In Tongues of the Dead

by Brad Kelln

  Maury pretended to cough to cover his mouth. He didn’t want the parents to see him grinning. Idiots.

  “John? Do you think we need to check with the foster service?”

  John Younger didn’t even look at his wife. “How soon do we get the, ah, the money?”

  “When Matthew registers at the program the check goes out automatically.”

  “John!” Carol said more loudly.

  “Not right now,” the husband said.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Goddamn,” John grumbled. “Carol, get the damn door. We’ve never been so damn popular.” He smiled crookedly at Maury and Jeremy.

  The brothers braced themselves. Jeremy leaned back in his chair, hopeful that he could see the front doorway. He couldn’t.

  Carol opened the door. “Oh, Doctor. I didn’t know you were coming, too. The other men are just —”

  Benicio Valori’s face was a mask of urgency. He put a finger to his lips, then whispered, “Say nothing. The men in your home are not with me. They are not associated with Yale University or the hospital.”

  “What?” she whispered, the color rapidly draining from her face.

  “Who is it?” John called from the living room.

  “Tell him it’s the paperboy and you’ll be right back,” Benicio whispered.

  “It’s — it’s just the paperboy. I’ll be right back,” she called to her husband.

  “Listen,” Benicio whispered, “We need to take Matthew out of here. Those men are not who they say they are. I imagine they are trying to convince you to hand him over.”

  “They said they’re taking him to your treatment program. They said they’re going to pay us. It’s just what you were talking about this morning.”

  He nodded. “I know. They say what they need to. Where’s Matthew? Is he upstairs?”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “If they’re not working for you, what’s going on?”

  “Those men think Matthew knows things. Valuable things. They might be planning to hurt him.”

  “Matthew doesn’t know things. He’s retarded.”

  “I’m sorry — there isn’t time to explain. Can you help me? Can you go back and keep talking to them while I try and get Matthew out?”

  “I don’t know. I —”

  “Hey Father. Whatcha doing here?” Jeremy was standing in the hallway.

  Carol looked at Benicio. “Father? This is your son?”

  Benicio kept his eyes on Jeremy. “Hello. I can’t seem to remember your name, so you have a bit of an advantage.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Guess so.”

  “Honey?” Carol called, her voice cracking. “Honey?” She turned and walked toward the living room.

  “I think you’ve really fucked things up for the church, Father,” Jeremy said, then turned and followed Carol.

  “What’s going on?” John asked as Benicio stepped into the room behind Jeremy. “What are you doing here?”

  Maury jumped to his feet, his eyes fixed on Benicio.

  Carol was crying. “Get them out,” she begged her husband. “Get them all out.”

  “What the hell is going on?” John demanded.

  Jeremy pointed to Benicio. “He’s just here to make sure things go okay. There’s no problem.”

  “Bullshit. Someone better start talking.”

  “I can explain,” Maury said, then stopped. “No, actually, I can’t.”

  “I want all of you out of my house,” John ordered. “Now!”

  “Just hold on,” Jeremy said. “We can figure this out. There’s no problem here.”

  Maury slipped the syringe out of his pocket. “We can figure this out,” he echoed.

  Benicio saw the syringe. “Look out! He has a weapon!” he yelled, and lunged at Maury, knocking him over. Benicio grabbed the hand holding the needle and slammed it to the floor as Maury fell.

  Jeremy pulled a gun from his jacket. “Get the hell off him.”

  Benicio didn’t see the gun; he continued to struggle with Maury. The men rolled against the coffee table and knocked it over.

  Jeremy kept the gun pointed at Benicio. “Stop it!” he screamed.

  No one noticed John slip out of the room. No one noticed until Jeremy felt something cold and hard against his temple. “Stop this fuckin’ bullshit right now,” John snarled.

  Maury and Benicio stopped rolling long enough to notice Jeremy and John.

  “Drop your fuckin’ gun,” John said.

  Jeremy complied.

  “And you two shits stand up.”

  Maury and Benicio stood.

  John shoved Jeremy toward them and pointed his twenty-two caliber in their direction.

  Benicio raised his hands.

  “This is ridiculous,” Maury said. “Put your little gun away.”

  John slowly moved his gun from one brother to the next. Carol stood at the back of the room, watching. She looked shocked.

  “Carol,” John said, “call the police and tell them to get over here.”

  “You don’t want to do that,” Jeremy pleaded. “The money is real. You’d be giving up ten grand.”

  Benicio saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Matthew was standing silently at the front door.

  “We don’t want the police here,” Maury said. “Let’s just finish talking.”

  “I’m done talking to you shitbags.”

  Carol came into the room holding a cordless phone. “You want me to call the police, John?” Her fingers hovered over the buttons.

  “Don’t do that, Carol,” Maury pleaded.

  “What the hell did I tell you to do, Carol?” John shouted and turned to look at his wife.

  Maury jumped toward John, who swung the gun out of the way. There was a loud crack, then Maury fell. Jeremy flew at John, punched him in the mouth, and as he staggered, snatched the gun from him.

  Carol screamed and started dialing. Jeremy spun and hit her in the face with the gun. She fell backwards in an explosion of blood.

