent in his voice. Italian, most definitely Italian.
“That’s right,” Remy said, feeling the power exude from the man in waves.
“My name is Malatesta,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Constantin Malatesta.”
Remy had been wondering when the Vatican representative who had paid Steven Mulvehill a visit would finally get around to meeting him face-to-face. He shook his hand, a strange electrical tingle coursing up through the angel’s arm reaffirming what he had felt in the air when the man entered.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Malatesta?” Remy asked, feigning ignorance of the man’s identity as he released his hand and gestured for him to take a seat in front of the desk.
“Thank you.” Malatesta unbuttoned his suit coat as he took the offered chair. “First, let me say how good it is to finally meet you.”
The man smiled.
“Have you been wanting to meet me, Mr. Malatesta?” Remy asked, curious, as he cocked his head.
“For quite some time,” the man acknowledged. “But it’s only been recently that there has been a reason to make the journey to Boston.”
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Remy said. “You obviously know who I am, but I can’t say the same of you.”
“Where are my manners?” Malatesta said, reaching into his suit coat pocket to extract a small, leather identification case. He opened it, and leaned forward to place it on the desk in front of Remy.
Remy examined it and smiled. “Yep, you’re from the Vatican, all right,” he said, and handed it back to his guest.
“Ah, so you are aware of me?” Malatesta asked.
“Detective Mulvehill informed me that somebody from Rome was asking questions about me, yes.”
“Then you lied a moment ago,” the man said, putting his identification away. “You do know something about me.”
“Only what Detective Mulvehill could tell me, which wasn’t much. But what I’d really like to know is what could the Vatican possibly want with a private investigator from Boston?”
Malatesta crossed his legs and smiled, saying nothing.
“Well?” Remy prompted. “Care to explain?”
“Our records on your whereabouts were relatively accurate until the mid-thirties,” the man said, picking a piece of lint from his pant leg and letting it drop to the office floor. “But then things got a little sketchy.”
Remy remained silent, glowering at the man sitting across from him.
“There were a few sightings here and there, but it wasn’t until a few years ago that we received some solid information on your location.”
Remy leaned back in his office chair, hands clasped behind his head. “You keep mentioning we.”
“Of course, the people that I work for.”
“At the Vatican.”
“Yes, at the Vatican.”
“May I ask who these people are?”
Malatesta chuckled softly. “I doubt that you’ve ever met any of them, but they are very familiar with you, Mr. Chandler. They are the people charged with tracking things of . . . an unusual nature. Many of these things—these items in our possession—are ancient writings and artifacts of power, while others are of a more transient nature.”
“And do these people have a name?”
“They’re known simply as Keepers,” Malatesta said.
“And, are you a Keeper, Mr. Malatesta?”
The blond-haired man seemed amused by the question. “Oh, no, Mr. Chandler. I simply do their bidding,” he explained, slowly shaking his head. “I am but one of their humble agents out in the world.”
Remy knew where this was going and resigned himself to the fact.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked, rising from his desk chair and going to the coffee cart he had set up in the corner beside an old file cabinet.
“Yes,” Malatesta answered. “That would be lovely.”
Remy went about the steps to prepare a pot. He’d had multiple cups at home before leaving for the office and hadn’t even thought about making coffee when he’d gotten in that morning. That alone should have told him that something was off about this day.
As the machine burped, hissed, and gurgled, Remy spurred the conversation on. “So your employers, the Keepers of the Vatican’s secrets, have sent you out into the world looking for me.”
“They sent me to Boston, yes,” Malatesta said. “There have been quite a few incidents in this region of the world that have caught their attention of late.”
Remy should have seen this coming, and deep at the back of his mind, maybe he had. With what was going on out there in the world, and the potential for so much worse, he just couldn’t bring himself to care all that much about what the masters of the Catholic Church would be up to.
But whether he wanted to know or not, now he did, and it appeared that they had been looking for him.
“There has been quite a lot going on around here lately,” Remy acknowledged with a knowing nod.
Malatesta reciprocated with his own slow nod. “Quite a bit, yes.”
The coffee was just about done, and Remy looked to see if the mugs he had were clean. One was. The other wasn’t, its bottom covered with a gross brown stain. Remy took the cup and went to the small washroom at the far end of the office space. He ran the hot water into the cup and washed away the old coffee residue.
“So, I’m curious,” he said, leaving the bathroom. “How did you narrow it down? How did you find me?”
Malatesta folded his hands in his lap, shifting his weight, as if he was considering what exactly he should share, and what he shouldn’t.
“There are others out there in the employ of the Keepers, even though most are totally unaware that the data they provide is being collected, compared, and contrasted. The name Remy Chandler has popped up a number of times in connection to some of the more unusual data that was being reviewed.”
Remy poured his company a cup of coffee.
“And the more bizarreness that occurred in this region . . .” He brought the mug over to his guest. “Do you use sugar? I don’t have any milk, but I might have some powdered creamer if . . .”
“Black is fine,” Malatesta said, taking the offered mug. “Thank you.”
He brought the edge of the mug to his mouth and sipped.
“More bizarreness in a particular corner of the world would cause us to focus our attentions, and narrow said focus on certain locations . . .”
“Or people,” Remy finished, bringing his own cup of coffee back to his desk, careful not to spill it as he sat down.