In Tongues of the Dead Page 3

  And someone was doing it again.

  The Holy Church had sent Benicio to Cambodia to investigate the selling of religious relics to people who could barely afford to eat. Desperate parents were told the relics would ensure their children would get out of the slums. These days the church frowned on such fraud, but Benicio suspected the relics were being sold by missionaries from the Vatican. Such scams were sacrilege. Given his academic background and previous research on mythology, he was a natural choice for such investigations. He’d recently investigated a suspected case of demonic possession in a rural community in Brazil. An enthusiastic local priest wanted to begin an exorcism immediately but Benicio had quietly gotten the young girl admitted to a psychiatric facility. The church regarded Benicio as a discreet and loyal envoy, so here he was in a Cambodia slum.

  He had heard the missionary group would be in Prasat today. He wanted to catch them in the act of peddling the relics.

  He watched a young girl move barefoot across the dirt floor of the hut with a broad smile on her lips. He understood why a parent would do anything to make sure a child would survive. It sickened him that his church might be involved in a scam to play on that parental concern.

  As he watched her, he heard shouts and cries from the street. Benicio was immediately alarmed. Although his grasp of Khmer was limited, he thought that the commotion was more one of urgency than of danger.

  The voices stopped outside his hut, and he heard frantic pounding on the wooden door, then more shouting, before an older daughter turned to look at Benicio.

  As he stood, undecided, the girl walked toward him, followed by three local men.

  Benicio waited.

  When they reached the back room, one of the men pushed forward and gave the priest a gap-toothed smile. He thrust a hand out, and in the hand was a satellite phone.

  “You Walt-tory?” the man asked, breathing hard. He’d obviously run some distance.

  Benicio regarded him carefully. “Yes.”

  The two other men, also breathing hard, smiled in an exaggerated, toothy fashion.

  The first man spoke again. “Phone.”

  Benicio took it. “Hello?”

  “Father Valori?” The voice crackled with authority and the crisp accent of Rome.

  Benicio instantly recognized the voice. “Cardinal?”

  “You must go to the United States immediately. It is all arranged. The men there will take you to the airport and I will contact you on the plane.”

  “Should I retrieve my belongings from the hotel in Phnom Penh?”

  “Everything is arranged. Go immediately to the airport.”

  Benicio said the only thing he could think to say. “Si, Cardinal.”

  VII

  The magnificent, century-old St. John the Baptist Church in the heart of New Haven was known for its beautiful architecture, soaring altar, and an unmatched collection of stained glass in the main sanctuary. The church also boasted a massive organ with more than seventeen hundred individual pipes. Visitors often drifted around the facility, taking pictures and speaking in whispers.

  This Thursday afternoon’s visitors were anything but usual.

  Shemhazai walked purposefully through the front doors into the main chapel. He didn’t pause to take in the beauty of the sanctuary but strode towards the nave. He’d been in the church before. Even on the first occasion he hadn’t taken any notice of the scale of the building. It wasn’t important.

  He stopped at one of the huge oak pews, at least fifty feet long. A man with a beard sat about twenty feet along the pew. The church was empty save for a few tourists who kept close to the outer walls, examining the stained glass.

  Shemhazai wore his library security guard uniform. He slid silently down the pew until he was next to the heavy-set bearded man who sat, head bowed, hands folded in his lap. He wore a dark green raincoat and a large black fedora. Shemhazai could hear the man praying quietly.

  “It is my only intention to provide service to You and bring about closure to the earthly transgressions. Provide us guidance as the days to absolution draw close. Your servant, Azazel.”

  Shemhazai waited until Azazel turned and made eye contact. “Do you really think God listens to our prayers?” Shemhazai asked.

  “Would we really be doing what we’re doing if we thought God wasn’t listening?” Azazel asked.

  Shemhazai nodded.

  “Do you have news?” Azazel asked.

  Shemhazai laughed sharply. “Seventy generations spent in purgatory waiting for this moment and you are impatient. If nothing else, I would have thought so many years would have taught you patience.”

  “Those years taught me only impatience,” Azazel said flatly.

  “Okay, I’ll get to the point. I wanted to meet you because I found the last one.”

  “The boy? He is here?”

  “Yes. He came to the library. He read the book.”

  Azazel shook his head in disbelief. “It’s fitting that the search ends here. Once the boy is gone, all that’s left is the book. The final betrayal. We can destroy both.”

  “There is a complication,” Shemhazai announced.

  Azazel looked at the altar. “The undercover priest.” He sighed.

  “Yes. He suspects the boy can read the book.”

  “How do you know that?” Azazel asked.

  “I was watching on the security feed. The boy couldn’t have read more than a word or two, but he certainly upset the old priest.”

  “We should act now,” Azazel said and nodded.

  “I’m not convinced,” Shemhazai argued quietly. “The church is involved. We cannot avoid this fact. If we act with haste we might draw unwanted attention.”

  Azazel laughed, and a few tourists glanced in their direction. “What do we care about drawing attention? We are talking about our very existence.”

