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
“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.
“Or people,” Malatesta agreed, having some more of his steaming drink. “Your name quickly moved to the top of our list.”
“Lucky me,” Remy said.
The Vatican representative chuckled. “We were very discreet in our interview process,” he said.
“Who else did you talk to beside Detective Mulvehill?”
Malatesta was bringing the mug up to his lips. “Some former clients who all spoke very highly of you . . . if they spoke at all.”
Remy cocked his head, confused by the statement.
“Some of those we talked to would give us only the basic information, as if they were somehow protecting you . . . protecting your secret.”
“Most don’t even know that I have one,” Remy said, taking a sip of his coffee. “It’s something that I work on.”
“I can imagine it would be complex,” Malatesta acknowledged. “You said
“Very few.”
“Detective Mulvehill?”
“Let me guess. He got all squirrelly when you started asking about me.”
“Squirrelly,” Malatesta repeated and laughed. “Yes.” He drained his coffee and leaned forward to set the mug on the edge of the desk.
“Want another cup?” Remy asked. “I’ve got a whole pot.”
“No, thank you,” Malatesta said. “I’m trying to limit my caffeine, and I’m afraid to say that cup has put me over my allotted amount.”
“No worries,” Remy answered, as he stood and headed for the pot. “More for me.”
“So, now that I know how you found me, Mr. Malatesta,” he said, filling his mug, “why don’t you tell me what I can do for you?”
“Not for me per se, Mr. Chandler,” Malatesta answered. “It is what you can do for a changing world.”
Remy chose to stand, steaming cup of coffee in hand.
“And what, I’m afraid to ask, is that?”
“The Keepers of the Vatican wish you to work for them, Remy Chandler.”
Remy thought about this for a moment before bringing his mug up to his mouth. “I worked for the Vatican once, a long time ago,” he said, taking a sip of the hot liquid, reveling in the scalding sensation as it burned his lips and tongue. “Let’s just say it didn’t turn out so well.”
“Do you eat?”
Pope Tyranus did not rise from the head of the vast banquet table as Remiel was led into the dining hall by the soldiers of the Vatican.
The table was covered with all forms of repast: roasted chickens, quail, a wild boar the size of a small child, and bowls of peas, carrots, and potatoes. There was enough to feed a small village laid out before the holy
