by Yasmin Esack
“Hearing?”
“No.”
“Okay, everything looks good. It’ll take a few minutes for the sensors to bring up all your vital data. The nurse will be in shortly to take your blood and urine samples. You can get dressed after that and meet me back in my office.”
Fifteen minutes later, Olsen smiled at a woman who stood at Barnaby’s door. She was short and thin but her face bore the remnants of a once stunning lady. The dark circles under her eyes exposed her addictions.
“Mom, this is Julius,” he heard Myrtle say, “and, we’re getting married soon.”
Mara Foster stared at the smiling face of the tall Olsen. She felt her head spin. He was awesome, she thought, with an aura that could conquer the world. She stared harder as he held his hand out.
“Hello, Mrs. Foster.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, finally. Myrtle speaks a lot about you.”
“Have a seat, Mara,” Barnaby said as he walked in.
Mara Foster took a seat next to Myrtle. She was a polished lady when it came to attire, dressed in a tailored white suit that matched her shoes and handbag. She addressed Barnaby in a rich, velvet voice.
“Louis, I take it everything is working out fine.”
“No, it isn’t, nothing’s fine,” Myrtle blurted, not giving Barnaby a chance to answer.
The silence that ensued embarrassed Mara as she thought of something more to say. In the distance she could hear her husband’s footsteps nearing the doorway.
“You dad’s here, Myrtle.”
Myrtle got up and hurried toward him. “Dad, come and meet Julius,” she said grabbing his hand.
Art Foster was built at six feet four. His thinning hair made him seem larger than he really was and his toned muscles bulged through the tightness if his sweatshirt. He glanced at Olsen, saying nothing.
“Myrtle is pregnant, Art,” Mara said dryly. “Louis just told me.”
“What?”
“We’re getting married, Dad,” Myrtle pleaded.
“Over my dead body. I want both of you out of here!” Without another word, Art Foster stormed out.
Myrtle’s lips quivered. “Mom, what’s this?”
Mara couldn’t tell her daughter that her father had changed and that marriage was nothing to want, nothing to aspire for. She wanted to tell her to run and find a job, to forget the idea. She couldn’t tell her that Art wanted neither of them and that at sixty-one, she was penniless and heartbroken.
Myrtle looked at her still hoping for an answer but Mara couldn’t find words.
“Come on, Julius,” she said finally, “Let’s go.”
Less than ten minutes she started her car and bolted unto the highway going north.
“I hate them,” she shouted. “They think money’s everything. It’s not. That’s what they live for. It sickens me. There’s more to life than money.”
“Hey, you’re driving too fast. Pull aside a minute,” Olsen pleaded.
Myrtle pulled onto the curb. “I don’t want to go back home, Julius, not ever.”
“Try to be calm, love.”
“How could Daddy do this? Mom drugs herself every day and half the time she’s asleep. Dad’s never home because he has another life elsewhere.”
Olsen held her close. He felt her body tremble. “Please don’t upset yourself like this. We can work this out.”
Myrtle managed a smile. “When I’m with you, I feel just fine. I know you can heal me. I know you can.”
“Let’s go to my house. I’ll fix you something and we can talk, okay?” As he held her, Olsen felt more than the pain of Myrtle’s broken heart. He felt fear. Art Foster was the man who was stalking him and he was G.W. Foster’s younger brother.
Chapter 79
Barnaby hurried back to his office having wasted time chasing Art down the lobby. As he approached his door, a woman’s worried face made him forget about him and his silly outburst.
“Dr. Barnaby?” she called in a troubled tone.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Please, come in.”
“This is my son, Kyle.”
“Hello, Kyle,” Barnaby smiled.
“We need to talk to you.”
“Sure. Sit.”
The woman scanned the room that seemed no different from any medic’s room. A stethoscope lay on top Barnaby’s desk and boxes of pills were piled everywhere. With much anxiety, she fitted her oversize frame on a seat.
“What can I do for you?” Barnaby inquired.
Her embarrassment was obvious as she tried to find words. “Uh…uh.”
