In Tongues of the Dead (12 page)

“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.

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.

“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.”