In Tongues of the Dead (11 page)

Twenty minutes later, Jake set Harold's file on his desk and stood — a signal that the session was over. Harold also stood, and they walked slowly to the door, where Jake patted his patient's shoulder and wished him a good week. Harold, who seemed lost in thought, nodded.

Jake watched him slowly cross the waiting room toward the door, then stop.
Uh-oh
.

Harold turned, his expression intense. “Oh,” he said. “There's something else.”

Jake didn't have time for
something else
. He wanted to eat lunch. He spoke cautiously. “Yes?”

Harold held his hand out. “You need to have this. It will be your exit when you're trapped. Look to the church.”

Jake hesitated but opened his hand, and Harold placed a heavy, old-fashioned key in Jake's palm. It looked as if it could have belonged to a 1930s jail cell, made of thick, dull copper in need of polishing. Jake stared at it then looked at Harold.
“What is this?”

He shrugged. “Please. Just keep it.”

Jake knew he shouldn't accept gifts from patients — gifts blurred the professional nature of the relationship. He looked at the key again. “Okay,” he said, “thanks.”

Harold smiled but didn't leave.

“Anything else?” Jake asked patiently.

“I just wanted to say I'll be praying for your family.”

Jake nodded. “Thanks.”

“And especially for your little boy. Everything will be fine.”

Jake was stunned. He'd never mentioned Wyatt. “Uh, okay.”
How does Harold know about Wyatt
?

Harold left.

For a long time, Jake stood and stared at the doorway, a small bubble of anger slowly forming. Harold must have been following his family. He knew about Wyatt.

Shemhazai and Azazel stood across the street from Matthew Younger's house.

“The Nephilim boy lives here?” Azazel said.

“Yes.”

“This is it, then,” Azazel said with some satisfaction. “The end of our torture.”

Shemhazai was silent.

“Let us do God's will.”

“And then destroy the Voynich?” Shemhazai asked.

“Yes, then it will be finished.”

“We will be welcomed back into God's house?”

Azazel nodded. His beard itched, and he reached up to scratch it. His heavy frame made every motion tedious, and he was always sweating. “I, for one, cannot wait to be done with these earthly bodies.”

Shemhazai shifted uncomfortably. He'd been forced to inhabit the first person he'd met after discarding the body he used as the library security guard. Tonight he looked like a young, athletic university student. It had been unavoidable. Shemhazai could live outside a host for only a few minutes; then he would wither and soon disappear. It was part of God's curse.

“Let's go,” Shemhazai finally said.

“Wait!” Azazel put a hand in front of Shemhazai's chest.

The two men watched as a car slowed to a stop in front of the Younger residence. A gray-haired man and a younger, olive-skinned man sat in the car, looking at the house.

“Who is that?” Azazel asked.

Shemhazai squinted. “The librarian priest.” He looked again. “I don't recognize the other.”

“What are they doing here?”

Shemhazai shook his head. “Following up on the boy, I imagine. They aren't going to just let this go.”

“But we have the book. The boy cannot help them without it.”

“Maybe they don't know that.”

“Let's move,” Azazel whispered angrily. “I don't want to be seen here.”

They started walking away.

“What do we do now?” Shemhazai asked.

“I don't know. I wanted to do this quietly. I didn't want the church involved. It's too complicated if they get in the way.”

“It might be unavoidable.”

“I realize that. I'm prepared to make that decision when it is necessary. Right now, it is not necessary.”

“I agree.”

They kept walking.

Father McCallum looked at Benicio. “I've noticed you aren't wearing a collar.”

Benicio nodded.

“Does this mean you're undercover? You aren't going to tell the boy or his parents what's going on?”

Benicio laughed. “I don't know what's going on! I can't exactly spill the beans to Mom and Dad, can I? What would I say? ‘Hey, we think your autistic son can read a thousand-year-old book and, oh yeah, we also think the boy might be half angel'?”

“Five-hundred-year-old.”

“What?”

“The Voynich manuscript has only been dated back five hundred years. You said a thousand.”

Benicio laughed again. He couldn't help himself. “You're absolutely right.
Scusi
.”

There was silence in the car.

“You're a very difficult man to dislike,” Father McCallum finally said.

“Permesso?”

“I don't like that the church sent some hotshot to investigate the child. It's an insult that they don't believe I can handle it.”

Benicio nodded, his face somber.

“As a result, I expected to dislike whomever arrived to take over.”

“Understandable,” Benicio said. “And it was my intention to be thoroughly dislikable.”

McCallum smiled. “You see, there you go again.” He placed a hand on Benicio's shoulder. “You may try to be unlikable, but I see through it. You actually strike me as a genuine, caring individual.”

Benicio smiled.

“Why don't you go talk to the parents? I'll wait here.”

“No, no, no. We will do it together. You can help me.”

“I don't want to jeopardize the investigation. Maybe I can be of more help once we get to the school to see the boy. It might be best if only you went in.”

Benicio considered. The church hadn't given him instructions, but they had provided the hospital id badge. That would allow him to be subtle. He needed the parents' agreement if he was going spend time with Matthew.

“But you've never spoken to the parents yourself? They wouldn't recognize you?”

“It's his foster parents, and no, I've never met them.”

“Foster parents,” Benicio said, nodding. “Right. Okay. You're coming with me.”

Down the block, Maury and Jeremy sat in their red Honda Civic. With one hand Maury held a small receiver to his ear. He had his other hand out the window, pointing a miniature parabolic dish at the old priest's rental car.

