In Tongues of the Dead Read online

  X

  When they’d moved to Nova Scotia, Jake and Abby Tunnel had rented an apartment near the Halifax Shopping Centre. It was close to shopping and bus routes that took them right downtown. But there were a lot of people and the roads were busy with traffic, so when they were expecting their first child they bought a house. Now they lived in upscale Perry Lake Estates in Fall River, a suburb just north of Bedford and Lower Sackville. The house, a mixture of brick and dark red siding with white shutters on the windows, was a two-storey rectangular home with a gable roof. It was Abby’s dream house. The driveway was paved and the one-acre lot was carpeted with a beautiful lawn and plenty of trees. They’d been there for eight years.

  On Thursday evening, Jake sat in the finished basement watching tv. Wyatt played with Legos on the floor in front of him. Jake could hear Emily playing with her wooden Victorian dollhouse somewhere behind him. Abby was doing something upstairs — probably making supper.

  “Wanna play Lego with me?” Wyatt offered.

  “In a minute,” Jake responded without looking at his son. Sometimes it was hard to look at Wyatt without feeling a knot of panic in his gut. Wyatt’s headaches, dizzy spells, and occasional blurry vision terrified Jake. Every day when he got home he asked Abby how Wyatt was. He hated hearing that he’d had another spell.

  The spells had started a month and a half ago. Last week they had taken Wyatt to the Izaak Walton Killam Children’s Hospital, where doctors had performed a series of tests. Jake knew they would get the results sometime on Saturday but had avoided looking at the calendar to find the exact time of their appointment. Abby always wrote appointments on the calendar in the kitchen, but Jake felt sick when he saw the red-ink reminder.

  He felt worn and tired. He wished for an easy solution to his son’s headaches — Wyatt needed glasses or had an ear infection. The alternatives were too scary.

  Tumor.

  Cancer.

  No. He shook his head. He wouldn’t let himself think it. He glanced down at his son. Jake wondered if Wyatt was worried. The boy never let on if he was. Jake smiled.

  “Jake!” Abby shouted from upstairs.

  “Mom’s calling,” Emily announced without looking up from her dolls.

  Jake laughed. “Thanks, I hadn’t heard her,” he said, smiling.

  Emily gave one of her Oh, Daddy! looks.

  “Coming, dear,” Jake yelled toward the ceiling.

  “What about Lego, Dad?” Wyatt asked plaintively.

  Jake shook his head and stood. “Not right now, buddy, I’ve gotta go check on Mom and see about supper.”

  Wyatt turned to his Lego ship and lifted it into the air. With a whoosh the spaceship crashed down into a pile of Legos — a horrendously failed landing. Pieces skidded across the floor in all directions.

  “You’d better clean all that crap up,” Jake warned as he retreated up the stairs. “I don’t want to find any under the tv.” He didn’t know if he was saying it because it bothered him or because he knew Abby would freak out if she saw toys scattered everywhere.

  “You said ‘crap,’” Emily informed him.

  Jake continued up the stairs.

  Something smelled good as he headed to the kitchen. He found Abby stirring something in a skillet. She’d recently taken to making very different kinds of dishes. Exotic things he didn’t even know she could cook. He knew people dealt with stress in different ways. He hoped her cooking helped Abby stop worrying.

  “Liver and onions?” he asked, smiling.

  Abby didn’t laugh. “It’s called Imam Bayildi — basically just eggplant and tomato. There’s also some chicken in the oven. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Sounds good to me. What are the kids eating?” Wyatt and Emily were notoriously difficult to please.

  “I don’t know. Maybe throw some fries in the oven with the chicken.”

  Jake tapped at the convection oven. “I’ll have to increase the temp to four-fifty. That okay?”

  “Sure. By the way, there’s a circus at the Metro Centre in a few weeks. Should we take the kids?”

  “Did they say they wanted to go?”

  “They don’t know about it,” Abby told him. “I thought I’d better run it past you first.”

  “Yeah, sure. Want me to get tickets?”

  She nodded but didn’t look at him, just listlessly stirred the food in the skillet.

