The Celtic Serpent

by S. Robertson

  Angi ventured a fatigued smile, “Maybe next time, Vette.” The two of them had grown closer, after the first morning clash. Angi, determined to maintain her therapeutic routine which started about five in the morning with an hour of meditation. After that she dressed for her morning run around Victoria Park, a stepping stone from the house. Unaccustomed to having a body guard Angi first thought of Vette as a house guest. So the first morning, not wanting to disturb Vette, she tipped-toed to the front door. She had barely turned the door knob when a disheveled body dressed in mustard green pajamas bounced in front of her yelling, “What the hell do you think your doing?”

  Startled and defensive, Angi replied, “I’m going for my morning run. I go every morning at this time, rain or shine.”

  Upset, Vette responded, “Well bully for you. I’m guarding a health nut. Well, in case you forgot, I’m supposed to be your body guard which means I’m supposed to stick to you like glue until this case is closed. Got it?”

  At that moment Angi noticed the bandages on Vette’s right shoulder and her nursing instincts cut in, “What happened to your shoulder? That’s some pressure bandage.”

  “Stop changing the subject,” snapped Vette, still angry at being ignored. “I got this trophy when I stumbled into some cross fire in my last assignment. That’s why I’m here. Stuart thought this would be an easy cover for my rehab. I’m beginning to wonder if the word ‘easy’ is quite how I’d classify this assignment.”

  Angi continued in a concerned manner, “You should be resting. Perhaps exerting yourself is not the best therapy at this time.”

  Shooting back, Vette replied, “It’s my wing that’s injured, not my legs. Stay right there, don’t move! I need to keep fit as I intend to get back to my normal life real soon. Baby-sitting is not really my forte.”

  So, after ruffled feathers had settled, it was agreed, each morning at six the two would go for their morning run. Angi insisted that she would dress Vette’s wounds rather than exposing her to Jock’s office gossipers. Within days a routine was established and a friendship began to grow, the type one finds in a common crisis.

  Today, Angi was glad for Vette’s company, returning to an empty house would have exaggerated the day’s overall gloom.

  “See you shortly,” Angi said as she made her way up the stairs holding firmly to the banister for support.

  Vette watched, “This death has really hit her. She’s very pale, and she’s starting to stagger. I know it’s not liquor, as she consumes little and it would be unheard of at a Presbyterian funeral. Yet, death hits everyone differently. It’s worse when it’s unexpected and due to criminal activity. By all accounts Nellie was well liked, and being Angi’s only family just made it worse. Perhaps that’s all.” She locked the front door and went to the kitchen. “Scrambled eggs and toast would be simple, and I’ll prepare a big pot of Chamomile tea. I thought herbal tea was for wimps, but I’m beginning to like it. It’s certainly easier on the gut than coffee. As coffee prices rise, this might be an option, but I’ll miss my good old Columbian fix. I’ll wait till she’s ready.”

  Upstairs Angi moved in slow motion. She swallowed two anti-nausea tablets, and sat on the bed letting the medication take hold. Not surprising, her thoughts were on death. “Gran always said the one guarantee in life was death. It’s always too soon. We talked often about her being there for my wedding and her great-grandchildren. Neither of us could have calculated this outcome and me following her so closely in death. A funeral certainly makes one face the fragility of life.” Then speaking as if her grandmother was present, she went on, “Gran, it was a fine funeral. You would have been shocked at the number of people, perhaps too many. You might even have been embarrassed by the grand comments from so many leading citizens, some who hardly knew you. I remember chatting with you about the differences between the old and new ways in dealing with funerals. The old idea of giving the family privacy in their sorrow has given way to a demand for everyone to perform some tale of remembrance, irrespective of their emotional state. Under a shroud of correctness, it borders on abuse. Funerals have become even longer. Gran, Margo did you proud. She’s a true friend. Sorry I found her a bit pushy. In the end she proved to be a real pro. I don’t know what I would have done without her. However, Gran, when it comes to my turn, I think I’ll request a quiet graveside service. I’ll never have your history and, on second thought, I don’t want the hullaballoo.”

