Matthew sat motionless in the passenger seat.
Benicio had been driving for more than an hour, wanting to put distance between himself and the Vatican goons. Now he felt like he was driving aimlessly. They’d circled Meriden a number of times, staying on side streets and back roads. Benicio felt sorely inexperienced at getaways.
He’d realized quite soon that Matthew would sit by himself. Benicio had helped the boy into the passenger seat. Since then, Matthew had sat, motionless. Not glancing out the window. Not humming to himself. Nothing.
Benicio felt sorry for the boy. He seemed trapped in a body he was unable to control. The priest imagined a vibrant young child deep inside wanting to get out. Autism was cruel.
Benicio also felt sorry for the foster parents. They were hardly the most caring, concerned people he’d ever met, but he still felt sorry for them.
He was thankful the boy wasn’t screaming. His vague knowledge of autism from grad school had taught him that screaming fits weren’t uncommon. Being grabbed and carried to the car should have set him off. It hadn’t. Benicio thanked God for that.
He wondered what had happened in the house after they left, then he willed the thought from his mind and kept driving.
A few miles later he saw a sign for Interstate 91. Going north would take them to the Connecticut border. He took the ramp.
“Might be best to get out of the state for a bit,” he said.
Matthew didn’t respond.
Benicio figured that the Younger residence was swarming with police. Until he figured out what was happening and what danger the boy was in he didn’t dare go back to the house. He would call from the road — preferably far down the road — just to let the family know Matthew was safe.
He felt a flood of panic at the thought of Father McCallum. Was he dead? Were there people hurt or dying at the Younger house? And here he was on the run with Matthew. Was he kidnapping the child? God, he prayed, I hope I’m making the right decision. Please help me know what You want me to do.
He drove north through Connecticut toward the Massachusetts border, checking his rearview mirror for the flash of pursuing police. So far, they seemed to be safe. He wondered if he should have gone straight to the nearest police station when he left with Matthew. But how would he have explained his involvement? Could he say, “Hello, I work for the Vatican and we think this boy is half angel, so I took him away from his parents”? And that wasn’t the only problem. Benicio knew that even in police custody Matthew would not be safe from the Vatican. He knew he’d eventually have to go to the police but not yet. He needed time.
He looked at the boy. “I wish you could understand what I’m saying. I wish you knew I only want to help you.”
The boy didn’t answer.
Benicio sighed. “It’s going to be okay. I promise you that.” He reached over and patted the boy’s knee gently.
And Matthew screamed.
He didn’t shift. He didn’t move. He just opened his mouth and screamed.
Benicio jerked in alarm. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I forgot.”
Matthew closed his mouth. He didn’t acknowledge Benicio.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I won’t do that again. I just wanted to tell you I’m trying to help you. That’s all.” He wasn’t sure the boy understood.
He focused on the road.
Benicio drove through Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire and was speeding through Maine when he spotted a gas station with an old-fashioned pay phone at the edge of the parking lot. He pulled the car up to the phone and stopped.
Matthew didn’t react.
Benicio wanted to watch the boy while he was on the phone. He turned the engine off, removed the key, opened his door, and climbed out, then went to the phone. He checked his watch. Midafternoon here; early evening, Vatican time. He pushed in his calling card and dialed.
It took a moment, then he heard the familiar ring. He watched Matthew, who remained motionless in the car.
Finally, someone answered. “Allô?”
“Father Lumière?” Benicio asked.
“Oui.” The word was an urgent whisper. “Is it Father Valori?”
“Jacques,” Benicio spoke quickly, “I think I’m in trouble.”
“Something is stirred. Something very big.”
“What’s going on? What have you heard?”
“Were you contacted by the cdf?”
“Yes.”
“By Cardinal Espinosa?”
“Yes. What’s going on?”
Father Lumière knew secrets. He was a head chef and had the run of Vatican City. Everyone knew him, so conversations rarely stopped when he entered a room to deliver meals. Benicio considered him a close friend.