  “Even still,” Shemhazai continued. “I would like to control all of the elements. I think we should acquire the book and then take care of the boy after we are convinced of the intentions of the church.”

  “The intentions of the church are to expose us!” Azazel spat the words.

  “The church cannot be our enemy!” Shemhazai retorted. “Let us not forget that the war is only amongst ourselves. All others are innocent — including the bodies we now inhabit.”

  Azazel grimaced. “Look at this body.” He held his arms out, exposing a bulbous gut. “This glutton was hardly innocent when I took him. If not for me he would be a dead glutton — his heart exploded in his chest.”

  “Even so,” Shemhazai said. He didn’t want to be reminded of the young body he had taken. The man, Larry Zarinski, was hurt badly in a car accident. By taking the body Shemhazai had helped it heal, but it pained him to think he had replaced a young man’s soul with his own. “We should proceed with caution.”

  “Just get the book,” Azazel said. He stood and began shuffling toward the aisle. “Get the book,” he said over his shoulder.

  Shemhazai nodded.

  VIII

  Sacred Heart Elementary was located about half an hour away in the small town of Meriden. After he found the school on a map and made a rough calculation of the distance, Father McCallum decided to rent a car. A cab would cost too much, and if he tried the trip by bus, he might get stranded somewhere.

  He took Highway 91 north to Meriden and followed the first exit into town — and was immediately lost. He hated driving. He’d stopped to ask directions three times in half an hour. Finally, he found Elm Street and drove past the school. Just looking at the building made him feel intensely guilty, and he decided to park half a block away. He went around the block, then pulled against the curb under the shade of a massive red maple. The street was a swirling maze of colors from the autumn leaves, which helped him feel anonymous.

  He looked around before he got out of the car, then felt foolish. Who would be watching me? I’m the spy. He took a deep breath and checked his watch: nearing two in the afternoon.
I don’t even know what time children get out of school, he thought, then told himself that even if he missed the kids he could talk to the teachers. They probably stayed longer.

  He approached the school and was relieved to see the parking lot still three-quarters full and no signs of any children yet. He headed to the front doors.

  It was a beautiful building, new and modern. The sprawling, single-storey facility was bright blue with red trim and lots of windows. The school was in stark contrast to the neighborhood. He saw unkempt yards and paint peeling off the houses, cracked sidewalks and overgrown weeds. He turned to the school again, and he had to look carefully to see the web of steel bars protecting the school’s windows. He raised an eyebrow. I guess this isn’t the best area of town.

  He pushed through the double doors, stepped inside, and felt his legs go weak. His plan had included finding the school — and there it stopped. He hadn’t thought about what he might say to Matthew’s teacher or the aide he’d met at the library. He stood frozen in the middle of the hall.

  “Excuse me.” A voice broke through his panic. “Can I help you?”

  He turned and saw a bespectacled middle-aged woman carrying a large stack of papers. Behind her was a doorway marked Office. She smiled warmly.

  Father McCallum brushed a bead of sweat off his forehead. “I’m from Yale University,” he began.

  The woman nodded, still smiling.

  “There was a tour at the Beinecke Library this morning.”

  “Yes, Ms. Walsh’s grade one class.”

  “Right,” the priest said, clapping his hands together. “There was a special little boy in the class — a young chap named Matthew —”

  The woman interrupted. “Hold on.” She was staring past him. “Sam! Could you come here a minute?” she called.

  McCallum looked over his shoulder and saw the aide coming down the hall. As she approached, her slightly confused expression gave way to one of recognition. “Oh, hello,” she said, extending a hand to the priest. “You’re one of the curators from Yale?”

  “Please excuse me,” the woman with glasses said. “I need to get these down to a class.” She nodded at her stack of papers and walked away.

  “Thanks, Deb,” Samantha said, then turned to Father McCallum. “What can I do for you? I hope the kids didn’t do any damage or anything.”

  “I’m sorry. No. Nothing like that,” he said quickly. “I’m … um, Mr. McCallum. I can’t quite remember what you said your name was.”

  “Samantha Neil.”

  “Ah yes. I’m sorry. I’m dreadful with names.”

  Samantha nodded, then waited. He realized she didn’t know why he was there.

  “Listen, I don’t want to keep you but I simply had to stop by the school,” he continued. “I was positively moved by meeting the young ones and especially touched by meeting little Matthew …” He paused, hoping Samantha would fill the silence.

  “You mean Matthew Younger. The autistic boy I work with?”

  “Yes, little Matthew Younger. What a courageous boy.”

  She nodded. “He’s a good kid. He’s got a lot to deal with.”

  “I can see how that would be true.” His face became more serious. “My main job at the library allows some time to help with community projects. I was so taken with young Matthew that I wondered whether there was a way myself or the library could help with his rehabilitation. He seemed so taken with many of the collections we house back at the library.”

  “I guess he did take kind of an interest, but it’s so hard to tell. Matthew’s really handicapped. My goal in working with him is to just minimize inappropriate behavior — to help him fit in a little better. He can be quite a handful to work with but his parents aren’t well off and can’t really afford any special treatment programs like a one-to-one intensive behavioral program. Even my work with him is through a practicum placement. I’m doing a masters in Ed Psych at unh.”