  Hanging up her dark suit and white blouse, she continued with her thoughts, “Gran, I was going to tell you about my illness when I came home for my vacation, but events took over. Nevertheless, I’m sure, if you were here, you’d tell me that this cancer diagnosis has a purpose, perhaps a message from God for me to change my life, but a change in what direction? I didn’t think I was off course. If this illness progresses rapidly, I may not have enough time to do much changing, except prepare for my own demise. Speaking of that, I need to contact Mr. Dumont about my Will and funeral. I’ll have to make some provision for this house. Perhaps Margo can help ……maybe later in the week.” Realizing she had slipped into negative thinking she corrected herself, “That’s enough of that, Angi me girl. Think positive! Cancer thrives on negativity.”

  After a long shower, Angi felt rejuvenated. She slipped into a pair of gray slacks and a cotton sweatshirt and proceeded down stairs. As she reached the bottom step the front door bell rang. Out loud she reacted, “Oh help, no more people today. Vette, please divert this onslaught.”

  “Sure, duck into the kitchen. I’ll say you’re resting or something.” Irritated, she commented to herself, “What’s wrong with these people, have they no decency? Surely they must know she needs a break.” She opened the door to begin a crisp confrontation only to encounter Jock MacAndrew, who was looking downright glum.

  Still wanting to protect Angi she began, “Agh, Angi’s resting. Can I help you Jock?” She kept holding the door, ready to close it abruptly.

  “I know what your doing, Vette. I would not have come today but I need to talk to her. I expect she’s in the kitchen while her bull dog fends off visitors.”

  “OK, but she’s really exhausted. I hope this is brief.”

  “I’ll be quick. Just need to chat about a call I received today,” said Jock as he brushed past Vette heading towards the kitchen.

  Angi, sorting cups, dishes and utensils for their snack was surprised to see Jock enter the kitchen. “It must be important, Jock, what can I do for you?”

  “Angi, I’m sorry to barge in, I know this has been a difficult day. But, I need to talk privately with you about a call I received. Can we talk in the living room?”

  Vette, shadowing Jock, stopped at the kitchen door. “I hear you. I’ll stay in the kitchen. Angi, how about some, scrambled eggs?”

  “Yah, that’s sounds good,” replied Angi, as she followed Jock.

  Vette assembled the ingredients but made no effort to start cooking. She moved closer to the kitchen door to listen. “Something’s up. Jock never acts without a reason.”

  Jock went to the farthest chair from the kitchen, sat down and began in a quiet voice, “Angi, I got a call this afternoon from a Dr. Greene from Halifax who’s very worried about you. I expect you know why?”

  “Yes, with all the commotion I almost forgot about my diagnosis.” Angi lied, because her nausea and tiredness couldn’t be ignored. “I was coming home to tell Gran and talk to you about my illness when my life got turned upside down. I made the appointment with Dr. Wong in Halifax but missed it because of my urgent trip home.”

  “Very well, what do you plan on doing about this?”

  “I haven’t had much time to think about it since I got home. Perhaps in a few days we can get together.” Angi knew she didn’t want chemotherapy and was stalling for time.

  “I brought Dr. Greene up to date on what has been happening here and he and I perfectly understand that your health has not been a priority. But now, you must start the treatment ……leukemia i
s not a disease to trifle with.”

  Vette gasped. “Leukemia……..that’s a hellish kick in the teeth after all she’s been through. It explains the paleness and tiredness.”

  At that moment Angi reached another decision. “Jock, before I do anything about this disease, I want to finalize something for Gran, I owe her that much. You and I know that the outcome of a series of chemotherapy sessions can be unpredictable, so while I am able, I want to take the medallion to Gran’s contact in Boston.”

  “What? Surely this can wait. Your health is the priority,” argued Jock.

  “No, it can’t. The attack on Gran initiated something. Any delay might jeopardize the lives of others. You of all people know how allergic I am and if I react poorly to the chemotherapy it could be months before I can travel. The medallion needs to be placed in the hands of the rightful Guardians. Gracelyn Harrison in Boston has informed me that this item cannot be sent by mail or courier; it has to be delivered in person. So, this coming week, I’ll take a few days to rest then I’ll book a flight to Boston. What are we talking, two…… maybe three days, tops. Then my slate will be cleared for whatever treatments I need.”

  “I know there’s little hope of changing your mind. Fine, two to three days and you are back here. By the way, Vette goes with you. I’m certain that you could be heading right into the arms of this killer. Have you thought of that?”

