by Brad Kelln
He held the parabolic dish up to the window but heard only static. He went to the front of the house, but realized he couldn’t risk listening through the living room window. He was sure that’s where they all were. He went around the house again and looked into the kitchen.
The mom was right there. He dropped down and squeezed against the house, hoping like hell she hadn’t seen him. After a few minutes he decided it was safe to try the parabolic microphone again. He twisted it this way and that and finally heard part of a muffled conversation, something about the boy. Benny wanted to talk to him. That’d be fun, he thought. Trying to talk to a retarded kid.
“So, your son is here?” Benicio asked.
“Um,” John started awkwardly. “Yep, I’m sure.” He shouted. “Carol! Bring the boy in here.”
“I think he’s upstairs,” she called.
“Oh, he’s up in his room? It would be very helpful to meet him on his own territory,” Benicio said. As Carol came out of the kitchen he started to follow her.
“Oh no,” John exclaimed and moved toward Benicio. “She’ll bring him down.”
“Excuse me,” Father McCallum said, blocking John Younger. “I’d like to ask a few more questions to get an idea of the financial compensation you’d qualify for.”
Benicio stayed right behind Carol, who took the stairs by the front door. The parents didn’t want him upstairs, and his instincts told him something wasn’t right in this house.
The stairs ended in a small corridor. Carol turned to him sharply. “Just wait here and I’ll get him out of his room.”
She opened one of three doors in the hall and stepped in. Benicio was right behind her.
The boy’s room contained a tiny box spring and mattress pushed against one wall and a nearly empty bookcase. There were no toys, no stuffed animals.
Matthew stood facing the wall next to the bookcase. With one finger he slowly traced a circle on the faded wallpaper. Benicio realized he must have been doing this for quite some time because there was a line worn into the wallpaper.
“Matthew,” Carol said in a slow, patronizing way. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“That’s okay,” Benicio said. “I’ll just talk to him right here.”
She turned and frowned. “No, I’ll bring him down.”
“I’d like to speak to him alone. You go downstairs. I’ll be right there,” he said firmly.
She glared at Benicio. “He don’t speak, you know. He’s a retard.”
Benicio nodded and stood his ground.
She faced him, hands on her hips. “It ain’t anyone who’d take a orphan retard, you know. He’s damn lucky.”
Benicio felt his face redden in anger but said nothing. He waited patiently, and she finally left. There was a strong smell of urine in the room, and he noticed a wet patch on the boy’s pant leg.
He knelt next to the child. “Matthew,” he said softly.
The boy continued to trace the circle on the wall.
“I’m Dr. Valori. I want to talk to you. I want to talk about that special book you saw at the big library.”
The boy didn’t acknowledge him. He continued to trace the circle.
Benicio was silent for a moment then looked at the wall. “What are you drawing on the wall?”
There was no answer.
“You drawing a circle?”
The boy’s finger stopped on the wall. Benicio watched as he carefully lifted his finger, touched the top of the circle then tapped the bottom of the circle. Then he touched the left side of the circle, and moved his finger across to the right side.
It was the sign of the Cross.
Matthew resumed tracing the circle.
“What was that?” Benicio asked, his voice shaking. “Did you just draw the Cross?”
The boy didn’t respond.
“Matthew?” Benicio urged. “Can you draw that again?”
Nothing.
Benicio tried to slow his breathing and heart rate. “Matthew, what can you tell me about God’s secret? About the forsaken ones?”
Matthew’s finger stopped.
Benicio held his breath.
The boy turned slowly to face the kneeling man. Their eyes were level. “The fathers have returned from exile. The forsaken must tell the story.”
Benicio held very still. “Who are the fathers? Who are the forsaken?”
Matthew turned to the wall and began tracing the circle.
“No,” Benicio whispered. “Talk to me. I’m here to help you. I’m here to help the story be told.”
Matthew continued to trace the circle.
“Please,” Benicio urged.
Nothing.
Benicio sighed. “Okay, buddy. I’ll be back. You hang in there.” He put his hand gently on Matthew’s back as he stood.
And Matthew screamed.
Benicio pulled his hand away. He had touched the boy for less than a second.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
The boy shrieked.
Maury could hardly make out the conversation. He twisted the volume dial right to the top.
Suddenly there was a high-pitched scream from inside the house. He knocked the earpiece from his ear and bit his lip to keep from yelling.
He didn’t need the dish to hear the father asking what happened.
Maury scrambled up and began running. As he passed the front of the house he heard pounding footsteps from inside. He ran to the car.
Benicio’s stomach leapt into his throat. He knew autistic children sometimes had strong reactions to physical touch, but Matthew had taken him completely by surprise.
“What the hell?” John Younger yelled from the boy’s doorway. “Get out of here.”
“My apologies,” Benicio started. “I just was saying goodbye and touched his back.”
“He don’t like to be touched,” Younger announced. “Just get out of here. Just let him alone.” Younger hurried him down the stairs; Father McCallum and Carol waited at the bottom.