  “Well that’s just lovely. Good for you,” he said. “I don’t really know much about disorders like Matthew has. Autism, I mean. It must be quite rare.”

  “I don’t know the exact numbers but it’s relatively uncommon. I think it’s like four or five kids out of every ten thousand.”

  He nodded. “Well, if it isn’t too bold of me — could you tell me a bit about Matthew? I’m quite interested.” This was definitely not a fabrication. Father McCallum needed to learn everything he could about Matthew Younger.

  Sam hesitated then replied, “He has a fairly severe type of autism. There are different degrees, like some can talk and some can’t. Sometimes they can’t even do anything to take care of themselves. Matthew’s pretty bad — maybe somewhere in the middle or lower. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t like to be touched and is very likely mentally handicapped.”

  He nodded in what he hoped was an understanding manner and then asked, “And don’t these children sometimes have special talents such as math or music?”

  She smiled. “I think that’s more rare. Such children are called autistic savants, but Matthew hasn’t shown anything like that.”

  “Is the disorder genetic?”

  “Um, I’m not sure. I don’t think people know what causes autism.”

  “I wonder if I could speak with his parents,” Father McCallum said, trying to sound like he was just thinking out loud.

  “Foster parents, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep, I don’t know for sure what happened but his biological parents aren’t around anymore. He’s been in foster care for at least a year.”

  “Poor little guy.”

  Samantha nodded.

  “Well, if there’s anything I could do to help him …”

  “You know, it was kind of a surprise to see you talking to him,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, you were crouched down right next to him at that book display and normally that’s one of those things that would set him off and he’d have a screaming fit for an hour.”

  “Oh my. I had no idea. He showed no signs of being upset when I approached him. In fact, he didn’t even acknowledge me.”

  “That’s how he is. You can be shouting right in his ear and he doesn’t even flinch, but then if you touch him or say the wrong word — bam! He loses it.”

  “It must be so difficult for the foster parents. Have you met them?”

  “The Youngers?”

  Father McCallum noticed that her expression darkened.

  “Yeah, I’ve met them. I guess they have a lot to deal with. They don’t come around the school too often.”

  “Yes, I’d bet it is quite difficult for them.” He paused and then added, “Well, thank you for your time. You know how to find me if there is ever any way I could be of assistance.”

  “The Beinecke Library,” she said.

  “The Beinecke Library,” he repeated. “Speaking of which — I need to get back there.” He thanked her and left. As he pushed through the front doors, he exhaled deeply. Matthew Younger. At least I have the name. Now I need to find out where he lives.

  IX

  Father Ronald McCallum sat nervously in his rental car. He’d parked where he could see the children filing out of school and heading for the rows of waiting buses. At intervals, teachers helped herd the kids in what seemed to be a well-honed procedure.

  He no longer felt like a spy or a secret agent. He felt like a pedophile. He grimaced but continued his vigil.

  He was soon rewarded. Matthew Younger drifted out of the school with a group of children. He strained forward, wanting to take note of which bus the boy boarded. Matthew boarded the second bus from the end. He waited nervously until the buses began to pull away from the curb, then started the car and put it in gear, his eyes glued to the back of Matthew’s bus. All the buses looked the same. What if he lost track of which one was Matthew’s?

  Matthew’s bus exited the school lot and turned right, rumbling down Elm Street. Only two other buses
followed, the rest all turned left.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and eased his foot down on the accelerator.

  After a few more blocks the other two buses veered off onto different streets, and Father McCallum found himself directly behind Matthew’s. He watched the kids through the back window of the bus. One of the children stared at him and made a face. He hit the brake, then heard a screech of tires behind him. He stepped on the gas again.

  When the bus turned onto Alliance Avenue and began making stops, Father McCallum panicked. Every time the bus stopped he would have to stop right behind it — but that wouldn’t be safe. The kids in the back would surely say something about the old guy who was following them. He tried to slip his jacket off without veering all over the road. He decided he’d turn onto a side street and try to catch up to the bus using a different route. He put the turn signal on, then saw Matthew Younger step off the bus and onto the sidewalk.

  He sucked in a breath. A tall, slender woman was waiting for the boy. There were no hugs or smiles. Matthew simply followed the woman when she turned and walked down a side road. The priest pulled up to the curb, and someone honked. His erratic driving hadn’t exactly gone unnoticed.

  He looked down the side road and saw the boy following the woman — his mother, the priest guessed. Foster mother, he corrected, remembering what Samantha had told him. He got out of the car and started following Matthew.

  It wasn’t long before the pair turned up a pathway and went through the front door of a weather-worn home. Father McCallum waited a few minutes then strolled past the house and noted the address: 55 Union Lane. It was a rough-looking single-storey house in desperate need of repairs. Obviously the Younger family didn’t have much in the way of money, but at least Father McCallum knew where the boy lived.

  “Thank you, God,” he whispered, and headed to his rental.