by Brad Kelln
Jake wanted to distract her, keep her thinking positive thoughts. “I think tonight would be a good night to buy a movie on one of the movie channels. What do you think about that?”
She looked up, her face alight. “Really? But it’s a school night.”
“I won’t tell Mom if you don’t.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“Get your pajamas on, I’ll grab some pop and chips and bring them down, and I’ll meet you in the family room.” Jake stood to leave.
Emily clicked the game off and snapped the screen shut, slid off the bed and bolted to the dresser. “Can I pick the movie?”
“You bet!” Jake said.
XLVII
Benicio and Matthew stood at the corner of Lower Water and Sackville streets. It had taken them fifteen minutes to walk from the parking garage. The boy silently followed Benicio, stopping when he stopped, walking when he walked.
Benicio could see large block letters on the roof of an old, dark-brick building, white paint on black shingles: brewery market. Jake’s office was in that building. He was tempted to take a trip down there right now and see if his friend was in. He knew it was unrealistic. Jake had a lot to deal with at home with his son being sick.
He looked at Matthew. Benicio wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t sure he should have taken the boy. He wasn’t sure he should have come to Canada, and he was very unsure about getting Jake involved.
But who else will help?And where else can I go?
He sighed. “There’s a hotel just up the street. Let’s go get checked in.”
They walked up Sackville Street to the hotel, then pushed through the revolving door into a modern lobby. A young man in a white dress shirt with a tight green vest and matching trousers stood at the registration desk. His name tag said Jimmy.
“I’d like a room for the night,” Benicio said.
“Certainly, sir. How many in your party?”
“Just me and the boy.” He wondered how that sounded. Did they look suspicious? He was pretty sure they did.
The desk clerk didn’t seem to notice. “Smoking or non?”
“Non.”
“We have a deluxe suite on the tenth floor.”
“Perfect,” Benicio said.
“Credit card?” the clerk asked and held out a hand.
Shoot. All Benicio had was what the church had provided. He knew there was a credit card in the wallet, but if he used it the Vatican would know where he was within moments. “Hold on a second,” he said, and pulled the wallet out. Still lots of American cash.
“You know, I’d much rather pay cash.”
Jimmy frowned. “Unfortunately,” he said slowly, “we do require an imprint of a valid credit card.”
“We just need a place to sleep for tonight. We have an appointment tomorrow morning. My son is sick.”
Jimmy nodded. “I appreciate that, sir, but it is our policy to only provide rooms to individuals with a valid credit card.”
“But a man in your position can make an exception.” Benicio laid a hundred dollar bill on the counter. “That’s why you’re working the desk alone.”
Jimmy looked at the bill for a moment before he responded. “I’m really sorry, sir. Without a valid —”
Benicio set another hundred on the counter. “Now, how much did you say the room was? I’ll pay cash right now.”
Jimmy’s hand moved, and the two hundred disappeared. “One seventy-five plus tax.”
The suite was beautiful, with two queen beds and dark oak furniture. Matthew stood just inside the door.
“You pick your bed,” Benicio said as he dropped the key card on the bureau next to the tv cabinet. “Come on in, Matthew. It’s okay. This is our room. We’re going to sleep here and then get going in the morning.”
Matthew didn’t respond.
“Are you hungry?”
No answer.
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Jake saw Matthew’s head move slightly. “The bathroom’s right there. Do you need to go?”
Matthew turned and started towards it.
“Hold on,” Benicio said. “Let me take your jacket off.”
The boy stopped and held his arms out. Benicio slid the jacket from his shoulders, then Matthew went into the bathroom and shut the door.
Jake looked at the closed door. Every once in a while he felt as if he could communicate with Matthew. He shrugged and hung the jacket in the closet, then sat on one of the beds.
The toilet flushed, and Matthew appeared. Silently he sat on the end of the other bed.
Benicio smiled. It looked like they were playing a game, boy copying adult. But Matthew wasn’t playing. Would he eventually lie down? Or drop in exhaustion, as he had in the car.
He didn’t lie down.
And then Benicio remembered something the boy had said. “Matthew?”
No response.
“Matthew, can you tell me more about the Nephilim?”
No response.
“Who told you about the Nephilim?”
Nothing.
Benicio frowned. An ancient book written in a language no one understood until an autistic child came along, a child who claimed he was a member of a long-gone, probably mythical race of beings. Without the Vatican’s obvious interest, Benicio would have dismissed the whole story as a psychotic fantasy. But there was no doubt that the Vatican, and more specifically Cardinal Espinosa, was interested. And his extreme measures meant he was scared.
“I really need to know what’s in that book,” Benicio said loudly.
Matthew didn’t even blink.
“Matthew, can you tell me what you read in that funny book? You know, the one you saw back at the big library?”
Nothing.
“It’s the book you said was written in the language of the forsaken. Can you remember that book? I need to know what the book is about.”
Nothing.
Benicio decided to forget about it for now. He was so tired. He hoped he could get some sleep.