“Take your time,” Barnaby encouraged.
“He is becoming a female. My son is male and female, doctor.”
Before he could respond, his phone rang. He grabbed it.
“Louis!” he heard Mara scream. “Louis, help me, help me, please,” she cried.
“Mara, what’s going on?”
“I…I,” the woman gasped for breath.
“For God sakes, what is it?”
“I…I followed Myrtle and Olsen to Lake Forest after Art walked out.”
“Calm down a bit, Mara.”
“As I was coming out my car, I heard a loud bang. Some…Someone shot Julius Olsen, Louis, as he was about to enter his home. My God, Louis, someone shot him,” the woman cried.
“Is he dead?”
“He is, dear God, he is. Please, help us.”
“Where are you?”
“Number 13, Lake Forest Condos.”
Chapter 80
“Julius! Julius!” Myrtle cried, her tears flowing into the blood that seeped from Olsen’s head. His body was face down on his terrace, lifeless. “Julius, talk to me,” she sobbed uncontrollably.
In her distress, she took no notice of the Caucasian man perched on a branch thirty feet from her, nor did she see when he placed his shotgun and silencer away. The compound of Lake Forest Condos was eerie and empty at 2.40 P.M.
“I called the police,” Mara said pulling her daughter from her grasp of Olsen’s shirt but Myrtle held on. “Please, get a hold of yourself,” Mara pleaded, tears streaming from her eyes too.
“I can’t. He’s dead. He’s dead.” Myrtle was beyond hysterical.
An ambulance and a police car pulled up. Two men surrounded Olsen’s body as neighbours pulled curtains to peep.
“Looks like some kind of high powered bullet hit him. It’s ripped off the back of his skull. Somebody really wanted this dude dead. Let’s get him out of here. Move aside, please. Move aside,” a paramedic ordered.
Reluctantly, Myrtle let go of Olsen’s shirt and held herself up. It wasn’t long before the ambulance sped away with him in the back covered in a white sheet of death. Myrtle looked aged and gaunt staring after it. Near lifeless, she slid to the ground and buried her head in her hands.
“I love him with all my heart. I can’t live anymore. I don’t want to.” Her chest heaved with emotion as more tears flowed. “Dear God, why?” she wailed.
“I know it’s hard, Baby.” Mara wrapped her arms around her daughter, desperately trying to comfort her. Myrtle’s blouse was wet from tears. Olsen’s blood was all over her skirt. The wind pushed back the hair from her face exposing eyes that stared empty. It was as if Myrtle’s life had ended too. “Life gives us too much, my child. I prayed every day that something like this wouldn’t happen to you. All I’ve ever wanted was your happiness.”
“I don’t want to go on,” she said.
“You’re carrying his child. You have to.”
Suddenly, Myrtle grew quiet. Her focus shifted from Olsen’s blood that was on the terrace to herself.
“The pains are coming,” she screamed, placing her hand to her stomach. “Dear God, the baby’s coming.”
“What?” Mara cried out.
“I’m in labour. Oh! God,” she screamed again.
“Are you sure?”
“Mom!”
Mara ran next door and banged on a window. “Help me! Please help me.”
&n
bsp; An ambulance sped Myrtle to All Saints Medical. In the lobby, Mara sat alone waiting. She looked up as Barnaby appeared.
“I’m sorry things turned out this way.” He placed a comforting arm around her. “I’m truly sorry about all of this.”
“At our age we pick up the pieces, don’t we?”
“Louis?” someone called out.
Barnaby tuned to the approaching footsteps of Dr. Raj Chandra.
“I’m sorry,” Chandra said. “Myrtle passed away.”
Mara stared into the air. She seemed a hundred times more drawn but managed to find her voice.
“Somehow, I expected it. I knew something like this would happen.”
“Myrtle had a boy. The baby’s doing just fine.”
“I wish I could take him but I don’t even know how I’m going to live.”
“Don’t worry about him now,” Barnaby said.
“Strange how life takes its turns.”
“It is, isn’t it? Come into my office and I’ll get you some tea. We need to talk and to call Art.” He turned to Raj Chandra, “Can you join us?”