  “In light of my diagnosis, does it matter?”

  “Don’t be flippant, Angi. You know there is every possibility of recovery with the right treatment. You are young and healthy.” Concerned and frustrated with the outcome Jock called out “Vette, can you come in here?”

  Vette bounded into the living room.

  “You will need your Passport, Vette. You and Angi are heading to Boston for a few days. Angi can fill you in on the details,” With that Jock turned to leave. “I want to know your travel plans. In the meantime I’ll have a chat with Stuart. I’m not happy with this turn of events but will just have to live with it.”

  After he left Angi turned to Vette. “You deserve an explanation. While we’re eating I’ll try and explain why this trip is so important.”

  Vette didn’t need an explanation. Somehow she felt that Angi wasn’t going to take the chemotherapy. This was a heroic act. She would deliver the medallion and come home to die. To herself she said, “God knows what’s in store for us in Boston. Jock could be right; we may be heading straight into the lion’s den.”

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  United States, Boston, Rosie’s Bar & Grill

  Obsessively organized, before leaving Ireland, Antonino e-mailed his Vatican cousin who worked in the archives with the latest clues from O-Gratteney’s file, rerouted funds from Italy to a bank in the Virgin Islands, contacted another cousin in Montreal now second in command to a powerful drug family, and obtained several underworld names in the United States. His mother’s family had global roots.

  Antonino’s escape from Canada went smoothly. After making arrangements for the hit on Rodolfo, he reclaimed his priestly garb in an airport storage locker and traveled on to Boston. There he morphed into Tony Moretti, an up-and-coming movie and TV impresario with graying hair and glasses. His new occupation was looking for Boston talent with top dollar incentives. First, he wanted a bead on Morgan.

  His paid efforts at hacking into Morgan’s university and home computers came up dry. This forced Antonino to plan B. Later, on a Boston side street, an unexpected downpour forced Antonino to shelter under a Pin Oak tree. As the rain eased, he strode across the street and entered the Bay Street Road building of Boston University history department in search of Dr. Morgan Mandelthrope’s office. A young female student gave him directions to the third floor. Nearing Morgan’s office he was rewarded when Morgan and Gritty exited, arguing about something. Neither took notice of the nondescript middle-aged man standing in the shadows. Tony, Antonino’s Boston alias, sneered. “I’ve got ya! But that scrawny sidekick is no academic….. maybe ex-police or military……….the obvious reason why his files are inaccessible, they’ve been moved.” Cursing, his brain working overtime, he concluded, “Morgan either knows or can tell me the name of his client. Maybe there’s more than one. Whatever, I need to get to Morgan. There’s got to be an angle……….a weak link…….something.” Turning, he retreated down the stairs and out the door.

  It wasn’t all bad news. Antonino’s Vatican cousin came through. She confirmed that in the seventeenth century there were hints in several official documents about a secret code, a medallion or some kind of jewelry, with ancient roots and mystical powers. But even Inquisition torture revealed nothing further. Rumors persisted into the 1700s but then evaporated. Her e-mail assessment was that after hundreds of years and such intangible clues finding anything would be inconceivable. But Antonino wasn’t buying her argument. “My gut feeling tells me there’s something,” he said with conviction. “The 1600s was a turbulent time in European history so someone, or a group of people, took extraordinary risks to protect something. The genius behind this secrecy created a shield of silence that lasted for generations. That speaks for itself.”

  He paid more individuals to search out everything they could find on Morgan. Within twenty-four hours he got a break; Morgan’s wife, Kari-Ann. She was often seen at Rosie’s Bar and Grill in Charleston. His documents had copies of photographs from her Twitter page, the names of her closest friends and details on her character. “The Internet is a pure goldmine,” Antonino said as he kissed the documents. That evening he headed to Rosie’s.

  At twenty-six, Morgan married a young, blond, history student, a former high school cheer leader and beauty queen, who was charmed by his easy-going manner, his fiddle playing and his family’s wealth. She worked in a part-time secretarial job at Boston University. While both incomes should have been adequate, money had become a constant battle. Unable to have children and loath to adopt, Kari-Ann became obsessed with her looks, fashion and decorating and redecorating their house. When this passion faded, she moved on to travelling, which, when Morgan’s work intervened, shifted to excursions with three of her old high school friends. She never explained where they went or what they did.