“Dr. Valori?” Father McCallum asked.
Benicio shook his head at the old priest, then addressed John Younger. “Thank you for your time. We’ll get the paperwork together and return shortly. I think there’ll be sizable compensation for you.”
They reached the front door and Father McCallum opened it, then stepped onto the porch, Benicio right behind him. “Thanks. And once again, I’m sorry if I’ve upset Matthew.”
“Does that all the time,” Carol announced flatly. She closed the door without another word. The two men stared at the door for a moment. Finally Benicio spoke. “Dio li aiuta,” he said. “Dio li aiuta.” God help them.
XXVII
“I think you’re right about the boy,” Benicio said. He and Father McCallum were in the rental car, which was still parked outside Matthew Younger’s house.
Father McCallum’s pulse quickened. “Really?”
“There’s something different about Matthew. He traced the sign of the Cross on the wall. He said, ‘The fathers have returned from exile. The forsaken must tell the story.’”
“What does that mean?”
Benicio put his hands on the steering wheel. “Let’s get out of here and go somewhere we can talk.”
Father McCallum agreed.
Benicio started the car and pulled away from the curb, then drove them to the highway and headed toward New Haven. Neither man spoke until Father McCallum pointed out a billboard advertising the International House of Pancakes.
“That’ll do,” Benicio agreed. He took the next exit, found the restaurant, and parked. They went in and sat at a booth.
A friendly waitress in a tight brown apron appeared next to them with a pot of coffee. “You boys need some joe?” she asked.
McCallum nodded. “Thank you.”
Benicio pushed his mug toward her.
She poured the coffee, said, “I’ll give you boys a couple of minutes,” and was gone.
; Father McCallum finally asked, “Why was Matthew screaming?”
Benicio sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know. I had pretty much decided I wasn’t going to get anything else out of him and was leaving. Without even thinking, I put a hand on his back as I said goodbye. That was it. He started screaming as soon as I touched him, and he wouldn’t stop.”
“You just rested your hand on his back?”
“Yep. I didn’t startle him or anything. Just gently placed it there and he started up.”
McCallum looked concerned.
“It isn’t an uncommon reaction for autism,” Benicio explained. “Frequently, people with autism are extremely sensitive about physical touch. They just can’t bear it.”
“And so they scream like that? The kid sounded possessed.”
“I know. It freaked me out, too. I hardly ever worked with kids when I did my doctorate, so I’d never seen anything like that before. I can’t even say if that’s a typical autistic reaction.”
“But the boy talked to you before he started screaming?”
“Si. He said the fathers have returned from exile and the forsaken must tell the story.”
“And the forsaken are probably the Nephilim?”
“Well, that’s one interpretation,” Benicio agreed. “ Nephilim literally means the ones forsaken by God.”
“What will you do now?”
Benicio was solemn. “I need to report back. I’ll give my impressions to the church and see what they want me to do. I’ll have to tell them about the Voynich being stolen. I don’t know what impact that will have. I was thinking I’d take the boy to the Beinecke to read it, but I can’t do that now.”
“There’s other copies of the book.”
Benicio frowned. “You have a copy?”
“No, no, no,” McCallum said. “I mean that the entire manuscript has been scanned, and there are copies of all the research that’s been done over the years.”
“That’s great!” Benicio exclaimed. “Where can we get them?”
“Anywhere. Every single page of the Voynich is on the Internet.” But suddenly he frowned.
“What is it?” Benicio asked. “I’m not sure the copies are any good. I asked the cardinal why I had to watch the Voynich manuscript when all the pages were available online, and he said only the original can be read. The copies are useless.”
“What? Why?”
“He just said that eyes will look directly on the manuscript and read. I never asked for more of an explanation.”
“I know there is a legend or myth about the Nephilim that they can only read the language written by the hand of another Nephilim. Obviously, a copy isn’t written directly by a descendent.”
“Perhaps that is it,” Father McCallum said.
The waitress slid up next to their table. “Orders, guys?”
They both scooped up plastic menus. Benicio ordered an egg and ham crepe wrap and McCallum ordered pancakes. She thanked them, topped up their coffee, and spun away.
“Have you ever investigated anything like this before?” Father McCallum asked.
Benicio shook his head. “Nope. This one is completely out there.”
“Could this boy really be Nephilim?”
“I don’t even want to speculate. Not yet.”
“Maybe he can read the manuscript because he’s autistic.”
“I don’t really see how — it doesn’t make sense that a child would not develop speech but then be able to talk specifically about the Voynich.”
“Because if he can’t talk, he can’t talk,” Father McCallum said.
“Right. Even in the cases of savants I don’t think this fits.”
“That’s when the child has a real talent for something.”
“Si, like when an autistic child has incredible math skills or can play the piano like a virtuoso.”
Both men were silent for a moment. Then the old priest asked, “Do you miss it?”
“Miss what?”
“Clinical psychology. You did your doctorate and then entered the church, where you haven’t exactly practiced as a psychologist.”