“There is fury. I know little more. Espinosa is, how you say, on the warpath. He has spoken to Cardinal March about someone. He means to have the someone excommunicated. Is it you?”
“Me?” Benicio asked in surprise. Would the cardinal know of his actions so quickly?
“What have you done?” Jacques asked.
“Have you ever heard of the Voynich manuscript? Has anyone been talking about it?”
“Oui.” A tentative answer.
“What’s the matter? You have heard of it?”
“Is that what this is about?” Jacques’ voice betrayed alarm. “Why do you ask of this book?”
Benicio looked at Matthew and decided the boy didn’t need to be kept secret. “I’ve found someone who can read it.”
“Merde! Benicio! Do you have the manuscript?”
“No, I —”
“You are in great danger,” Jacques warned. “Do not interfere.”
“Why? What’s the book about?”
“God’s sin. His great mistake. The Grigori. The cdf would do anything —” He stopped speaking.
“What?” Benicio asked. “They’d do anything to what?” Benicio knew the Grigori were the fallen angels God had originally sent to Earth to help man, and that they had eventually lusted after women and had children. The children were the Nephilim.
The connection clicked with static. Father Lumière was gone.
“Hello? Hello?” Benicio said.
“My son,” came another voice, a familiar voice with an Italian accent. “What do you hope to accomplish?” For a brief moment, Benicio allowed the shock and fear to run through him. Then he forced it back down again.
“Cardinal Espinosa,” he said.
“Stop. You don’t know what you are dealing with.”
“Tell me then.”
“Of course. Jeremy and Maury will come and meet you. You should all return to the Vatican with the boy.”
“Why did you send them?” Benicio’s voice betrayed his distrust.
“Certain jobs require certain people. This job required them.”
“What was my job?”
“You were to confirm the truth of the boy’s gift. Now, Benicio, come home.”
“What is it that the boy will read?”
“This is not a conversation for the phone,” Cardinal Espinosa said. He sounded irritated. “Give the boy to my men and return to the Vatican at once. That is an order.”
“I can’t,” Benicio said quietly.
“What?”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I intend to find out.”
“You are risking your life,” Espinosa spat. “You are risking your soul.”
“Maybe.” He hung up.
He stared at the car. The boy was sitting still. Benicio felt a pang of guilt and picked the phone up, dialed information, and asked for John Younger in Meriden.
The phone rang once. “Hello.”
“Hi, is this John?”
“Who is this?”
Benicio wasn’t sure he had the right number. “Is this John Younger?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“I was at your house earlier when all the commotion happened. How are things now?”
“Do you have the boy?”
The boy? That’s an odd way for a father — even a foster parent — to phrase the question.
“Do you?” the man asked, more forcefully.
“He’s fine,” Benicio answered. “I was concerned for his safety and —”
“Where are you now?” the man demanded.
Benicio wasn’t sensing any actual concern for the child. Something wasn’t right.
“He’s safe,” Benicio repeated. “What happened there after I left?”
“Just bring him back,” the man said impatiently. “Bring him back and we won’t charge you.”
“Is everything okay there? You sound strange.”
“Benicio,” the voice said calmly, “just bring that kid back here. You are in a world of trouble already. Cardinal Espinosa doesn’t appreciate your little stunt.”
It wasn’t John Younger, but it didn’t sound like Jeremy or Maury either.
“Who is this? Where are Matthew’s parents?”
“Don’t be an idiot. Bring us the kid. We’ll be waiting at the house.”
The phone went dead.
The Vatican had sent more people to clean up the situation. That was bad news. This thing was getting bigger by the second. Bigger and deadlier. Maury and Jeremy were probably pursuing him right now — assuming they hadn’t been shot by John Younger.
He looked around the service station, wanting inspiration. He needed a plan. He needed to get away from Jeremy and Maury long enough to figure out what was going on. He needed help.
Then he had an idea. It would mean driving right through the night, but if Matthew slept that would be fine.
He slid into the car and looked at Matthew. “Have you ever been to Canada?”