Where Angels Fear to Tread

CHAPTER SIX

Zoe was furiously drawing, her thumb stuck in the corner of her mouth.

Carl returned to the table and dropped a colorful Happy Meal box down in front of her. “Here ya go,” he said. “Time to put your crayons away and eat your hamburger.”

She dropped her red crayon and picked up the black, as if he had never spoken.

“Zoe, you can finish that later,” Carl said firmly as he sat down across from her.

The child continued her work, her face close to the paper, scrutinizing every line she drew.

“All right.” Carl had had enough. “That’s it for now.” He reached across, pulling the paper out from beneath her moving crayon, and she continued to color upon the tabletop.

“Hey!” he warned. “Stop that.”

She seemed to realize what her father had done and set the crayon down beside the others, growing very still.

“You can finish this after you’ve eaten,” Carl repeated as he moved to set the paper down on the far side of the table. But something caught his eye and he stopped, staring at the drawing.

It was of a black man lying on the ground, a puddle of bright red circling his body.

“What’s this supposed to be?” Carl asked the little girl, feeling a chill suddenly vibrate up his spine.

“Frank’s dead,” Zoe muttered as she began to rock forward and backward, forward and backward. . . . “Frank’s dead.

“Frank’s dead.”

Over and over again.

The sun was on its way down, but the heat still remained, a relentless humidity that made the air feel solid with moisture.

Remy headed back to the hospital, his mind filled with questions. Were Frank’s other attackers missing their souls as well? What was so important about Zoe and Carl that they’d be willing to murder to find them?

And what exactly did Dr. Parsons have to do with four soulless men, an autistic child, and her father?

Remy wasn’t in the mood to be questioned, and so, having learned his lesson earlier in the day, he willed himself unseen as he stepped into the hospital lobby. The lovely receptionist, who had been immune to his charm that morning, was gone, replaced by another who was answering the phones with the same almost robotic efficiency.

The traffic in the hallways was considerably lighter at this hour, and Remy had no problem getting to Dr. Parsons’ office. The door was open a crack, and he could hear talking from within as he approached. Peering inside, he could see the doctor talking on his cell, standing at his desk, the top of which looked as if a bomb had gone off, scattering papers everywhere.

The conversation sounded intense, and Remy could hear panic creeping into the physician’s voice.

“I told you I’m trying,” he was saying, nearly frantic. He fell silent, obviously listening to the voice on the other end of the line.

Remy could just about make out the hum of that voice, buzzing in the doctor’s ear like a fly trapped between a screen and a storm window. He couldn’t make out what it was saying, but it didn’t sound the least bit pleased.

“I’m sorry,” Parsons said with a pathetic whine. “Just give me another chance . . . please.” He sounded ready to cry.

Then he began to paw through the papers on his desk. “I have some right here,” he said, picking up a piece of construction paper with drawings on it.

One of Zoe’s drawings.

“I’m trying to figure it out, but . . .”

The buzzing from the other side of the phone grew louder, more intense.

The expression on the doctor’s face became pained, and he dropped down into his office chair.

“Please, just give me a chance. . . . Please. . . .”

And suddenly, as if in a fit of rage and despair, Parsons threw the cell phone against the nearby wall. He was sobbing as he pulled open a side drawer of his desk and removed a pair of scissors, trying to saw through the flesh of his wrist with one of the blades.

Remy instantly pushed open the door, strode across the office, and snatched the scissors from Parsons’ hand. “I don’t think you want to do that,” he said, tossing the scissors to the floor.

Parsons stared at him for a moment, his face damp with tears. “I’ve tried so hard for her,” he finally sobbed, covering his face with his hands, shaking his head as he cried.

And that was when Remy noticed the mark on the doctor’s neck, a dark patch on the cocoa-colored flesh—shaped like a pair of pursed lips.