“Sure.”
Barnaby led the way to the upper floor.
Chapter 81
“You’re gone, my friend, and…and it’s hard,” Hart said wiping his eyes as he stood over Olsen’s burial site at Woodland Cemetery. The crowd had dispersed when he began walking to the parking lot feeling lost. He’d even forgotten Avery Lengard and the gospel pages. He walked slowly, his head bent.
“Dr. Hart?” someone called.
He jumped. The voice sounded much like Olsen’s. The intonation in the h was his, he swore. His heart thumping, he spun around. Standing before him was a tall man. His hair was curly and grey, his posture erect and youthful, something that belied his age. He was a deeply saddened man.
“I’m Radan,” the man said stooping down to caress the dirt that covered his son’s grave. Tears rolled down his eyes as he asked, “Who did this?”
“I wish I knew, believe me. I’m so sorry. More than anything, I wish I could bring him back.”
“If only we could.” Radan pulled a handkerchief from his jacket. He wiped his face and spoke. “I…I wasn’t the best father to him and I wanted desperately to make up for it. His short temper was on account of me. I came here to tell him all that I didn’t in his life. Julius was born by insemination. His biological mother is unknown. My wife adorned him. He was her life and soul. Thank God she’s already gone. This would have been too much.”
“I feel so devastated, Radan, believe me, I’m lost for words.”
“When he was a boy he was bored with school and he would look at us with pleading eyes that said, please try and understand me. But, I didn’t and I would hit him more. Those eyes have haunted me all my life. I never knew about brilliance. Nobody in my family went to university. It was my dream for him. One day a teacher came and told us he was different. They gave him a test and he went to university at the age of twelve.”
“Olsen wasn’t just a brilliant man but a man of consciousness, a simple man who never let his talents get to him. I think that’s what I loved about him most.” Hart wiped away drops of rain from his face with the back of his hand. “He was humble and a friend to all.”
“When he left Copenhagen, I was upset. People were envious of him but I didn’t want him to come here. Now, he’s dead.”
Hart looked at the sky. “The rain’s coming harder. We’d better go.”
Radan turned and bid farewell to his son for the last time. “Good bye, Son. I love you and I know you are with her. I will always love you.”
“Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll go get some coffee.” Hart led the way through Olsen’s house half an hour later.
“Thank you, Tom.”
From the back patio, Radan stared at a skyline of modern buildings against a backdrop of the Pacific Coast. He walked in and sat on Olsen’s worn sofa. A foot away, he caught a glimpse of a letter on a side table. It was a letter from NASA. He picked it up and read it. His eyes watered with pride. Julius had indeed fulfilled his dream to be in space one day. He put the letter in his pocket as Hart placed teacups down and sat facing him.
“Please, help yourself.”
“This is a nice place, Tom.” Radan gazed around the room again. A photograph of Myrtle caught his attention. “Who is she? She’s very pretty.”
“That’s Myrtle. They were engaged to be married.”
“Julius first got married at the age of nineteen.”
“To Steffi Larsen. He told me about it.”
“I guess he needed something that felt real in his life back then. It didn’t work out. Where’s Myrtle?”
“Myrtle passed away in childbirth, yesterday.”
“Dear God.” Radan’s face cringed with more pain.
“You have a grandson. Baby Olsen so far until we find a name.”
“What?”
“You have a grandson,” Hart repeated.
“Where is he?”
“He’s at All Saints Medical. I’m going to see him later. Would you like to come?”
“Of course I would.” Radan managed a smile for the first time and took a sip of coffee as Hart stared at all that remained of Olsen. His eyes rested on piles of data that stood on a long table at the side of the room. He was every bit a hardened man but he wasn’t coming to grips with Olsen’s murder.
“Have you any idea who did this, Tom?”
“Possibly Art Foster, Myrtle’s father.”
“But, why?”
“It may be connected to what he found in Inca artefacts or, maybe, a personal reason. I have no idea why anyone would want to harm Olsen to be honest.”
“There has to be more to it than a date, Tom.”
