In Tongues of the Dead (7 page)

Pain struck Shemhazai. His body burned and throbbed inside and out. His vision blurred. He must find a new host, and fast. He could survive only a few moments in his true form. Then the pain would become overwhelming, and he would cease to exist. Shemhazai hoped he would not need to take a student from campus: he and Azazel had agreed never to take young, healthy hosts.

He picked up the leather portfolio and slid the Voynich inside. Then he left.

Soon he and Azazel would kill the boy and then destroy this book. God would have to forgive their sin.

He hoped.

Jenna Dodgson was attractive by almost any standard. Her jet-black hair was cut sharply at her shoulders and hung in a straight line around her face. The contrast with her light skin and pale blue eyes was striking. At thirty-three she was still trim and fit. She'd played women's basketball in college, where she received her degree in pediatric nursing.

She sighed as she surveyed her apartment on this sunny Friday morning. It was okay but sparsely furnished. She referred to it as her “new” place even though she'd been living in it for four months.

Five months ago she'd left Anthony, her husband of two years. She counted him as one of her biggest mistakes. Sometimes she thought it was her biggest disappointment, but that gave him more credit than he deserved. He was just a mistake.

Anthony was a flamboyant, self-involved ass. There was no denying he was entertaining, especially when they were first dating, but entertaining couldn't sustain a relationship. He'd always talked about how their relationship was the most important thing to him. He said they'd always be a team. Somehow, he'd convinced her that he was a man of depth and substance. He wasn't. He was an ass.

But even being an ass wasn't necessarily a deal breaker. The deal breaker was that Anthony thought he could threaten her. She could still remember his exact words. “Why don't you shut the fuck up before I shut you up?”

Just plain nasty.

And not something she would allow him to repeat.

So she had moved out. At first she stayed with a girlfriend, Maria. Anthony tracked her down and whined and complained.
He promised he'd never threaten her again. He said he'd really learned his lesson and he was going to get help. When that didn't work, he told her how he couldn't live without her. She still wanted no part of him.

After a few weeks at Maria's she'd found this apartment. It was a great building, right next to Mic Mac Mall in Dartmouth, but it wasn't what she wanted. She and Anthony had had a house in the south end of Halifax, and she could walk to the children's hospital where she worked. Now she lived across the harbor. When she'd moved, her commute had changed from a ten-minute walk to a forty-minute bus ride. She hated riding on the bus. She would have driven but knew she wouldn't be able to park anywhere near the hospital, not without paying an arm and a leg.

And it nagged at her that she lived in Dartmouth. She knew it was silly but there had always been a rivalry between Halifax and Dartmouth. Haligonians, the snobs, always stuck their noses up at the working-class Dartmouth side of the harbor. There was nothing to that old rivalry any longer but it did feel like a drop in status to go from South End Halifax to Dartmouth. She blamed Anthony for that too.
The bastard
.

She picked up her backpack from beside the bed. Her shift would start soon, so she needed to get to the mall and catch her bus. As she moved through the apartment she stopped to look at a photograph she'd found in a box in the closet the night before.

She held it and smiled. Benicio, her boyfriend from her days at Columbia University. She wondered how he was doing. The idiot had left her to go into the priesthood. That was always a great story to tell her friends — how she'd driven a man to celibacy.

She set the picture on the counter and turned to leave, but the phone rang. For a moment, she debated not answering and then relented. She picked up the cordless receiver and checked the built-in call display. It wasn't Anthony, it was her friend Maria.

“Hello Maria,” Jenna said.

“You're still coming after work, right?”

“Yes,” Jenna said, rolling her eyes.

“Just making sure,” Maria said. “I don't want you backing out. We're just going to the Old Triangle — it's not the Liquor Dome. You better be there.”

“I will,” Jenna promised.

“Please return to your seats, fasten your safety belts, and place your trays and seat backs in their upright position,” the attendant announced. “We are beginning our descent into New Haven. If you have a connecting flight in the Tweed terminal, one of the agents will be waiting to assist you. Thank you for flying US Airways. We wish you a safe and happy journey.”

Benicio was already belted in. His tray and seat back were in the upright position. He was ready for the plane to land.

A few minutes later he was off the plane and in the small but busy New Haven airport. Benicio walked toward the exit, his mind set on getting a taxi and finding Father McCallum.

Then he saw something that stopped him in his tracks. Standing at a Budget rental counter were two men he'd seen before. Two men he'd seen walking in the corridor of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith at the Vatican. Benicio knew that tourists didn't have access to that wing of the Vatican.

One of the men, pale and smooth-skinned, was rubbing his forearm obsessively. The other man was wearing an eye patch. Benicio noticed he had his baseball cap pulled low, as if to hide the patch.

When he'd seen these men at the Vatican, they'd been in civilian clothes. Civilian consultants inside the Vatican, especially in the office of the cdf, were people to avoid. Period.

Looking straight ahead, he walked to the exit and out to a row of waiting taxis.

“Can we please just get the fuckin' car and go?” Jeremy whined. He shoved the bottle of lotion in his pocket and pulled down his shirtsleeves. “This air is hurting me.”

Maury was bent over the rental car counter. “Just a second.” He signed the last form and pushed it toward the clerk, then straightened his hat and self-consciously felt his eye patch.