He called upon his angelic nature again, allowing his human senses to become something more. He sniffed at the air around the wailing doctor, taking the scent of the man into his lungs. He could smell his soul, but there was something not quite right about it.

It was damaged, traumatized.

“Get ahold of yourself,” Remy said, moving around the desk and placing a hand on the doctor’s shoulder.

Parsons lifted his head and looked at Remy. “I . . . don’t know what to do,” he said, turning his attention back to the desk. He began to shuffle through a pile of Zoe’s drawings, looking at one colorful piece after another.

“They’re supposed to help me,” he said. “They’re supposed to tell me how to find them.”

“The girl and her father?” Remy asked.

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “The answers are here, I’m sure of it, but I can’t figure it out.”

He was crying again, his teardrops staining the corners of the child’s drawings.

“Is that why you sent those men to Frank’s place?” Remy asked. “Did you tell them Frank would know where they were?”

Parsons looked up again, his eyes red and wet.

“I didn’t want to disappoint her,” he said, his voice quivering, and as he spoke he reached up to touch the mark staining the flesh of his neck. “I promised her. . . .”

“Who?” Remy asked. “Who did you promise?”

The man crumbled, sobbing and shaking.

“I can’t,” Parsons said, suddenly standing. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He lurched across the room, grabbing his suit jacket from the coatrack behind his door, and headed out into the hall.

Remy felt as if he were standing in a minefield, at first not quite sure how to proceed. Then he figured he had probably gotten as much as he could from the doctor; the man was an emotional wreck. He turned his attention to the desk and picked up Zoe’s drawings. Maybe I can find something that Parsons wasn’t able to, he thought, folding them up and placing them beneath his arm.

Remy left the office. Dr. Parsons was nowhere in sight, so he headed for the lobby and left the building, his mind once again ablaze with questions.

He was halfway to the street and his car when the sounds of commotion distracted him. He turned back to the hospital and saw people running toward the side of the building. Someone called out an order to dial 911; another voice screamed, “He fell off the roof !”

Before he even realized what he was doing, Remy was moving with the crowd as sirens filled the air with their banshee wails.

Still clutching the child’s strangely portentous drawings, he made it to the edge of the gathering. A number of people were kneeling around something on the ground. And as one of them slowly rose to his feet, his form no longer obscuring Remy’s view of a broken, bleeding body, he knew the victim wasn’t some poor soul who had accidentally plummeted to his death, but someone who had been in the depths of remorse, so painful that the only way to relieve it was to end his worthless existence.

But by the look on Dr. Parsons’ face, frozen in death, not even that had been enough to free him from his agony.

Remy sat on his rooftop patio with his closest human friend, a glass of Irish whiskey in his hand as he gazed out over the buildings of Beacon Hill to the Esplanade, almost visible through the hazy fog.

His mind wandered as he allowed the first few sips of Jameson to affect him. And as his thoughts strolled the night, and his mental guards fell, he could hear the prayers of the devoted and desperate all across the city.

The cacophony of voices filled his head to bursting, and he immediately pulled himself back, blocking out the petitions to a higher authority.

“What is it?” Mulvehill asked, reaching for the chilled bottle of whiskey in the center of the circular table. He slid the bottle over and then reached for the ice bucket, filling his glass with more cubes. It was so humid that the ice seemed to melt as quickly as he dropped it into his glass.

Remy took a sip from his drink and set it down on the tabletop. “I let my mind wander too far,” he said. “Sometimes that’s not such a good thing.”

“Huh,” Mulvehill said, filling his glass for a third time. “Thinking about stuff you don’t want to think about?”

“Sometimes,” Remy said, his eyes drawn to the city view again. “But if I’m not careful, I also hear things I don’t want to hear.”

“You’re hearing voices now?” Mulvehill asked. He leaned back in his chair, resting his sweating tumbler on his rounded paunch of a belly. He picked up his already-lit cigarette and had a puff.