“Well,” Benicio said slowly, “That’s true, but I use my training every day. I investigate issues around the world. When I meet new people I have to establish rapport quickly and efficiently. I often have to help people through a crisis just to ask them what’s wrong. I use a lot of psychology without actually hanging up a shingle that says I’m a psychologist.”
“I can see that. I never meant to imply you don’t use your training. I was just curious whether you ever regret the path you took. You must have given up a lot to serve the faith.”
“You get a lot back though,” Benicio said. “You probably know that more than I. How do you manage being so isolated out here? You aren’t working in a church at all.”
Father McCallum’s face lit up. “I couldn’t be happier. I love the library and I love my job there. And I know I’m serving a higher purpose. I know there is a great secret hidden in the pages of that book, and we’re finally so close to it. I can’t believe my good fortune. This has been a mystery for hundreds of years and I may be here when it’s finally solved. I couldn’t be happier.”
The food arrived and they began to eat. Benicio knew Father McCallum wanted to talk about the Voynich, to speculate about the mysteries it held and the Vatican’s role, but he was too tired to listen. The effort of the last few days was rapidly catching up with him. He also found himself thinking about grad school. It had been a great experience: the work, the classmates, and the practical experiences.
When he’d joined the church he’d left behind more than a career. His calling also meant leaving his girlfriend. Seeing Father McCallum growing old chasing the Vatican’s mystery gave Benicio a glimpse of his own future: he would grow old alone. He would have no one.
He missed Jenna.
“What are you thinking about?” Father McCallum asked.
“Nothing,” Benicio said, shaking his head. “Just wondering what’s going to happen next.”
XXVIII
As they walked to the car, Benicio said, “I’m exhausted. I think I’ll grab a cab and head to the hotel. The Vatican put me in the Holiday Inn Express. I need to get some sleep. It’s been a real whirlwind recently.”
“Listen,” Father McCallum said. “Why don’t you drop me off at my place and then keep the car. You’ll need it more than I will. That way I know you’ll stay in touch with me.”
Benicio smiled. “No, you don’t have to do that.”
“Really, I insist.”
Benicio nodded. “Okay.”
They headed for the older priest’s house. When they arrived, Father McCallum said, “Would you try and keep me in the loop?”
Benicio frowned. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Once you report and they find out the Voynich is gone, my usefulness might be at an end. I’ll be disappointed if I can’t follow this thing through. I’d like to help.”
Benicio knew Father McCallum was right: if the cdf saw no further use for the old man he’d be reassigned and forgotten. “If there’s any way I can swing it, I’ll make sure you stay involved. I won’t leave without saying goodbye.”
Father McCallum smiled broadly. “I was right about you. You’re a hard man to dislike.” He got out of the car and walked toward his house.
Benicio watched him walk around the house to the back before he put the car in gear and headed to his hotel.
Father McCallum hung his coat on a hook at the back door and walked through the kitchen. He went upstairs without calling a greeting to Evelyn and Fred. Then he remembered it was late Friday morning — they’d be out grocery shopping until after lunch.
He felt tired and sad. No, not sad — dejected. His energy completely drained.
He knew why. Father Valori would call the Vatican and report on the child. The church isn’t going to need me any longer. My job was to watch over the manuscript, and now it’s gon
e. I’m no good to them any more.
He tried to wash those thoughts from his mind. It was the exhaustion talking. He should just take a nap.
Ronald McCallum walked into his bedroom. He kicked his shoes off, sat heavily on the edge of the bed, and then dropped over sideways. He had to talk to someone.
The Most Reverend Thomas O’Regan, in the archdiocese of New Jersey.
The old priest thought of his dear friend, a respected figure in the Roman Catholic church. I’ll just call him up for a chat.
He sat, reached for the telephone, and dialed the number, thinking about what he would say. Thomas knew he worked at the Beinecke Library, but Father McCallum had been careful not to divulge the exact nature of his work. The cdf had insisted on secrecy even with other church members. It seemed too clandestine to Father McCallum, but a part of him enjoyed the top-secret feel of it.
“Office of the Archbishop.”
“Yes, could I speak with the archbishop please?”
“Who can I say is calling?”
“Ronald McCallum — an old friend.” This was true in every respect. Ronald and Thomas had attended seminary together years before and remained friends ever since.
“One moment.”
There was a pause and a clicking sound, then Thomas said, “Ronnie?”
It was good to hear his voice. “Hey Thomas. How are things?”
“Wonderful. Wonderful. What about you? Still guarding the books?”
He hesitated. “Yes. Still here.”
“Everything okay?”
Father McCallum heard concern in Thomas’ voice. Again he hesitated, then said, “Sure. I guess. Just reaching another milestone and feeling my age, I suppose.”
“What’s the milestone?”
“Well, I think that my job here at the library might be getting close to an end.”
“Why? What happened?”
The old priest weighed his words carefully. “I’m not sure. I really feel like I need to talk to someone. My world is getting turned upside down and I’ve never felt so disoriented, so disconnected.”