  Morgan wasn’t oblivious. Often alone in recent years, he recognized the deteriorating signs, commenting to himself, “This marriage is doomed unless something changes. I should be talking to a divorce lawyer. Being ignored and deserted by my wife is only half the problem. Her silence, increased alcohol consumption and wild mood swings are symptoms that she’s either having an affair, dabbling in drugs, or sliding into a mental breakdown, perhaps all three. She refuses to explain her numerous bank withdrawals which is crippling our finances. When I’ve suggested she see our family doctor or a psychiatrist, she erupts into a vicious rage and storms out of the house. I’ve been procrastinating, too lazy to bother. Or am I too ashamed to discuss this with either my parents or Wolfram. Now that’s he’s recovering from his accident I’ll find time. I can’t let this drift any longer. It’s intolerable. Thank God I’ve my work and this medallion mess to distract me.” As an afterthought, he continued, “Now that says something, I’m actually stating that I’m glad some mad man is stalking me so I can avoid dealing with this marital disaster.” Unknown to Morgan, the universe was about to intercede on his behalf.

  Antonino, in his newly created alias as Tony Moretti, parked his red; Boxster B Porsche near Rosie’s and walked. The Bar and Grill sign was conspicuous, an artistic salutation to the thirty-plus crowd. Knowing his age would be conspicuous, he decided to employ the services of a couple of key employees. Stepping inside he was engulfed by the noise and the scintillating décor of silver, mauve and white which blended perfectly with the upbeat music of the small jazz ensemble. The culinary bar in the distance held a bountiful display of seafood, meats, and vegetables, plus a side table of succulent pastries. The advertisement stated the bar had over a thousand wines in its cellar and by the looks of the Thursday n
ight crowd; all these offerings were being thoroughly enjoyed by a boisterous clientele.

  The four women arrived within minutes of each other, as was their custom, and went to their usual table. Kari-Ann, the oldest of the four, was the decided star. Her slight build and fashion sense made her a target of many male admirers. The women, in their mid to late thirties, were all married, two had young children. Bored with life, ignored by their husbands, with plenty of money, they clung to the belief that they had a God-given right for a few flings before old age assailed them in their forties. Petrified over growing old, one of the four even divulged that she wanted to die at sixty, as drugs and a good plastic surgeon could only do miracles until then.

  Kari-Ann knew she was on a slippery path. On several occasions, after too many drinks, she ended up in bed with a man she hardly knew. She excused such dalliance on the premise that she deserved a life of fun with vibrant male company. To ease her guilt her friends introduced her to cocaine. Sniffing small amounts she placated herself with the comforting banter, “I can stop any time. Anyway, everyone does it.”

  That evening as the four women ordered their first drinks, Glen, a familiar waiter, came to their table with a new patron, a man older then the usual crowd. “Ladies, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Tony Moretti. He’s just arrived from California and is interested in producing a movie here in Boston.” Saying no more he departed, a crisp $100 bill resting in his pocket for his services.

  The foursome welcomed the stranger, and after a couple of drinks and the usual chit chat, Tony made his move. “Ladies, in assessing the clientele of this bar this evening, my eyes have been captivated by your stunning beauty and I’m here to offer you, I hope, a proposal you will find too delicious to refuse.”

  The four women purred at his compliments and waited.

  Tony continued, “I’ll get right down to business. As you heard from Glen, I’m here recruiting for my upcoming movie. I have four non-speaking roles which would be a perfect fit for the four of you.” His black eyes darted from one to the other to assess their reaction. Camouflaged behind his friendly smile he assessed his prey, “Such vanity. It’s like peddling candy to children.” Assessing their non-verbal signals as agreement, he went on, “I’m willing to offer you $5,000 each” …….he hesitated, letting the figure register, “for one day’s work.” Before they had a chance to ask, he answered, “Your roles will be simple. You just have to sit in a similar type of bar being the young, beautiful and vibrant background in one of the leading scenes. What do you think?” To avoid appearing too pushy, he then stood up, “How about I give you time to discuss this while I get myself another drink.” He stepped away to an explosion of chatter.