  Benicio didn’t wait to see what else was going to happen. He turned and ran to the front door, scooped Matthew up, and bolted out of the house.

  The boy kicked and struggled but Benicio held on to him and kept running until he got to the rental car, then climbed in, still holding the boy. He started the car and sped away.

  As he drove he realized that there was a sickening smell on his clothes. An odor that must have rubbed off on him during his fight with Maury. Somehow, Benicio thought, it smells like death.

  XXXIII

  Azazel and Shemhazai watched two men run from the Younger house and get into a car. The men pulled away from the curb and raced down the street.

  Azazel frowned. “Things have grown more complicated.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They walked up the path to the Younger residence. The door was open. They went inside.

  Azazel covered his nose. “This place reeks of death.”

  Shemhazai nodded. “Someone is definitely unclean.”

  Azazel pointed to the floor. “Blood?”

  “Someone is wounded, certainly.”

  They moved into the living room. John and Carol Younger lay on the floor. Azazel crouched near John. “This one is still alive. Possibly drugged.”

  Shemhazai was beside Carol. Her eyes were wide open, her face a mess of blood and skin. “She is not.”

  “Curious,” Azazel said and stood. “Shall we search for the boy?”

  Shemhazai also stood. “He is not here.”

  “But those men didn’t have the child.”

  “That’s true,” Shemhazai said slowly.

  “Do you think the priests have the boy? The ones we saw earlier?”

  Shemhazai nodded.

  “Given the lack of co-operation between the priests and these other men, I would have to assume that only one of the groups is working at cross-purposes to our own efforts.”

  “Possibly. What are you suggesting?” Shemhazai asked.


  “It would seem that we should attempt to establish an alliance with the men who are unclean. They might lead us to the priests and the boy.”

  “Very well, let’s find them. If they agree to help us find the child, fine. Otherwise, they are an impediment to our mission.”

  Azazel said, “And I shouldn’t like to have additional impediments. Not when we are so close to bringing this matter to a close.”

  XXXIV

  Matthew sat motionless in the passenger seat.

  Benicio had been driving for more than an hour, wanting to put distance between himself and the Vatican goons. Now he felt like he was driving aimlessly. They’d circled Meriden a number of times, staying on side streets and back roads. Benicio felt sorely inexperienced at getaways.

  He’d realized quite soon that Matthew would sit by himself. Benicio had helped the boy into the passenger seat. Since then, Matthew had sat, motionless. Not glancing out the window. Not humming to himself. Nothing.

  Benicio felt sorry for the boy. He seemed trapped in a body he was unable to control. The priest imagined a vibrant young child deep inside wanting to get out. Autism was cruel.

  Benicio also felt sorry for the foster parents. They were hardly the most caring, concerned people he’d ever met, but he still felt sorry for them.

  He was thankful the boy wasn’t screaming. His vague knowledge of autism from grad school had taught him that screaming fits weren’t uncommon. Being grabbed and carried to the car should have set him off. It hadn’t. Benicio thanked God for that.

  He wondered what had happened in the house after they left, then he willed the thought from his mind and kept driving.

  A few miles later he saw a sign for Interstate 91. Going north would take them to the Connecticut border. He took the ramp.

  “Might be best to get out of the state for a bit,” he said.

  Matthew didn’t respond.

  Benicio figured that the Younger residence was swarming with police. Until he figured out what was happening and what danger the boy was in he didn’t dare go back to the house. He would call from the road — preferably far down the road — just to let the family know Matthew was safe.

  He felt a flood of panic at the thought of Father McCallum. Was he dead? Were there people hurt or dying at the Younger house? And here he was on the run with Matthew. Was he kidnapping the child? God, he prayed, I hope I’m making the right decision. Please help me know what You want me to do.

  He drove north through Connecticut toward the Massachusetts border, checking his rearview mirror for the flash of pursuing police. So far, they seemed to be safe. He wondered if he should have gone straight to the nearest police station when he left with Matthew. But how would he have explained his involvement? Could he say, “Hello, I work for the Vatican and we think this boy is half angel, so I took him away from his parents”? And that wasn’t the only problem. Benicio knew that even in police custody Matthew would not be safe from the Vatican. He knew he’d eventually have to go to the police but not yet. He needed time.

  He looked at the boy. “I wish you could understand what I’m saying. I wish you knew I only want to help you.”

  The boy didn’t answer.

  Benicio sighed. “It’s going to be okay. I promise you that.” He reached over and patted the boy’s knee gently.

  And Matthew screamed.

  He didn’t shift. He didn’t move. He just opened his mouth and screamed.

  Benicio jerked in alarm. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I forgot.”

  Matthew closed his mouth. He didn’t acknowledge Benicio.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I won’t do that again. I just wanted to tell you I’m trying to help you. That’s all.” He wasn’t sure the boy understood.

  He focused on the road.

  Benicio drove through Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire and was speeding through Maine when he spotted a gas station with an old-fashioned pay phone at the edge of the parking lot. He pulled the car up to the phone and stopped.

  Matthew didn’t react.