“What are they talking about? Why don't they go in the house?”

“Shut up. I can barely hear anything. I think they're whining and bitching about who's going in.” The small microphone picked up every sound from the street, and he had to strain to hear the two men's voices. “Wait,” he announced. “I think Benny's going in.”

“Is he leaving the old man?”

Maury looked through the windshield. “Nope. They're both heading in.”

Jeremy perked up a little. “Wanna go search the car?”

Maury stared at his brother. “For what? Man, you're an idiot.”

Jeremy frowned. “Fuck you.”

“You just stay here and be ready to roll. I'm going to get closer to the house and see what I can find out.”

“Let me go do it,” Jeremy pleaded.

“Fuck off,” Maury spat back and got out of the car, closing the door carefully. He headed down the street.

Jeremy frowned. “Good luck, you and your one eyeball,” he muttered. He watched Maury slip into the backyard of Matthew's house.

As he watched his brother he felt his own hand twitch. He brushed the fingertips of both hands together. Nothing. No feeling. He reached into his coat pocket and took a small atomizer out. He slid his arms out of his jacket and sprayed a liberal mist up and down both.

Benicio stood nervously on Matthew Younger's doorstep. He wasn't accustomed to lying, but there was no way he could stretch the truth far enough to make his visit believable. He looked at Father McCallum and smiled. He rang the doorbell.

“
Exitus acta probat
,” he whispered.
The outcome justifies the deed
.

Through the curtained windows of the door he noticed movement, then the door opened. Benicio saw a rough-looking man in his early forties, with thinning hair and wearing glasses that were slightly tinted. A heavy beer belly protruded from a stained white T-shirt.

“What?” the man said abruptly.

“I'm terribly sorry to bother you,” Benicio began. “I'm Dr. Valori. I'm a clinical psychologist. This is Mr. McCallum from Yale University. We wanted to speak to you about your son.”

The man looked surprised. “My son? You mean Matthew?”

“Yes, Matthew.”

“Are you from the school? Is it because he didn't go today?”

“I'm sorry,” said Benicio. “You mean Matthew's home?”

“Yeah, he's home. He freaks out sometimes and won't go to school.”

“Oh,” Benicio said, taken aback.

“So, what's this about? Did the kid break something? I ain't paying for shit.”

“No, no,” Benicio reassured him. “I'm here on behalf of the Yale–New Haven Children's Hospital. We're running a new experimental treatment program for severe autistic disorder. We're recruiting children to participate in the program. It's completely free of charge.”

The man held his hand up. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Couldn't you have just called or sent a letter?”

Benicio nodded, as though he'd expected this response. “I feel very awkward about just showing up like this. I realize it's an inconvenience, but your son's name came to us in an unexpected way and left us in a bit of a time bind.”

“What the hell you talking about?”

“Your son's class recently toured the rare books collection at Yale, and Matthew made quite an impression on Mr. McCallum, here. Knowing about the ongoing research, he was kind enough to contact me directly and inquire about adding your son's name to the list. Meanwhile, the research team has completed the selection of participants, and we're going to start next week.”

“That's right,” McCallum jumped in. “I didn't want Matthew to miss out on this opportunity so I sort of insisted Dr. Valori meet you. The school provided your address.”

“Fuckin' school,” the man mumbled.

“Pardon me?” Benicio said.

“What ya say your name was again?”

“Dr. Valori,” Benicio said, and began searching his jacket. “Oh, I'm terribly sorry — I didn't even show you my hospital id. I could be anybody standing on your doorstep.” He found his wallet and retrieved the employee card for the Yale–New Haven Children's Hospital.

“And I'm Ronald McCallum.” He pointed to the id clipped to the outside of his jacket, then extended his hand, but the man ignored it.

“Fine, whatever. Step in here for a second.” He turned and moved into the house.

Benicio looked at Father McCallum and gave a silent whistle. They both stepped into the entranceway.

“Hey Carol,” the man shouted. “There's two guys here about the boy.”

“What?” The response came from somewhere in the house.

“Get down here!” the man screamed.

He turned to Benicio and Father McCallum. “You can talk to her about him.” He walked away, leaving them standing at the front door. Benicio looked at his companion and mouthed, “What's going on?”

The house stank of cat urine and something else Benicio thought might be alcohol and vomit. He found it difficult to breathe.

A minute later, a woman in her late thirties rounded a corner and stood before them. “Whatcha want?”

She was barely five feet tall and had short, spiked brown hair with streaks of blonde, which Benicio thought were probably her own attempt at highlights.

“Good morning,” Benicio started. “I'm Dr. Valori and this is Mr. McCallum. We want to talk to you about having your son join an experimental treatment program at Yale–New Haven Children's Hospital.”

“I ain't no Morman and I don't want to become no Morman.”

“No, I'm with the children's hospital, and Mr. McCallum is with Yale University.”

“We ain't got no money.”

“Ma'am,” Father McCallum interjected. “What we wanted to talk to you about is a program that's free of charge. The people in the program would like to work with Matthew.”

“In fact,” Benicio added, “there might even be an opportunity for financial reimbursement for you and your husband.”

Suddenly the husband was back. “Honey, what's with your manners? Invite these important men in and get them a coffee.” He pushed her away and waved the priests into the living room. “Take a seat, gentleman. I'm most curious about this program.”

The living room, which was at the front of the house, was small and dirty. There was an old tv set in one corner across from a floral-print love seat. Along the third wall were two
chairs. None of the furniture looked comfortable. They both remained standing.