The Veritas Deception

by Lynne Constantine

  “According to legend, the owner of the field threw them into a fountain in Solomon’s temple. They were taken from there and paid to the guards stationed at Jesus’s tomb. When Mary Magdalene came to the tomb to tend to Jesus’s body, they were in such shock that he was gone, they gave the coins to her. Mary handed them over to Peter. Peter kept ten, gave ten to Matthew and ten to John.”

  “The same Saint John who wrote the Gospel?”

  He nods. “Yes. But then that John gave them to John of Patmos, the author of Revelation. The monastery on the island is named after him. During the war, when Friedrich was stationed on Patmos, he searched the cave where Saint John had lived, and ordered an archeological dig of the area near the cave, but they couldn’t find the coins. He found the ten that Peter hid while he was on Ephesus, but nothing on Patmos. Their healing power got him out of his wheelchair, but it doesn’t last forever. He suspected that someone on the island was hiding them. He went from house to house with the soldiers, but his search was interrupted by the end of the war.”

  “Where are the other ten?” I ask. “The ones Peter gave to Matthew.” It feels surreal to be sitting here talking about the saints from the Bible as though they are people I know.

  His face clouds over. “They are supposed to be in Jerusalem. We are still searching and we will find them. But he needs more time. We know your parents have ten. That will be enough to help him for now.”

  “How can you know that my parents have them?” This seems utterly preposterous to me.

  “I went back on Friedrich’s behalf, when I was eighteen. Took a tour of the monastery, visited the site where Friedrich believed one of the islanders may have buried them after the war was over. It was obvious that it had been disturbed, that someone took them. I talked to the islanders, got a list of all the families who had left. I’ve spent the past ten years interviewing them. I found out something very interesting at the last stop.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to say anything.

  “I found out that your mother was the sister of one of the monks at Saint John’s monastery. Your uncle had been entrusted with guarding the coins. I am told he gave them to her to bring to America.”

  It can’t be true, I think. My parents are just normal, boring people.

  “I have been watching them, watching you. I was delighted when you decided to pursue the fellowship we offered you.”

  “You lured me here because of this connection?” I sputter. “I know nothing of these coins. They have nothing to do with me.”

  “On the contrary, Maya. You have history in your blood. You are related to one of the monks in service of Saint John. My child will have even more power when he comes of age and holds those silver pieces. He will rule the new order.”

  “I hope you never get your hands on any of them. And just so you know, Friedrich’s decline will be swift and brutal. He won’t have the ability to rule anything, not even his own body.”

  He lunges toward me, his hand coming so fast, that I feel the slap before I see it. The sting is so sharp; I feel my cheek vibrating. But, I don’t regret speaking up. The look of anguish my words have caused him was worth it.

  He is on his feet within seconds, striding to the door. “What a pity for the world that your keen diagnostic talents will die along with you,” he throws over his shoulder as he leaves.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Brody Hamilton held a chair for Rita Avery. Even though Rita knew him well, and there was no need for beating around the bush, he wanted to have a little fun. He smiled at her.

  “Well, my dear. What have you got for me today? What new deceit awaits the good people of this country?”

  “Now, Senator, that’s not fair. I’m just trying to make sure my clients stay solvent so that we can continue to enjoy the fruits of their labor.” She paused and pulled a plastic container from her purse, took out a pill, and swallowed it. “Case in point—without these antibiotics, I’d be home in bed right now.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She continued. “We would like to remove the contraindications handed out with the medicine. It’s a huge waste of money—no one reads them anyway. Not to mention that it’s ecologically irresponsible. Instead we want to put a web address on the bottle’s label where customers can look them up.”

  It started as a chuckle, but within seconds, he was doubled over laughing. “Ecologically irresponsible? Oh, my dear. You have hit a new low.”

  She waited for him to finish.

  “Ah.” He sighed. “I needed that laugh.” He became serious again as he spoke. “Well, I’m just a small-town country boy, but I have to wonder, what about folks who don’t have a computer. You know, the majority of your market, those over seventy-five?”

  Her shiny, glossed lips parted in a fawning smile. “There will also be the option to request the literature from the pharmacist.”

