Father McCallum looked at Benicio. “I’ve noticed you aren’t wearing a collar.”
Benicio nodded.
“Does this mean you’re undercover? You aren’t going to tell the boy or his parents what’s going on?”
Benicio laughed. “I don’t know what’s going on! I can’t exactly spill the beans to Mom and Dad, can I? What would I say? ‘Hey, we think your autistic son can read a thousand-year-old book and, oh yeah, we also think the boy might be half angel’?”
“Five-hundred-year-old.”
“What?”
“The Voynich manuscript has only been dated back five hundred years. You said a thousand.”
Benicio laughed again. He couldn’t help himself. “You’re absolutely right. Scusi.”
There was silence in the car.
“You’re a very difficult man to dislike,” Father McCallum finally said.
“Permesso?”
“I don’t like that the church sent some hotshot to investigate the child. It’s an insult that they don’t believe I can handle it.”
Benicio nodded, his face somber.
“As a result, I expected to dislike whomever arrived to take over.”
“Understandable,” Benicio said. “And it was my intention to be thoroughly dislikable.”
McCallum smiled. “You see, there you go again.” He placed a hand on Benicio’s shoulder. “You may try to be unlikable, but I see through it. You actually strike me as a genuine, caring individual.”
“Why don’t you go talk to the parents? I’ll wait here.”
“No, no, no. We will do it together. You can help me.”
“I don’t want to jeopardize the investigation. Maybe I can be of more help once we get to the school to see the boy. It might be best if only you went in.”
Benicio considered. The church hadn’t given him instructions, but they had provided the hospital id badge. That would allow him to be subtle. He needed the parents’ agreement if he was going spend time with Matthew.
“But you’ve never spoken to the parents yourself? They wouldn’t recognize you?”
“It’s his foster parents, and no, I’ve never met them.”
“Foster parents,” Benicio said, nodding. “Right. Okay. You’re coming with me.”
Down the block, Maury and Jeremy sat in their red Honda Civic. With one hand Maury held a small receiver to his ear. He had his other hand out the window, pointing a miniature parabolic dish at the old priest’s rental car.
“What are they talking about? Why don’t they go in the house?”
“Shut up. I can barely hear anything. I think they’re whining and bitching about who’s going in.” The small microphone picked up every sound from the street, and he had to strain to hear the two men’s voices. “Wait,” he announced. “I think Benny’s going in.”
“Is he leaving the old man?”
Maury looked through the windshield. “Nope. They’re both heading in.”
Jeremy perked up a little. “Wanna go search the car?”
Maury stared at his brother. “For what? Man, you’re an idiot.”
Jeremy frowned. “Fuck you.”
“You just stay here and be ready to roll. I’m going to get closer to the house and see what I can find out.”
“Let me go do it,” Jeremy pleaded.
“Fuck off,” Maury spat back and got out of the car, closing the door carefully. He headed down the street.
Jeremy frowned. “Good luck, you and your one eyeball,” he muttered. He watched Maury slip into the backyard of Matthew’s house.
As he watched his brother he felt his own hand twitch. He brushed the fingertips of both hands together. Nothing. No feeling. He reached into his coat pocket and took a small atomizer out. He slid his arms out of his jacket and sprayed a liberal mist up and down both.