A few hours, maybe less.
The Nephilim, he thought. Why would the boy say that?
Benicio had fallen asleep.
He couldn’t have slept more than a few hours since this whole mess had begun. It was starting to wear him down.
He slept and he dreamed.
Images swept around, swirling as though caught up in a tornado. Men from ancient times, men with unkempt beards. He saw shimmering angels, heard women screaming, saw the hand of God reaching out.
The scene shifted.
He saw a crowd of men standing before a stone temple carved into the side of a hill. One man confronted the crowd, his face a mask of anger. He was wrapped in a rough sheet and wore sandals on his blackened feet. It was a scene from ancient times. It was a scene from men’s earliest days in their newfound relationship with God.
Benicio could hear no words, but the man’s outrage was evident. The crowd cowered in shame. They were being scolded.
Down the road a group of women were huddled. Their piercing eyes shone through shawls that covered their heads and most of their faces. Many of them had babies swaddled in their arms. The women were crying — pleading — for something. Benicio could not hear their words.
And then everyone stopped. Everyone. Even the outraged man at the head of the temple.
Benicio shifted his gaze and found the source of the disruption. Someone new was coming. A man was walking across the pathway to the temple. Only it wasn’t a man — not a normal man.
He was clean-shaven with short hair. His robe was a pristine white without a hint of stain or dirt. He too wore sandals but his feet were not dirty. The man strode evenly, confidently to the group.
But there was something else.
The man’s skin glowed. It was something you might miss at a glance but as you watched it was striking. The man’s slight yellow-orange tint seemed to have a life of its own. It virtually pulsed as the man continued to walk.
And the man
was tall — at least a foot and a half taller than the largest man in the assembly before the temple. As he neared them the size difference became more obvious and the crowd began shuffling to clear a pathway.
Benicio glanced at the outraged man. He no longer seemed overcome with anger but was quickly sinking into fear. He had slowly moved closer to the temple doorway.
The new man continued forward. Then something else happened. There must have been a loud noise or something because everyone, including the new man, jumped as though startled. And before anyone could regain their composure an object came hurtling down from above and slammed into the ground at the feet of the new man.
The crowd suddenly drew back, climbing over one another to put distance between themselves and the fallen object.
The new man crouched down and put a hand on it.
The thing lying in the dirt was bright but virtually transparent. Benicio was sure he could see right through it to the rocks beneath.
The glowing man put two hands against it and rolled the thing over. It flopped awkwardly and spread out. Legs uncurled and extended from beneath it while a large wing flapped against the dirt, causing a swirl of dust.
An angel.
Benicio was looking at an angel spread out in the dirt.
An angel that had just been discarded from heaven like garbage.
The glowing man bent over and kissed it lightly on the head.
Then it grew dark. Clouds rolled through so quickly that it was as if the lights had been turned out. Benicio squinted. The angel and the man continued to provide some slight amount of illumination from the glow of their skin.
Black clouds rolled through the daytime sky, crashing against one another and diving down towards the ground as though they were alive.
Then a voice. Only this time Benicio could hear it.
Abomination no more.
Pandemonium. Everyone began running — the men in the crowd, the angry man at the front of the temple, and the group of women with their children clutched in their arms.
Everyone ran except for the glowing man and the angel.
The glowing man stood, dropped his arms to his sides, and lifted his face to the black sky.
As Benicio watched, the air around the man took life. It swirled around him, darting up and down his body. The man looked to be in severe agony, as though his life were being sucked away. He arched his back in spasm and jerked as the air continued to move.
But a face darted into Benicio’s line of sight. Without warning he was suddenly staring into the eyes of one of the women, a baby still clutched to her chest. She whispered to Benicio, “The children are the key to the secrets. They belong to everyone.”
Benicio wanted to answer her but couldn’t. He wanted to ask what was going on.
She spoke again. “Go now. Find Dr. Tunnel. Maury and Jeremy are not the real enemies. Seventy generations has come to an end. Beware the fathers.”
He blinked and opened his eyes. Seventy generations! He’d heard that phrase before. But where? He suddenly became aware that someone was watching him. Matthew stood next to the bed, his face only inches from the priest’s. Benicio let out a little yelp.
“What are you doing?” he barked before he could stop himself. He couldn’t yet tell if he was awake or asleep, but the furnishings of the room were starting to look familiar. He was in the hotel room.
Matthew didn’t react, didn’t say anything.
Benicio’s eyes searched the room. He felt an enormous sense of urgency. He looked out the window. It was morning. He’d slept through the night.
“Put your shoes on,” he said to Matthew, then got up and went to the door. He looked through the peephole, then opened the door slowly and glanced up and down the hall. No one.
He closed the door. “Let’s get ready,” he said. “We have to go meet someone. He’s really nice. I’m sure you’ll like him.”
XLVIII
Jake absentmindedly watched the school bus pull away. Normally he would see Emily on the bus and then rush back to his station wagon so he could stay in front of the bus. He hated driving behind it and having to wait at every stop it made. Today he couldn’t concentrate. The bus was turning the corner at the end of the street before he even started to the car.