  Benicio wanted to watch the boy while he was on the phone. He turned the engine off, removed the key, opened his door, and climbed out, then went to the phone. He checked his watch. Midafternoon here; early evening, Vatican time. He pushed in his calling card and dialed.

  It took a moment, then he heard the familiar ring. He watched Matthew, who remained motionless in the car.

  Finally, someone answered. “Allô?”

  “Father Lumière?” Benicio asked.

  “Oui.” The word was an urgent whisper. “Is it Father Valori?”

  “Jacques,” Benicio spoke quickly, “I think I’m in trouble.”

  “Something is stirred. Something very big.”

  “What’s going on? What have you heard?”

  “Were you contacted by the cdf?”

  “Yes.”

  “By Cardinal Espinosa?”

  “Yes. What’s going on?”

  Father Lumière knew secrets. He was a head chef and had the run of Vatican City. Everyone knew him, so conversations rarely stopped when he entered a room to deliver meals. Benicio considered him a close friend.

  “There is fury. I know little more. Espinosa is, how you say, on the warpath. He has spoken to Cardinal March about someone. He means to have the someone excommunicated. Is it you?”

  “Me?” Benicio asked in surprise. Would the cardinal know of his actions so quickly?

  “What have you done?” Jacques asked.

  “Have you ever heard of the Voynich manuscript? Has anyone been talking about it?”

  “Oui.” A tentative answer.

  “What’s the matter? You have heard of it?”

  “Is that what this is about?” Jacques’ voice betrayed alarm. “Why do you ask of this book?”

  Benicio looked at Matthew and decided the boy didn’t need to be kept secret. “I’ve found someone who can read it.”

  “Merde! Benicio! Do you have the manuscript?”

  “No, I —”

  “You are in great danger,” Jacques warned. “Do not interfere.”

  “Why? What’s the book about?”

  “God’s sin. His great mistake. The Grigori. The cdf would do anything —” He stopped speaking.

  “What?” Benicio asked. “They’d do anything to what?” Benicio knew the Grigori were the fallen angels God had originally sent to Earth to help man, and that they had eventually lusted after women and had children. The children were the Nephilim.

  The connection clicked with static. Father Lumière was gone.

  “Hello? Hello?” Benicio said.

  “My son,” came another voice, a familiar voice with an Italian accent. “What do you hope to accomplish?” For a brief moment, Benicio allowed the shock and fear to run through him. Then he forced it back down again.

  “Cardinal Espinosa,” he said.

  “Stop. You don’t know what you are dealing with.”

  “Tell me then.”

  “Of course. Jeremy and Maury will come and meet you. You should all return to the Vatican with the boy.”

  “Why did you send them?” Benicio’s voice betrayed his distrust.

  “Certain jobs require certain people. This job required them.”

  “What was my job?”

  “You were to confirm the truth of the boy’s gift. Now, Benicio, come home.”

  “What is it that the boy will read?”

  “This is not a conversation for the phone,” Cardinal Espinosa said. He sounded irritated. “Give the boy to my men and return to the Vatican at once. That is an order.”

  “I can’t,” Benicio said quietly.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on, but I intend to find out.”

  “You are risking your life,” Espinosa spat. “You are risking your soul.”

  “Maybe.” He hung up.

  He stared at the car. The boy was sitting still. Benicio felt a pang of guilt and pi
cked the phone up, dialed information, and asked for John Younger in Meriden.

  The phone rang once. “Hello.”

  “Hi, is this John?”

  “Who is this?”

  Benicio wasn’t sure he had the right number. “Is this John Younger?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “I was at your house earlier when all the commotion happened. How are things now?”

  “Do you have the boy?”

  The boy? That’s an odd way for a father — even a foster parent — to phrase the question.

  “Do you?” the man asked, more forcefully.

  “He’s fine,” Benicio answered. “I was concerned for his safety and —”

  “Where are you now?” the man demanded.

  Benicio wasn’t sensing any actual concern for the child. Something wasn’t right.

  “He’s safe,” Benicio repeated. “What happened there after I left?”

  “Just bring him back,” the man said impatiently. “Bring him back and we won’t charge you.”

  “Is everything okay there? You sound strange.”

  “Benicio,” the voice said calmly, “just bring that kid back here. You are in a world of trouble already. Cardinal Espinosa doesn’t appreciate your little stunt.”

  It wasn’t John Younger, but it didn’t sound like Jeremy or Maury either.

  “Who is this? Where are Matthew’s parents?”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Bring us the kid. We’ll be waiting at the house.”

  The phone went dead.

  The Vatican had sent more people to clean up the situation. That was bad news. This thing was getting bigger by the second. Bigger and deadlier. Maury and Jeremy were probably pursuing him right now — assuming they hadn’t been shot by John Younger.

  He looked around the service station, wanting inspiration. He needed a plan. He needed to get away from Jeremy and Maury long enough to figure out what was going on. He needed help.

  Then he had an idea. It would mean driving right through the night, but if Matthew slept that would be fine.

  He slid into the car and looked at Matthew. “Have you ever been to Canada?”

  XXXV

  Jake stepped into the old-style Irish pub and inhaled happily. It smelled of beer and food.