“Prayers,” Remy said, swirling the liquid in his glass, making the ice tinkle like chimes. “I can hear the requests of all kinds of folks looking for a little divine intervention.”

“Jesus,” Mulvehill said, leaning his head against the back of the plastic chair and blowing smoke into the air. “That must get a little much.”

Remy nodded. “It does, which is why most of the time I try to tune it out, but every once in a while I let my guard down and the solicitations come rolling in.”

“What are they asking for . . . ? Like, to make sick family members well, or for the bank not to foreclose on their houses and stuff ?”

Remy nodded. “Sometimes, and sometimes they want God to help them get a new bike, or a puppy.”

“I prayed for a bike once,” Mulvehill said, then took a large gulp of his whiskey.

Remy glanced over at his friend. “Did you get it?”

“Naw.” He shook his head. “I guess the Almighty figured I needed some new school uniforms more than a bike.”

“The Almighty is very much into school uniforms,” Remy said, confirming his friend’s beliefs.

They both laughed then, mellowing out from the effects of their drinks.

“So nobody’s really listening then,” Mulvehill said, fishing another cigarette from the pack lying on the table.

Remy thought for a moment, not sure how to respond.

“No, not really,” he finally said, turning his attention to his friend. “It’s just sort of a hit-or-miss thing as to when someone’s listening . . . and whether they decide to do anything about what they hear.”

“Sounds complicated.” Mulvehill finished what remained in his glass and reached across the table for more.

“Yeah,” Remy agreed, his thoughts drifting in the direction of ancient times, when he’d first left Paradise to make the world of man his home. “It always was.”

Mulvehill helped himself to some more ice, and yet another splash of whiskey. “More?” He held the bottle out to Remy.

“You know I prayed you’d ask me that,” Remy said, sliding his glass within reach.

Mulvehill obliged him with ice and booze.

“And I decided to answer.”

The homicide cop slid the glass back to the angel.

“So, Frank Downes,” Mulvehill began, settling back in his chair.

“Very dead,” Remy added.

“He certainly was,” Mulvehill agreed. “And what exactly did you have to do with his untimely demise?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Remy explained. “I asked him some questions about a missing person’s case I’m working on, and when he wasn’t forthcoming with the info, I followed him to see if he’d lead me to a clue.”

“Okay.” Mulvehill nodded. “So how did he end up murdered?”

“We finally ended up at his building and I was going to call it quits for the night, but then four guys decided they needed something from Frank too, only they forced themselves into his apartment.”

“And you decided to check this situation out, instead of calling law enforcement,” Mulvehill suggested, waving his lit cigarette around.

“I wasn’t sure what was going down, so I decided to go it alone,” Remy agreed. “I probably should have given the PD a call.”

“Yeah, you probably should have.” Mulvehill had some more whiskey. “You didn’t happen to use that UPS trick to get into the building, did you?”

“I most certainly did,” Remy said.

“Thought so.” His friend nodded. “Lady on the second floor said she thought she was getting a delivery but saw an unfamiliar guy heading up the stairs.”

“That would have been me,” Remy said.

“No shit.”

Remy chuckled. “Anything on the guy who dropped his wallet? What was his name . . . Bohadock?”

“Derrick Bohadock. Reported missing last month by his wife of sixteen years. Supposedly disappeared on his way home from a business trip to the Philippines.”

“Really?” Remy took a sip from his drink. “Kind of odd that he would show up as part of a kill squad in Boston, don’t you think?”

“It is kinda funny.”

“He had a strange mark on the back of his hand,” Remy said, rubbing the back of his own. “Lip marks . . . as if left by a kiss.”

“Like a tattoo?” Mulvehill questioned.

“I only got a quick glimpse of it, but it seemed more like a burn . . . a brand maybe. And that doctor who supposedly sent these guys after Frank had one on his neck.” Remy pointed to an area below his ear.

“The one who took a swan dive off the roof of Franciscan Hospital for Children?” Mulvehill asked. “I suppose you were questioning him about this missing persons case too?”