He got in behind the wheel, his thoughts all over the map. He was worried about Wyatt. He was surprised and confused by Benicio’s call on Saturday. On the one hand it would be good to see Benicio, but he just didn’t have the strength to take on more problems. Not right now.
He knew his first patient was at eight-thirty. If he could just get through the morning and wrap up some business then he could be at the hospital all afternoon. He dropped into the driver’s seat and put the car in gear.
Mrs. Tanya Meeling. Quiet, older lady. Nice. Normal. Religious. A little plump and very grandmotherly, which was appropriate given her seven grandchildren.
She perched glumly on the couch. Tears streaked her face and drew some dark mascara down her cheeks. She was one of those older women who carefully did her makeup every morning, but it only gave her wrinkled face a strange, artificial quality. Jake sat patiently. Sometimes he let the silence sit in the room for a full ten minutes, waiting for Mrs. Meeling to compose herself.
They were on minute six.
She took a deep breath. “He’s such a bastard. Why does he need to do that? Doesn’t he know what he’s done to me?”
“I won’t make excuses for his behavior. He has an illness, but that isn’t an excuse,” Jake replied.
Her tears surged again. “But my life is over. It’s over. He’s wrecked everything.”
Jake opened his mouth to answer but before he could speak there was a loud bang from the waiting room. Then there were voices, then urgent whispering. He frowned.
“Just one second,” he said to Mrs. Meeling, and held up a finger. He moved to the door and opened it a crack. He saw magazines on the floor and a man picking them up. He saw that everything had been knocked off the bookshelf. Then he saw a small boy.
Jake cleared his throat, and the man stood. It was Benicio Valori.
“Hey,” Jake said warmly. “Ben.”
“Jake!” Benicio moved toward him, hand out. “I’m really sorry to just show up here. I need to talk to you.”
They shook hands. “I’m in a session right now.”
“We don’t mean to bother you. We’ll wait.”
Jake frowned, looked at the boy, then Benicio. “Okay. Twenty minutes.” He returned to the office, closed the door.
“Sorry about that, Mrs. Meeling. Where were we?”
The rest of Mrs. Meeling’s session slid past quickly. Jake forced himself to pay attention, but it was difficult.
When they finally reached their time Jake stood. “Things seem really out of control now, but you’ll get through this, Mrs. Meeling. You have your children and your grandchildren to think of. They need you. You need to do what’s right for yourself.”
She struggled to stand, wiggling herself to the edge of the couch. “I know,” she grunted, “but it’s just been so long. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“I’ll see you again next week,” Jake said. “Don’t worry about it until then. We’ll work it out together.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Dr. Tunnel. I don’t know what I would have done without you. You’re the only person I can talk to — the only person who could possibly understand what I’m going through.”
He nodded, then opened the inner office door, and she stepped out. As most patients do, she reflexively looked away from the other faces in the waiting room. There seemed to be an unwritten rule not to make eye contact with other patients in a psychologist’s waiting room. It would break the illusion that your visit was anonymous. She hurried to the hallway and was gone.
Jake looked at the boy and then to Benicio. “What’s going on? And who is this little fella?”
Benicio shook his head. “I don’t even know how to begin, buddy.”
>
XLIX
Matthew sat in the waiting room on a futon couch, apparently unaware of anything around him. Jake was in his leather chair; Benicio was on the client couch. They were watching Matthew.
“So, who is he?” Jake asked.
Benicio hesitated. “His name is Matthew. He’s autistic. I’m trying to help him.”
“Help him what?”
“It’s complicated,” Benicio said. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“On the phone you said you were in trouble with the church.”
“I think I am. They want the boy.”
“But you work for the church, don’t you? Last I heard, you were a priest.”
Benicio smiled. “I still am.” Pause. “I think.” He sighed, then told Jake everything. For twenty minutes both men forgot about the boy in the waiting room. When the priest stopped, there was a long silence.
“So why does the Vatican think Matthew can read the book?” Jake asked, scratching his head. He was watching Matthew again. He was pretty sure the boy hadn’t moved.
“I think it might have something to do with speaking in tongues. The church has been waiting for years, decades, for the right person to come along, someone who could read the book. Maybe this child is the right person. That’s what I’m supposed to be investigating.”
“And?” Jake prompted.
“He might be able to read it. Unfortunately, the Voynich manuscript was stolen before I got to New Haven, so I couldn’t test that theory. But there’s definitely something odd going on.”
“The book was stolen? From the Yale library?”
“Yep.”
“Wouldn’t that be pretty tough to do?”
“I think so,” said Benicio.
Jake waited for more explanation but saw he wouldn’t get any. “So, if the book’s gone, now what?”
“I don’t know. Apparently, there are copies of the whole book available online as well as other info on the Voynich. I haven’t had a chance to check.”
“Okay, but what about this kid? How could he read a book nobody else can?”