  Jake paused at the oven, a pan of french fries in his hand. “What’s wrong?”

  She turned. Her eyes were full of tears. “I think it’s getting worse. He was watching tv with Em today and then all of a sudden he was just sitting there, staring. His eyes weren’t focused on anything.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He said he was fine. He’s trying to be so tough now because he knows how scared we are. He doesn’t want to admit anything anymore. He’s so brave.” Her voice started to crack.

  Jake set the fries on the counter, went over to his wife and put an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll sort this out. We’ve done everything we can. We saw our family doctor. We had Wyatt in emergency twice and we had the hospital tests. He’s going to be fine.” He wished he believed it.

  She turned toward him and put her face onto his shoulder. He could feel her sobs.

  “Promise?” she asked.

  “Promise,” he said confidently.

  XI

  Father Benicio Valori’s trip to the Phnom Penh airport was rough and wild. The men who found him in Prasat had excitedly pushed and prodded him through the streets toward a waiting moto, the traditional motorcycle taxi of Cambodia, and shoved him onto the back of the bike. The driver turned to him and announced, “I am Mook. I get you airport very fast.”

  After nearly fifty minutes of hard driving, the bike screeched to a stop in front of the airport, a modern facility full of angles and recessed lighting. Benicio got off the bike and reached in his pocket to pay the bill, but when he looked up Mook and the moto were gone. Benicio shrugged and entered the front lobby, which looked as if it belonged in a hotel. He had been told to go to the Silk Air check-in.

  He found the counter and leaned on it heavily as he tried to catch his breath.

  “Can I help you, sir?” a beautiful clerk asked. Her voice had the slight clicking of an accent. She’d not bothered to attempt a greeting in Khmer.

  “Si, grazie, I’m checking in for a flight. My name’s Benicio Valori.”

  “Destination?” she asked automatically as her fingers flicked over a keyboard.

  “The United States.” He paused, realizing he didn’t know exactly where he was going. “I’m sorry but I don’t —”

  “Oh, my apologies, Father Valori.” She nodded and smiled. “We’re expecting you — we’re actually holding the aircraft. Here is your boarding pass.”

  Holding the aircraft? He took the pass.

  “We also have your passport.” She held out an envelope. “We’ve already cleared you through customs on this end. Please take a seat on the cart behind you. We’ll drive you to the departure gate.”

  Benicio stared at the clerk then took the envelope. He was sure he’d left his passport in the hotel safe in Phnom Penh. He turned and saw an airport attendant in a golf cart. The attendant nodded and pointed at the seat on the back. “I take you.”

  Within moments Benicio was through the gate and walking down the ramp to the plane. He stopped at the door, where a flight attendant stood, and held out his boarding pass.

  After a quick scrutiny the flight attendant said, “Mr. Valori, we’re glad you’ve arrived. Your seat is three rows back on the left. We’ve already placed your carry-on luggage in the overhead compartment.”

  “My carry-on luggage?”

  “Yes,” she said and smiled broadly. “It was all arranged. Have a wonderful flight.”

  In a daze, Benicio found his first-class seat and dropped into it. My carry-on luggage?

  Within minutes the plane took off, and Benicio finally breathed a sigh of rel
ief. He’d known the church to act with urgency, but this was extreme. Being pulled off an important assignment and rushed to the airport was a new experience for him. Moreover, the church had obviously used its enormous pull either by way of its status or by paying handsomely. As the plane climbed into the air he reviewed his ticket. He was flying to Singapore then boarding a United Airways flight to Philadelphia, followed by a short hop to New Haven, Connecticut. The total flight time was more than thirty hours.

  He couldn’t imagine what was going on in New Haven. He knew Yale University was in New Haven, but didn’t remember it having anything to do with the Holy Church.

  Except … He thought for a moment, then dismissed the idea. It can’t be that. He vaguely remembered a rumor about a book in the Yale library, a book the church had long suspected was part of a terrible scandal from Old Testament times. It couldn’t be that.