“Yeah, I was,” Remy acknowledged.

“You realize I should probably arrest you right now on suspicion of murder,” Mulvehill said, setting down his empty glass.

“There isn’t a jail around that could hold me, copper,” Remy said in a pathetic attempt at an Edward G. Robinson imitation.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” Mulvehill said. “I didn’t know you could do Katharine Hepburn.”

“Go screw yourself,” Remy said with a laugh.

“Didn’t she say that to Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond?”

They were both laughing now. It was times like these when it all made sense to Remy; why he stayed upon the planet wearing a guise of humanity. He’d never had a friend like Mulvehill in Heaven, and Katharine Hepburn jokes were completely out of the question.

“So this case you’re working on,” Mulvehill began as their laughter died down.

“Yeah?” Remy asked. The ice in his glass had melted to nothing, and he drained some of the liquid and tiny pieces of cold into his mouth.

“I’m guessing it’s another one of those cases,” he said, putting air quotations around the word those.

“I wasn’t completely sure at first,” Remy said, “but the more I poke around, the stranger it becomes.”

“I think it’s you,” Mulvehill said. “If somebody else were investigating this case . . .”

“Katharine Hepburn?”

“Especially Katharine Hepburn. If she were investigating this case, it would be so normal, it’d be boring.”

“Maybe, but then again, maybe not,” Remy said. “We live in interesting times now, my friend.”

“What’re you, Confucius now? Face it, you attract weird like a magnet.” The homicide detective stood and stretched. “I gotta get outta here,” he said, glancing at his watch and then snatching up his pack of cigarettes from the table. “Duty calls in less than four hours.”

“It’s not my fault, you know,” Remy told him. “I’ve told you how the world has changed since that business with the Apocalypse and—”

“And I don’t want to hear it,” Mulvehill interrupted, throwing up a hand. “The less I know, the more surprised I can continue to be when this shit gets weirder.”

“Suit yourself,” Remy told him.

They were heading toward the stairs that would take them back into Remy’s building, when Marlowe made an appearance in the doorway, a stuffed monkey clutched in his mouth.

His tail was wagging furiously.

“Well, look who it is,” Mulvehill said as Marlowe trotted to him for an ear scratch. “A little late for the party, aren’t you?”

The dog tried to answer, but the stuffed animal in his mouth was making it impossible to understand him.

“If you’re going to talk, you’re gonna have to drop the monkey,” Remy told him.

Marlowe dropped the monkey to the floor of the deck. “New toy,” he said excitedly, swatting at it with his paw.

“That isn’t new,” Remy said. “It’s just been lost behind the couch.”

“New,” the dog said, not convinced.

“He thinks the toy is new because he hasn’t seen it in a while,” Remy explained to Mulvehill.

“So he thinks it’s new.” Mulvehill shrugged. He bent down and picked up the monkey, giving it a shake in Marlowe’s face. “Where’s the harm in that? Why do you have to spoil everything for us?”

Marlowe pulled the toy from Mulvehill’s hand and shook it vigorously.

“Spoil everything?” Remy asked, surprised. “What have I spoiled?”

“In my reality, the world is a perfectly normal place that plays by all the tried and true rules, and in Marlowe’s, that’s a brand-new monkey toy.”

Remy tried not to say anything, but as they headed down the stairs, he couldn’t hold back any longer. “Whatever makes you happy,” he said. “Even if it isn’t true.”

Halfway down the steps, Mulvehill turned and without missing a beat said, “In the immortal words of Katharine Hepburn, go screw.”

After Mulvehill left, Remy spent some time playing with Marlowe and his “new” monkey toy, until the Labrador got bored and retired to the love seat, leaving the detective to settle into his office and review his latest case.

