by Brad Kelln
Harold looked at him sadly. “God reaches out and touches all of us with a message. We just have to listen.”
“What message did God give you?” Jake asked quickly. One way or another he was going to get these sessions focused on Harold Grower.
“God wants me to lead.”
Jake smiled slightly. “To where?”
“To the answers we seek,” Harold replied without a trace of a smile. “God wants me to provide the guidance when the path is lost.”
“Do you talk to God? Can you hear Him?” Jake wondered if Harold was slipping into a psychotic disorder. His focus on being saved by God was outside the realm of a normal reaction to an abnormal event, and could indicate post-traumatic stress disorder. But if Harold thought God had given him special powers, Jake would have to try a different approach.
Harold looked even sadder. “Of course I can hear Him. God talks to all of us. We have to choose to listen.”
“How do we do that? How do we make that choice?”
Harold laughed. “I can’t answer that.”
Jake didn’t know how far to push it. He wanted to ask more questions, to search for a psychotic element, but he didn’t want to suggest he believed in Harold’s delusion. He decided to use another classic therapy technique, reflection. He restated Harold’s perspective.
“So, God communicates with all of us but we have to choose to hear the message. The problem is how and when we make that choice.”
“That’s right,” Harold said. “The curious part is how God talks to us. Sometimes it is directly, in our dreams or in things we see. Sometimes it’s indirect, like events that happen in the world. Sometimes God communicates to us in tragedies that affect us.”
“Tragedies like when you fell out of the chopper?”
Harold laughed loudly. “I wasn’t talking about me, but I see why you’d say that.”
Jake really didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to talk about God communicating through tragedies. Just thinking about it flooded him with anxiety about Wyatt. He wanted to get off the topic.
“You certainly are a man of faith,” he said.
“You are, too, Dr. Tunnel. You are, too.”
Jake waited, but Harold just smiled.
“So let’s get started for today,” Jake finally said. He opened Harold’s folder to signal they needed to get to the business of therapy. “Let’s —” He looked at the unsigned release-of-information form, right at the top of the papers in the folder.
It was fairly routine for psychologists to contact close family members to get different perspectives; it helped the doctors assess patients and monitor treatment. Jake wanted to talk to Harold’s wife, and any other relatives, if he had them. Harold had never talked about his family, and he refused to sign the release form.
“Oh,” Jake said. “Before we get started, I wonder if I can get you to sign this thing now.”
“Actually, Dr. Tunnel, I don’t think that’d be helpful.”
“Oh come on, Harold. I just want to talk to your wife and see what she thinks. I don’t need to say anything about our sessions. They’re confidential.”
Harold shook his head. “No, not yet.”
“Maybe next time?”
“Maybe. You’ll get to speak to my wife soon enough.”
Jake relented. He didn’t want to push: it could damage rapport. “Did you bring your schedule?” Harold was keeping a weekly schedule of his activities so they could make sure he had sufficient structure and social opportunities.
Harold kept smiling. “We are all people of faith. We all believe in something, even if we believe in nothing at all. Faith separates us from animals. Those of us who don’t possess it shrivel up and die.”
“Right,” Jake said. He really wanted to use the appointment for therapy. “Do you have your schedule for last week?”
Harold looked serious. He somberly reached into his coat pocket and brought out a piece of paper.
“My schedule for the last week,” Harold announced.
“Great, let’s have a look.”
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.
XXIV
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 u
navoidable.”
“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.
XXV
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.
XXVI
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.
“Would you like a coffee or anything?” the wife asked.
“No thank you, Mrs. Younger. I’m fine,” Father McCallum said.
“Go get them some coffee,” the husband barked, and she turned and left the room. “That’s Carol,” the man said. “I’m John Younger.”
“Son of a bitch,” Maury muttered. He couldn’t find a good position from which to watch the house, and there were no trees or bushes he could hide behind. He ended up flat against the wall under the kitchen window at the back of the house — in plain sight of the neighbors. He knew he couldn’t stay there long.