  The plane finally reached its cruising altitude and the captain switched off the seat-belt sign. Benicio unbuckled and stood, eager to see what was in his carry-on bag. He opened the overhead compartment and found only one small piece of luggage. Must be mine, he thought, and opened it. He found some basic toiletry items and a change of clothing — a not-so-subtle suggestion from the church to get cleaned up. If there was one thing he’d learned about working with the Vatican it was that image was everything. He retreated to the first-class washroom to wash away the Cambodian slums.

  He squeezed into the tight confines of the washroom, shut the lid of the toilet and set the bag down. He peered into the mirror. Streaks of black stretched across the stubble on his face. The moto ride and his work in the slums had left him looking miserable and dirty. He rubbed his rough chin before punching the water on.

  He washed and shaved, then nodded at his reflection. A little better, he thought. He reached into the carry-on bag for the shirt and pants. He slipped out of his dirty black Khmer shirt and trousers and put on the new outfit, which included a sport coat. He found no traditional religious accoutrements, so he assumed his new assignment was not for broadcast.

  He slipped the sport coat on and smoothed down the sides, then felt a bulge in the right pocket. He reached in and pulled out an id badge and a wallet.

  Dr. Benicio Valori, he read. Yale–New Haven Children’s Hospital. It was an employee badge.

  Very interesting, he thought and dropped the id in the pocket. The wallet contained about a thousand dollars American and a valid driver’s license and credit card in his name. He tucked the wallet into his trousers’ back pocket. Finally, he gathered up his Cambodian clothes and shoved them into the bag then left the washroom.

  He stretched out in his leather seat, aware only that he had a long flight ahead of him and this might be his last chance for rest.

  XII

  Benicio was sound asleep when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. His eyes fluttered open and he saw a flight attendant bending over him.

  “Your phone,” the flight attendant said, motioning to the armrest next to him.

  He blinked and sat up abruptly. “Grazie,” he said sleepily as the attendant slipped away down the aisle.

  He was on the plane to Philadelphia — the longest leg of the flight — and had fallen asleep again. He wrestled the phone out of the armrest and found the connect button, then put the receiver to his ear. “Hello.”

  “Father Valori?” It was the crisp voice he’d heard in Prasat.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Cardinal Espinosa. I trust you remember our first meeting.”

  “Yes, your Eminence. I remember it well.” And he did. Cardinal Espinosa had recruited him straight out of grad school. The cardinal had sent a personal invitation for an all-expenses-paid trip to the Vatican, an invitation Benicio couldn’t refuse.

  He had arrived in the magnificent office of the cardinal and within moments he was convinced he had been called to the priesthood. The cardinal, a charismatic, enthusiastic recruiter, insisted that Benicio’s gifts and expertise in mythology and spirituality were crucial to the Holy Church. Benicio’s strong Catholic upbringing was also a factor.

  Since his recruitment Benicio had learned that Cardinal Sebastián Herrero y Espinosa was the Cardinal Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith — the cdf — and one of the most powerful men in the Vatican. Many people thought the Supreme Pontiff or even the Secretariat of State were among the most powerful but it was the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith that held the reins of authority within the church. The cdf, a special branch of the Roman Curia, was responsible for maintaining and ensuring the integrity of the Catholic faith around the world. Benicio also knew Espinosa showed little respect for traditional church boundaries and protocol. He was fanatical about protecting the faith and saw no limit to the means by which he would do that. Twenty years ago he had faced life-threatening cancer but had miraculously recovered. Even the cancer hadn’t deterred him from his holy duties.

  “Thank you for your immediate loyalty to the one true faith,” the cardinal said on the air phone. “Your assistance is urgently required as the eyes and ears of the Vatican. It is in your judgment we trust at the most crucial of hours.”

  “Yes, your Eminence.” Benicio knew the assignment was high priority. After his recruitment and his time in the seminary he rarely spoke with the cardinal. His directives normally came from others well beneath Espinosa. Now, he almost felt nervous.

  “As you likely realize from your flight itinerary, your destination is Yale University. We’ve had a representative there for some time to watch a certain manuscript of importance to the Holy Church. His name is Father Ronald McCallum, and he is expecting you. You will find his address in the pocket of your coat.”