Deryn had called three more times; once at the office, once on his cell, and the final time on his home phone in the kitchen. He could understand her anxiousness for answers; at this point, he was feeling a bit like that himself. He would call her in the morning, but he would leave out the stuff about missing souls and murder; no need to get her worked up until it was absolutely necessary.

He reclined in his office chair, swiveling it from side to side and letting his mind wander. This was the perfect time to do just that; late enough that the sounds of the city had died down to a little less than a murmur. Marlowe was sound asleep, as was just about everyone else he knew, and since he didn’t need to sleep, he could think.

A father had apparently abducted his autistic daughter, the two of them hitting the road to who knew where. The child appeared to have a strange artistic gift that allowed her to draw things before they happened.

Remy paused in his musings to retrieve the drawings he had taken from Dr. Parsons’ office and those that Deryn had left with him. He hadn’t had a chance to look closely at the ones from the hospital, but now that he did, he found they were harder to decipher, a bit more abstract. There were lots of pictures of multiple structures; houses, they seemed to be, set in the woods. However, one particularly eerie drawing caught his attention. It depicted people growing out of the ground like a crop of corn.

“What’s that about?” Remy muttered.

He finally decided he just didn’t have enough information to be able to correctly interpret the drawings, so he set them aside and turned his attention to the pamphlets he had found in Frank’s apartment.

“The Church of His Holy Abundance,” he read aloud, his eyes scanning the strange markings that adorned the cover. There was not a crucifix, cross, or dove to be found, but there were some odd symbols and crude drawings of some very funky fish.

Remy knew these symbols and images were very old, and the more he stared at them, the more he felt his true nature begin to stir. He briefly entertained the idea of paying the church a visit—according to the pamphlet, they had an address in Somerville—but then he decided maybe he should find out more about the religion itself first. He’d already gotten into enough trouble for one day.

Besides, he knew just the right person to talk to.

Leaning forward in his chair, he slid the overly stuffed Rolodex toward him and found the number he was looking for.

It had been a few months since he’d last spoken to the man, even longer since he’d seen him, and Remy knew he’d have to suffer through a ration of shit because of it.

But then what else did he expect from a retired Catholic priest? They could use guilt as deftly as a surgeon wielded a scalpel.

Remy glanced at the clock on the wall, eager to move into the next phase of his investigation, but it was still pretty early in the morning and he didn’t want to risk waking the good father. So he sat, listening to the sounds of his home, and waited for the world to rouse itself from slumber.

Remy had much to do before his visit to the priest. He had to feed Marlowe, take him for his walk, drink a pot of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, shower, dress, and because of whom he was planning to visit, he had to stop at Mike’s Pastries in the North End for a box of Italian cookies.

It was well past ten when he finally headed to Roslindale to see the priest he hoped would be able to shed some light on the Church of His Holy Abundance.

Father Darren Coughlin was one of the Vatican’s top experts in ancient and modern religions, including various cults both long extinct and recently emerged. He had retired in 1995, returning to Massachusetts to live with his brother in the Roslindale home where he’d grown up. Father Coughlin’s brother had died in 2002, but the priest continued to live in the house, doing research and special jobs for his Vatican masters, as well as the lowly private investigator from time to time. His only requirement was that he be paid with cookies from the North End’s famous pastry shop.

Remy squeezed his Corolla into Father Coughlin’s tiny drive-way, behind the unused Ford that had been sitting there for years, and had to fight off the drooping branches of the neighbor’s overgrown willow tree as he exited his car. He carried the white box of cookies across the small expanse of brown grass and up the steps of the old Dutch Colonial.

He rang the bell and waited. Even through the closed front door, he could smell the strong odor of cigarette smoke.

After a few minutes, the door opened to reveal the tall, almost cadaverous form of the retired priest, an unfiltered Camel dangling from the corner of his mouth. His hair was snow-white, although faint traces of a faded yellow could still be seen in certain lights.

The old priest, looking over the tops of wire-framed glasses that had slid to the end of his ruddy nose, pushed open the screen door and reached for the white pastry box.