“I agree.”
“Can you think of anything at all?”
Hart pondered. “I…I know Olsen discovered what he believed was alien information.”
“Alien information?”
“He believed that numbers etched on a tablet that Bentley had found was a date for their return. Maybe, that was the cause of his death. I really don’t understand this. Bentley waited a very long time for someone who could decipher Quipu. When Olsen showed how, he was ecstatic. He was deciphering a lot, including the Quipus on Andean religion. Information about aliens came from a Quipu.”
“Julius was a master of codes. He could decode anything. Do you know that Julius has a brother here in the US?”
“Really?”
“Alejandro Ferelli. His father is Santiago Ferelli”
“New York City’s mayor?”
“Yes. My wife and I decided to have another child when Julius left for university. But my wife fell gravely ill and the child was adopted by Santiago and his wife. I would like to see Alejandro. When I spoke to Julius a couple of weeks ago he told me he had never met him. Besides, he was too excited about the Quipus. The Inca date really obsessed him. For his sake, please find it. The world needs to know.”
“I will,” Hart said, not knowing how he would. Bentley hadn’t called and he was beginning to worry about him. His concern was interrupted when Radan spoke again.
“Do you know about La Croix’s painting, Tom?”
“The Dawning you mean?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Julius also told me the Inca date for the new age and La Croix’s were the same.”
“He did?” Hart recalled the date he had seen on the painting.
“And, I know whoever killed my son knows a lot about his work. I fear Bentley may be dead too.” Radan coughed. His voice bore the rasp of a smoker when he spoke again. “Look, I need to say something.”
“Go on,” Hart edged.
“I know who killed Francis La Croix.”
“The artist who painted, The Dawning?”
“Yes, and, I’m beginning to think it may be the same person behind my son’s death.”
“Who’re you talking about?” Ha
rt soon realized there was a lot more to Radan than his humble façade.
“Olsen’s murderer isn’t Art Foster. He may not have liked my son but, he’s not a killer.” Radan paused to gather his thoughts. “I suspect it’s the work of Foster and the fanatical Brotherhood. They murdered La Croix.”
Hart shot up. “I should’ve known. They tried to kill me. I should’ve warned him! I just didn’t for one moment think they would go after him.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Tom.”
“I do. A great guy has gone for nothing. He was so excited about his work. He said the Q’ero people were awaiting the next Inti, the one who transforms the earth, to usher in a new millennium. Even the Aztecs predicted a new spirit of men will arise after one thousand and forty-four years. The Mayans believed that, in the fifth age, men will realize their spiritual destiny and in the sixth, men will know God’s in them. In the seventh, Mankind will be telepathic. The date was Olsen’s life.”
“Let me tell you how I know it’s them. Steffi Larsen, my son’s ex-wife, worked at the office of Crime International in Basle. She had seen a file listing him as Indiserable Element, an undesirable element. She had called and told me about it. I was, of course, shocked. I asked her why this was. She told me she had questioned Monsieur Thibault, the head of Crime Internationale, about it and he had said it was the Brotherhood but would offer no further explanation except to say that it was they who had killed Francis La Croix.”
“I see.”
“Whatever was bothering the Brotherhood had to be connected to Julius’s and Bentley’s work. So, I started to examine the reason.”
“The Inca Quipus of course.”
“Exactly. There were secrets in the Inca artefacts that were beyond a prophetic date or alien information, secrets that Foster and LaPlotte didn’t want revealed.”
“It’s the claim of Andean Christianity. That’s what it is. Foster got away last time but I’ll make sure he won’t this time. God, I blame myself for this.”
“Don’t!”
“I do! This could’ve been avoided. I’m sure Olsen was being followed, as I was. He’s was such a good person, he told no one.”
“Foster believes the Inca were heretics. The Naples Document bothers him as it did the Frenchman, LaPlotte. Valera’s claim of Christianity was meant to create trouble and nothing more. To suggest the Inca religion had some similarity to Christianity was too much for a man like LaPlotte. Olsen’s death is about this and nothing more.”
