In Tongues of the Dead (18 page)

“What's going on?”

“It's something I'd much rather talk about in person.”

“Sure,” Jake said. “You're always welcome here.”

Benicio hesitated.

“What is it?” Jake pressed.

“I think I'm in trouble with the church. It might be pretty big.”

“Whatever it is, you can handle it,” Jake said. “And you can count on me to help.”

“I really appreciate it.
Grazie
.”

“When are you going to be here?”

“I would guess we could be there tomorrow night or Monday at the latest.”

“Monday's a whole lot better for me,” Jake said, thinking he had to take Wyatt to the hospital on Sunday. He hadn't even noticed that Benicio had said “we.” “Why don't you come by my office? You know where it is.”

“Okay. I'll see you then.”

Jake slowly walked to the kitchen and dropped the phone in the wall cradle. He couldn't imagine what trouble Benicio could be in. Then he noticed Wyatt and Emily hovering, just waiting for the action to start again.

Jake bent over slightly and adopted his most menacing expression. He wiggled his fingers at them and said, “Okay, who wants some of me?”

Benicio hung up and stared at the phone. He felt horrendously guilty for calling Jake. The Tunnel family was having such troubles with Wyatt that imposing on them was unforgivable. Not only that, but Benicio hadn't told Jake what was going on. He hadn't even mentioned Matthew.

He looked at the rental car. Matthew was in the passenger seat, staring out the window. Benicio turned and looked down the road at New Brunswick. He decided he better get moving.

“This is so fuckin' stupid,” Maury moaned. He and Jeremy stood in the cramped washroom of a service station. They'd stopped in Houlton, Maine, near the border crossing into New Brunswick. Maury was unwrapping bandages from his midsection while Jeremy leaned against the door.

“Stop whining.”

Maury glared at him. “No one shot you in the gut,” he spat. “Now I have to change these bandages all the time and I'm gonna use up a hell of a lot more of that decelerator cream. I'm screwed.”

“You baby.” Jeremy grinned. “Most people would be happy that they got shot in the gut and it didn't kill them. You? All you can do is whine.”

Maury turned away from him and looked in the dingy mirror. He could see a blackened wound just over his navel. A brownish, thick fluid seeped from the hole. He grabbed a handful of paper towels, wiped the fluid away, and dropped the towels onto the floor. The plastic squeeze bottle of lotion was on the edge of the sink. Maury liberally doused his abdomen then rubbed the lotion on. He was careful to smooth some of it right into the bullet hole. When he finished he turned and tossed the bottle to Jeremy, who caught it and slid it into one of the large pockets of his jacket.

Maury felt weak and dizzy, an unexpected sensation. The bullet had hurt him more than he wanted to let on to Jeremy. He realized that didn't make sense. Both he and his brother were forsaken — soulless — and could not be killed by ordinary means. They would live until their flesh rotted off their bones. If that was living.

There was a heavy knock at the door and a voice yelled, “What the hell's going on in there?”

It was the gas station attendant. He'd given them a strange look when they'd both gone into the washroom — a one-person washroom.

“Get lost,” Jeremy yelled.

“I want you two freaks out of there,” the attendant shouted, and banged on the door again. “And what's that stink? What the hell are you doing in there?”

“I said get lost!” Jeremy yelled, and banged the back of his boot against the door.

“If you shits aren't out of there in five seconds I'm calling the cops.”

“Fuck you!” Jeremy said and laughed.

Maury ignored them and was wrapping bandages around his midsection. He pulled tightly as he rolled the cloth all the way around. When he finished he motioned to Jeremy, who brought a pair of scissors out of a pocket, then cut the bandage. Maury pulled out some surgical tape and fastened the bandage.

“We might as well get out of here before Bozo calls in the posse,” Jeremy said.

Maury shrugged, and the two men left. The gas station attendant was standing just outside the door swatting a baseball bat against his open hand.

“Get the fuck out of here and don't come back,” he snarled.

As they walked past him, Jeremy noticed the man recoil at the putrid scent of them. Jeremy paused, leaned over, and snapped his teeth at the man's face. The man stumbled backward, banging into a stand full of potato chips. Then the brothers left.

In the car, Maury said, “We need to check in and make sure we're going in the right direction.”

“Fine.” Jeremy nodded.

Maury reached to the backseat for the satellite phone. He flipped it open and hit the auto dial.

The phone buzzed as the first ring sounded. It buzzed again and then a third time before a male voice with a slight Italian accent answered. “Hello?”

“Put him on,” Maury barked.

“He will not speak to you at present. Your instructions are to follow the target into Canada. We have been provided information that the father and the boy have passed through the border.”

“You have information, do you?”

“We received a report that a vehicle with Connecticut license plates rushed past the customs booth. Apparently, the border is quite vulnerable, and the Canadian agents have no ability to take chase.”

“You're kiddin' me,” Maury scoffed.

“Additional information suggests that Father Valori may have a contact in Halifax. You should pursue a Dr. Jacob Tunnel.”

“Dr. Tunnel?”

“Yes. A psychologist.”

Maury took the phone from his ear, cupping it with his free hand. He leaned toward Jeremy. “They think the priest is going to see some psychologist in Halifax.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes.

Maury returned the phone to his ear. “Anything else?”

There was no answer. Cardinal Espinosa's personal assistant had hung up.

Maury punched the
End
button. “Asshole.”

Sunday morning.

Benicio yawned. He'd driven almost all night. Only once had he risked stopping at the side of the road to catch a few winks. Matthew had slept through most of the trip. He would sit, staring straight ahead, until fatigue caught up with him, then he would slump to the side and snore. Benicio was relieved to hear the soft purr, but the way Matthew slept made him look dead. Spooky.