“Thanks for coming by,” he said, snatching the box from Re-my’s hands, then quickly closing the door.

The priest was laughing, a laugh that turned into a lovely wet cough, thanks to years of smoking the unfiltered cigarettes.

“All right,” Remy said, playing along. He started back down the stairs with a wave. “I’ll be seeing you.”

The old priest came back out, motioning Remy inside. “Get your ass in here,” he said in between coughing jags, the bouncing cigarette flinging ash into the air.

“That sounds good,” Remy said as the old man patted his back, pushing him into the house. “Did you run the marathon this year?”

That just made the priest laugh and cough all the harder as he followed Remy inside, closing the door behind them.

As usual, the place was immaculate, not a piece of dust or clutter to be found, but that didn’t change the reek of cigarettes.

“Come into my office,” Coughlin said, moving past Remy, down the short corridor to the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked, going to the stove, where an old-fashioned metal pot had just finished brewing.

“Most definitely,” Remy said, taking a seat at the small dinette set in the corner.

He watched the retired priest pour two huge mugs of the dark brown, almost black, liquid. Coughlin referred to his brew as rocket fuel, and Remy did not argue. The stuff would put hair on areas that never knew hair before.

The priest carefully walked toward the table, a mug in each hand. Even though retired, he still wore the black suit of the priesthood, white collar and all. “Once a priest in the Catholic faith, always a priest until the day you breathe your last,” he always said.

He set the mugs on the table, then retrieved the box of cookies he’d left on the stove, wasting no time in breaking the string that held it closed.

“Let’s see what we have here,” the old-timer muttered through the cloud of smoke that trailed from the burning Camel still protruding from the corner of his mouth. “Ah,” he said, perusing the contents, “nothing you’d like. Guess I’ll have to eat them all myself.”

“And spoil your girlish figure?” Remy said. “It would be a sin.”

The old man went to a cabinet over the sink and returned with a plate. He reached into the box and placed a handful of cookies on the plate.

“There,” he said, stepping back from the colorful display. “Picasso couldn’t have done better.”

He pushed the box to the other side of the table and sat down.

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold,” he ordered Remy as he took the remains of the cigarette from his mouth, snuffing it out in an ashtray in the center of the table.

Remy picked up his mug and took a sip. The stuff was stronger than usual, but that was fine by him.

“A little bit of the Holy Spirit?” the old man asked.

Remy shook his head. “No, this is fine, thanks.”

“Your loss,” Coughlin said. He removed a metal flask from the pocket of his black jacket, unscrewed the top, and poured a splash of Irish whiskey into his coffee. Then he moved his hand in front of the mug, blessing it before lifting it to his mouth.

“Amen,” he said just before taking a slurping sip.

Remy chuckled as he reached for one of the cookies.

“You would take that one,” the old priest muttered, reaching for one as well.

“Do you want it?” Remy asked, holding the cookie out to him.

“Go ahead,” the old man said. “And I hope you choke.”

“As charming as always,” Remy said, popping the cookie into his mouth and following it with a sip of rocket fuel.

He had never told the priest what was beneath his disguise of humanity, but he had always suspected the old man knew there was something not quite normal about him. Father Coughlin would never pry; he was always very respectful of Remy’s privacy, and for that the detective was grateful. Eventually, he probably would tell Coughlin the truth, but not today.

“So, to what do I owe this visit?” the priest was asking through a mouthful of pink cookie. “It’s been what . . . a year since I’ve seen you?”

“Last time I was here, you threw me out and told me never to darken your doorstep again,” Remy replied with a smirk.

“And since when does anybody listen to a poor old priest?” Coughlin said, reaching for another treat.

“I always listen to my church elders,” Remy said.

“Do your clients buy that bullshit?” the priest asked as he took a gulp of coffee.

“Completely,” Remy answered. “That’s how I make the big bucks.”