  A certain manuscript? Benicio wondered. Could this really be about the Nephilim Bible?

  Cardinal Espinosa continued, “You will investigate a claim made by Father McCallum in regard to a certain child who may have the power to read the manuscript. Father McCallum will explain the details. You must investigate the child and report immediately to me.”

  The cardinal emphasized the word me. Benicio suspected this mission did not have the full blessing of the Holy Church.

  “You have been specifically selected for this task because of your proven loyalty and discretion in the service of the Holy Church. In addition, your secular education through your doctorate in clinical psychology will be an asset as the boy in question has psychiatric difficulties.”

  “Yes, your Eminence.” Benicio knew it was not his place to ask questions. Questions, when they were permitted, were always much later.

  “Ascertain the validity of Father McCallum’s claims. Report to me directly at this number. Do not write this number down.” Cardinal Espinosa read off a fifteen-digit number, and Benicio memorized it.

  And then the line went dead.

  XIII

  Cardinal Espinosa let his fingers sit on the disconnect button of his phone for a moment before he dropped the receiver. His office walls were lined with twelve-foot-high bookcases. Every shelf was filled with religious reference books and books about every code and doctrine of the Holy Church. Some of the books dated back centuries, and most were in the original Latin. He’d read all of them, and all in the original language. He glanced around the room, heavy with history, then slowly stood.

  “God,” he prayed, his arms outstretched, his head tilted sky-ward, “I want only to serve You. To protect You. To protect the faith.

  “I am Your servant. With Your help and guidance I will act. I will act swiftly on Your behalf and erase the source of the poison that might infect the faithful. On my vigilance You can rely.”

  He sat again and with a trembling hand pulled back the sleeve of his white robe. He opened his top desk drawer, removed a small black case and set it carefully on the blotter. He lifted the lid and revealed an ornate knife with a three-inch blade. He picked up the knife.

  The cardinal turned his left arm up and rested it on the desk. The underside wa
s scarred from bicep to wrist. He touched the skin with the knife and carefully drew a straight line. The exquisitely sharp blade slit the skin, and the slit quickly filled with blood. Without hesitation, Espinosa drew a line perpendicular to the first, completing the cross. He struggled to keep his breathing regular as he watched the blood fill the cross.

  “For You, God,” he whispered.

  He set the knife down. “I will call on the forsaken one more time, Lord,” he whispered. “I know they are repulsive to You but they will serve this just cause.”

  He reached for the phone and dialed a number. After three rings someone answered sleepily.

  “Do you know who this is?” the cardinal asked curtly.

  The sleepy voice snapped to attention.

  “Yes —”

  “Do not say my name,” Cardinal Espinosa interrupted. “You and your brother must travel to New Haven and await my instructions.”

  “New Haven? Is it the Voynich?”

  “Travel, and wait for my instructions. You have my number. Call me when you’ve arrived.”

  “Will this be our last mission?” the voice asked. “Will you release my brother and me after we have served one more time?”

  “Call me when you arrive in New Haven. Take no action without my authorization.”

  The cardinal hung up the phone. He was confident in his decision but regretted its necessity.

  He picked up a satin cloth and held it against his arm then sat back in his leather desk chair. His mind wandered to when he’d first laid eyes on the two brothers. Maury and Jeremy, he thought. Such unlikely servants of the church.

  Eighteen years ago, as the Cardinal Prefect, Espinosa had eyes and ears around the world. An army of faithful servants who kept watch and reported to the Vatican. Some reported on miracles, religious fraud, or priestly improprieties. Others watched for certain abnormal medical conditions. The cardinal did not provide reasons for his requests. He simply ordered them.

  Thus his discovery of Maury and Jeremy began with a phone call.

  One of Espinosa’s secular agents called to make a report. The agent, a devout Catholic who worked as a hospital orderly in a small town, reported the specific medical abnormality, a skin condition where the body seems to reject its own tissue. The cardinal traveled to North America on the next available flight.