The priest looked at the road. New Brunswick was a pretty enough province. Lots of trees. Good highways. He smiled.

Then he frowned. For a moment he had felt like a tourist on a jaunt. But he was a rogue agent from the Vatican with a kidnapped child in the car.
I really need to take a break
, he thought.
I'm losing it
.

A billboard announced something called an Irving Big Stop at the next exit. He figured it was time for another stop. He wanted to get something to eat and clear his head.

He drove down the ramp and saw a restaurant and gas bar right next to the highway. He parked on the far side of the lot, away from the pumps. There were quite a few cars. He hoped the restaurant wasn't too crowded.

He looked at Matthew. The boy had woken up when the car stopped.

“Hey guy,” Benicio said softly. “We're going to go in here and get a bite to eat.”

No answer. No acknowledgement.

“You hungry?”

Still nothing.

Benicio reached out to pat the boy's shoulder but stopped in
time. Physical contact was an important part of how Benicio communicated. A tap on the knee. A hug. Touching someone's arm. He was Italian, after all. It was difficult to restrain himself with Matthew.

He got out of the car. By the time he walked around the car, Matthew stood waiting.

“
Bene
,” he announced. “Let's go see what's for breakfast.”

They had to wait in line to be seated. Matthew had walked slowly alongside Benicio, without resistance.

The Irving Big Stop was a pleasant, clean place. A big, happy hostess welcomed Benicio and Matthew with a heavy French accent.

“We have only de booth open?” she said. “You and your son like de booth?”

He nodded, and she led them to a booth by the window overlooking the parking lot. Matthew sat across from Benicio. The hostess dropped plastic menus in front of them and then pulled a paper place mat from her pocket and set it in front of Matthew.

“You like coloring, little man?” she asked, although she didn't wait for a reply. She reached into a pouch on the front of her apron and pulled out a handful of well-used crayons. She set them on the place mat. “
Voilà!”

She turned to Benicio. “Your waitress will be right with you.” She spun and was gone.

“She's friendly,” Benicio said.

Matthew didn't look up.

“What's that you have?” the priest asked, leaning over. The paper place mat was covered with activities. Mazes. Animals to color. A simple word-find puzzle.

“That looks like fun,” Benicio said. “Can I help color?”

Matthew didn't move.

“I'd really like to color that moose. I think I should make his head orange.”

Matthew lifted a hand from his lap and picked up the orange
crayon. He held it up to Benicio. His eyes stayed down.

Benicio's hand shook slightly as he took the crayon. He couldn't believe Matthew had responded. He wanted to hug the boy. Just color, he told himself. Don't overreact.

He started coloring the moose.

“I could really use some help,” he announced. “I bet this moose would look funny if someone colored his legs green.” He kept working on the head.

Matthew picked up the green crayon and started, very slowly, to color the moose's legs.

Benicio wanted to laugh out loud.

“Bon matin,”
a singsongy voice interrupted them. “Good morning.” The waitress had appeared, holding a coffeepot.

“Good morning,” Benicio said, sitting up straight.

“Coffee?” she asked.

Benicio turned his mug up, and she filled it in one dramatic pour.

“You ready to order?”

“What do you say, Matthew? Shall we get something?”

Matthew continued to color the moose.

“What about some pancakes? Do you like pancakes with lots of syrup?”

Matthew stopped coloring for a second and nodded slightly.

“Pancakes it is! Make it two orders,” he told the waitress.

She wrote on a pad and swept away. Benicio looked around the busy room. Every staff person in the restaurant was constantly on the go. Coffee being poured. Huge plates of food being whisked to tables. It was a wonder they weren't careening into each other.

Benicio and Matthew continued to color until the food arrived. Huge stacks of buttermilk pancakes perfectly browned and sending off curls of steam. A pitcher of real maple syrup. Benicio had never realized there was a difference. He silently vowed never to buy fake maple syrup again.

To his surprise, Matthew began eating the pancakes right
away. Benicio realized the boy must be very hungry. The roadside food hadn't been nearly enough. No wonder Matthew had been so compliant on the way in here. He was plowing his way through the pancakes quickly. Benicio hoped he didn't burn his mouth.

“Go easy, buddy,” he said. “We have time. I'll get you some more, too, if you want them.”

Matthew kept eating.

Soon they were both nearly done. Benicio felt much better with a few good cups of coffee in him, and he'd connected with Matthew in a way he'd never thought possible. He felt slightly optimistic for the first time since he'd walked into Father McCallum's home and found that violent scene.

Matthew finished his last bite and carefully set his fork on his plate.

Benicio smiled at the boy as he finished counting out money to leave on the table. “Well, buddy,” he said. “What do you say about hitting the road again?”

“What's your hurry?” a gruff voice said from next to them.

Benicio turned to find Maury and Jeremy standing at the end of the booth.

Jake slowed and turned into the parking garage for the children's hospital. He felt a knot in his stomach but tried to ignore it. He didn't want to risk looking at Abby. If there was even so much as a tear in her eye he might lose his composure.

“Here we are!” he announced.

Emily and Wyatt were in car seats in the middle row of the minivan. Jake preferred driving his Volvo but the minivan was better for family use.

He found a parking space near the entrance, and everyone unloaded.

As they trekked through the bright corridors following the purple trains painted on the walls, Jake marveled at Wyatt's strength. The boy marched bravely wearing his Incredible Hulk backpack over both shoulders. Wyatt had insisted on packing his own special bag with a few books and toys.