They both laughed, ate most of the cookies, and finished off the pot of coffee before moving on to more serious things.

“You had a loss recently, didn’t you?” Coughlin asked, making reference to Madeline’s death.

Remy nodded, staring into his cup. The old priest knew about the relationship, but didn’t understand the complexity. Most believed that Madeline was Remy’s mother, not his wife and the love of his life.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, brother,” Coughlin said, and reached out to grab Remy’s arm, squeezing it in a powerful grip. “May the Lord God have mercy on her soul.”

“Thank you,” Remy said, looking into the priest’s wise and caring eyes. “It’s been hard.”

“It always is. No matter how old we are, it’s never easy to lose someone we love.”

Remy remained silent, and then Father Coughlin was out of his seat again. “How about another pot?” he asked, breaking the tension as he headed for the stove.

“I’m good, Father,” Remy said. “I don’t want to be floating out of here.”

“Well, I might as well make a fresh pot anyway.” The old man rummaged around in a cabinet and pulled out a can of coffee. “What else do I have to do these days?” he asked as he prepared another pot. “Most of the time I’m just sitting around, waiting for somebody to visit me.” He turned his head slightly, looking at Remy from the corner of his eye.

“You got me,” he said. “I should come by more often.”

“Damn right you should,” the priest scolded. “The only time I see you is when you need something.”

The old priest loved to complain, and Remy doubted the old-timer had had a boring day since supposedly retiring. From what he understood, the Vatican kept him quite busy with the research and cataloguing of ancient religious beliefs and practices.

“Which brings me to why I’m here today,” Remy said.

“See?” Coughlin turned the pot on to percolate and slowly returned to the table.

Remy removed the folded flyer from his back pocket, straightening it out as he spoke. “What do you know about the Church of His Holy Abundance?”

“The Church of His Holy Abundance,” Coughlin repeated, taking the pamphlet from him. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t remember why . . . probably something I read in passing.” He studied the flyer. “Somerville, huh?”

“Yeah, I was thinking of checking it out, but thought I’d talk to you first. See what you knew.”

“Sorry I can’t help you,” the old priest said, taking his seat, and another cookie. “This for a case you’re working?”

“Yeah, missing person . . . a little girl.”

Father Coughlin picked up the pamphlet and studied the cover again. “Hmm, this is pretty odd,” he commented after a moment.

“The symbols?” Remy asked. “Thought you’d have something to say about them.”

“Yeah, really old stuff . . . ancient Sumerian, I think.”

“That old?” Remy responded. He was a bit rusty on his ancient writings.

“It’s a little strange seeing them on something like this,” Coughlin said. “Can I keep this?” he asked, holding up the flyer.

“Sure,” Remy told him. “Just give me the heads-up on anything you find out.”

“No problem,” the priest said, his attention already back on the symbols. Remy could practically smell the plastic burning as the old priest started to lose himself in the new distraction.

He stood and slid his chair back under the table. “I should probably get rolling.”

Coughlin grunted a response before looking up. “Did you say something?”

“I’m leaving,” Remy said with a laugh.

“Sure you don’t want to stay for another cup?” the priest asked him. “I’ve got a few Italian cookies left that some stranger dropped off.”

“I get the hint,” Remy said as he headed down the hall to the front door. “I’ll visit more often.”

“You’re going to have to,” Coughlin said, following him with a twinkle in his eye. “How else are you going to know what I’ve found out?” He held up the pamphlet.

“Got me there,” Remy said. “Give me a call as soon as you’ve got something, no matter how small. We’ll settle what I owe you next time I come.”

“Two boxes from Mike’s ought to cover it,” the priest said.

“With prices like that,” Remy complained, “no wonder I only visit once a year.”

He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, turning back for a final wave to the priest, but the old man was already heading back to the kitchen, the ancient markings on a church pamphlet providing him with the kind of mystery that piqued his voracious curiosity.