“Thank you, sir,” the clerk said as she reclaimed the form. Maury saw her nose wrinkle. He knew he and his brother emitted a slightly foul odor even at the best of times. “I'll get your keys and you'll be on your way. The lot is just through those doors.” She pointed down the terminal.

“Fine,” Maury said flatly. He wasn't fooled by her courtesy. He knew most people thought he and Jeremy were sickening.

“My feet,” Jeremy whispered to Maury. “I want to get somewhere and put the lotion on my feet.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Maury whispered. “What do you want me to do? Steal a car?”

Jeremy shifted nervously. “I better not lose another toe.”

“There you go,” the clerk said, dropping a set of car keys on the counter rather than putting them in Maury's outstretched hand. “Please don't hesitate to call with any questions or concerns. There's an attendant out in the lot to help you find the vehicle. It's a red Honda Civic.”

Maury stared at her with his good eye then slowly picked up the keys. He kept staring at her until her fake smile disappeared.

“Let's go,” Jeremy urged.

Maury grabbed the keys. “Thanks,” he said, and then left with his brother.

Father McCallum awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was barely six in the morning. He'd had a restless night, not knowing when the Vatican representative would show up, not knowing what would happen next in the great mystery of the Voynich.

He wanted more sleep. The night before, he had thought about going in to work late. Today was Friday, after all. The phone rang again and he reached for it.

“Hello?”

“Mr. McCallum?” a terse voice barked.

Father McCallum was immediately awake. “Yes, sir.” It was Garrett Eastman, assistant director of the Beinecke Library. Mr. Eastman had never telephoned him before.

“There's an issue. Can you come down to the library?”

It sounded like a question but the priest knew it wasn't. “Of course, of course,” he started. “What's going on?”

“I'd rather discuss it with you once you arrive. Thank you.”

“I'll be right there,” he said, his heart planted firmly in his throat. He hung up the phone and took a deep breath. He was sure something had happened to the Voynich manuscript.

He showered and checked his beard briefly to make sure it wasn't too unkempt. He dressed in record time, then headed downstairs. Good thing he'd kept the rental car — he was too keyed up to wait for a bus this morning. He found the car, unlocked it, got in, and drove.

As he approached the library, his fears escalated. There were three police vehicles parked right outside. His first irrational thought was that the library had discovered he was a spy. Should he drive right past? But he couldn't do that — he still
had a job to do for the church. He pulled up against the curb, turned the ignition off, took a breath, and got out of the car.

He made his way through the crowds gathered in front of the main entrance of the Beinecke, then saw an officer stationed at the door.

“I'm sorry, sir,” the policeman said, “the library is closed.”

“I work here,” the priest managed to say. “I was called down.”

“Got some id?”

Father McCallum showed his badge, and the officer held the door open for him.

The priest stepped into the Beinecke, expecting a flurry of activity, but the library was quiet. Too quiet.

“Hello?” His voice echoed in the cavernous area.

Garrett Eastman came through the doorway behind the security station. “Mr. McCallum,” he snapped. “Come in here, please.”

“Where is everyone? Why are there police outside?”

Garrett Eastman waited for the priest to join him behind the security desk then ushered him into the back room, explaining, “The police are searching the building, looking for clues or whatever it is that they do in such situations.”

“But what is the situation?” Father McCallum asked.

“Someone has stolen the Voynich manuscript.”

The Voynich! I knew it!
“What? How?”

“
How
is what we want to know. As the curator of the ancient collections you know all about our security in the Voynich display area. I believe you are one of the few who even had keys to the cases.”

He started to protest. “But I didn't —”

“Oh, stop,” Garrett interrupted. “You aren't a suspect. At least not yet.”

Father McCallum had been in the library's security nerve center only once, during the compulsory tour on his first day of work. The two men stopped near a control panel. A library security guard sat at the panel, and two police officers stood
next to him. Above the controls were rows of monitors showing different views of the library.

“Roll the tape,” Eastman said without introducing Father McCallum to anyone.

The security guard punched a few buttons, and they all watched as a uniformed security guard walked into the library.

“You can see he's carrying something to put the Voynich in — look right there.” The guard pointed to a large black portfolio visible on the screen.

The view blurred into fast forward and then switched and Father McCallum watched the guard on the screen walk to the main security desk, reach under, and pull out a set of keys.

“That's where Larry gets the keys to the Voynich room. He knows what he's doing,” the library guard announced.

“Larry?” Father McCallum asked.

“Larry Zarinski,” Eastman said. “He's been with us for only a few months but came with a stellar résumé, which included other posts at the university. He'd been in a car accident and was off on medical leave but made a miraculous recovery and decided to keep working. That's when he applied here at the library.”

“The car accident must've rattled this guy's brains loose,” one of the officers quipped.

The camera view blurred and switched again as the guard fast forwarded, and they all watched Larry walk through the library to the Voynich room. He used the keys to enter, and the camera view switched again.

On the screen, Larry set the portfolio down then moved to the case and started to rattle the lid. Then he stepped away from the case and held his arms up.

“You can see his lips moving here.” The guard again pointed at the screen. “I wish we had audio on these cameras.”

The screen went blank.

“What happened?” Father McCallum asked. “Where's the picture?”

“That's all we got,” Eastman said glumly. “For some reason the camera went dead, and all we have for the next ten minutes is static.”

“What about when he leaves? Do we see him leave?”