Read Online In Tongues of the Dead by Brad Kelln - Free Book Online Page B

her back. Between her cropped shirt and low-cut jeans he could see a tattoo on the small of her back. He liked the young woman even more.
    â€œDr. Tunnel?”
    The clerk had distracted him. He turned to find one of his patients standing right next to him. “Harold! What are you doing here?”
    â€œI saw you come in and just wanted to say hi.”
    Jake turned to the counter where the server was setting his coffee down. He handed her a two dollar coin and asked for a receipt. Without looking around, he asked, “You aren’t following me, are you, Harold?”
    â€œOh, no, Dr. Tunnel,” Harold said earnestly. “I just saw you go in here.”
    â€œBut our appointment isn’t for another hour.” The barista tried to give him change but Jake accepted only his receipt.
    â€œI don’t want to be late. I always come down early and just walk around.”
    Jake nodded. “That’s great. I’ll see you later, then.” He started for the door.
    â€œYes, Dr. Tunnel. Thank you.”
    In the past few days, Harold Grower had been popping up at odd times. He said the encounters were accidental, but Jake wasn’t sure. Harold was a vulnerable man who needed constant reassurance from others — especially Jake. Jake knew that soon they would have to discuss the encounters in therapy. When unhealthy attachments couldn’t be fixed, it often meant terminating the therapy sessions and referring the patient elsewhere. Jake tried to keep a professional distance to avoid feeding into Harold’s dependence.
    But the frequency with which he showed up was increasing. Jake and his family would be at Mic Mac Mall and see Harold. They’d have dinner at East Side Mario’s and Harold would be sitting somewhere nearby. Jake thought the guy was becoming a pest — a smiling, enthusiastic, appreciative pest.
    As he headed back down Salter Street he pushed Harold out of his mind and focused on his next client, a guy whose treatment-resistant schizophrenia made for some bizarre sessions.
    It just never ends
, he thought, and rolled his eyes as he pushed open the doors of the Brewery Market.

XIX
    Father McCallum sat on his bed. His head ached. His body felt sick. He had waited much of his life to understand one book, and now that book was gone. Some lunatic had stolen it just when the mystery was going to be solved. Everything was ruined.
    He’d run from the library as soon as he could, and driven the rental car home, wanting only to crawl into his bed and pull the covers over his head.
    But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
    All the questions the police kept asking him swirled through his head.
Who’d want to steal it? Why? How much is it worth? Who’d pay for it
? He’d been able to give only half-answers. He couldn’t tell them the value of the book — he didn’t know its value. And if he told them the Vatican had been watching the Voynich for years, they’d never believe him.
    So he ran home.
    He felt light-headed. Should he have some breakfast? He wasn’t sure he had the strength to go downstairs. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

    â€œRonald!”
    Father McCallum bolted awake. “Yes?”
    â€œRonald!”
    The sound came from all around him. He opened his eyes, his head in a fog.
How long have I been sleeping
?
    But he wasn’t in his room.
    Nothing looked familiar.
    Except it
was
familiar. He was lying on the steps by thecommunion rail. It was dark, but he could just make out the altar and the first row of pews.
    â€œThou are not of this Church,” the voice boomed. “There is no welcome for thee in my house.”
    â€œWhere am I?” He could hear his voice shake.
    â€œThou shalt not address that which is and has always been, world without end. Thou hast become an abomination in my sight. A horrible mistake. A blight on the world. Thou wilst be removed.”
    â€œWhat are you