  Sipping his Johnny Walker Blue, he rubbed his chin with his free hand. “Just a suggestion, but maybe you ought to lead with that. Tone down the altruism. Aint’ nobody gonna believe the drug pushers give a whit about the planet. That dog won’t hunt. Make it about efficiency. Cost savings passed down to the customers. Have it to me by the end of the week.”

  She nodded in agreement. “Thank you, Senator.”

  He fidgeted with his fountain pen after she left. It would be easy to get this one through. She was right: no one did read the inserts. This bill was only the beginning. The framing for what was to come later. One step at a time as his grandma used to say. Everything that happens starts one step at a time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  As they drove in the darkness, more memories rushed back to Taylor, memories she hadn’t let herself think about in ages. Jack was inextricably entwined with her past. She could barely think back to any event without seeing his face. Some of her most cherished memories of childhood included him. Of course, it wasn’t all good. There were the times Jack had come running to her house, the pain fresh in his eyes, after a shouting match with his father when he’d forgotten a chore, or hadn’t completed it to his dad’s standards. She’d wanted to make it all better for him, make him feel loved. When they were still little, she’d grab his hand and pull him outside; then they’d jump on their bikes, pedaling as fast as they could, to see who was the quickest. That always got his mind off things. When they were finished, her mother would make them chocolate milkshakes, and they’d talk and giggle, as if nothing were wrong.

  As he got older, the stakes increased. No matter what he did, it was never enough for his father. Jack had to go out for the varsity football team, make the honor roll, and hustle to get more lawns mowed or driveways shoveled than anyone. But the thing that had infuriated Jack the most, was his father’s insistence on Jack being an altar boy and pushing him toward the priesthood. As the only son of a large Catholic family, they pinned all their hopes on Jack becoming a man of the cloth. What they didn’t realize was that’d he given up on the church long before he’d graduated high school. He confessed to Taylor that he’d lost faith in a religion that spat out rules with no regard to how they affected its members. He’d watched his mother battle depression his entire life, and refuse to get any help. Her friends told her to pray more, to give it to God. It wasn’t until years later, that Taylor realized it was postpartum depression made worse by her almost constant state of pregnancy. Jack’s bitterness with the church had always been a source of tension between him and his parents.

  When he’d gotten the letter from Columbia University, Taylor and her family had been the only ones cheering for him. If it hadn’t been for the football scholarship, she doubted he would have been able to go, despite the fact that his father’s tire store had grown to include chains in ten states, and they could easily have afforded it.

  She remembered that his father had made a spur-of-the-moment trip to Jack’s apartment in New York the weekend before he died. But they hadn’t talked about it at the funeral—she kne
w Jack better than to press him. She’d meant to draw it out gradually, over the months following, but never got the chance. He’d met Dakota soon after.

  “Jack?”

  “Hmm?”

  “That weekend, the one before your father died. I’ve always wondered, did you resolve things with him?”

  He gave her a quick glance, then his eyes went back to the road. “It’s strange. But I think maybe he knew, somehow, that he was on borrowed time. You know, he never once came to see me at school, except for graduation of course. Then out of the blue he calls and says he wants to come see where I live.”

  Taylor waited for him to go on.

  He sighed. “I asked if he wanted to see the sights. As close as we lived to New York, he’d never been. But no, he said, he just wanted to spend some time with me. We went to McSorley’s and threw back some of their ale. He told me he was proud of me.” He cleared his throat. “That’s the first time I ever heard him say that.”

  “That must have made you happy.”

  Jack shook his head. “It pissed me off. Why did he have to wait twenty-four years to tell me? All my life, I was never good enough, and then suddenly he’s proud of me? We spent the rest of the night talking sports.”

  She was sorry to hear it, but she supposed it was unrealistic to expect one weekend to undo years of strife. “He loved you, Jack. In his own way. He did the best he could.”

  “Sure.” He paused. “There was something else.”

  “What?”

  “He told me that I’d made the right choice with you. That you were the real deal and to never let you go.”

  She felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. “He—”

  Jack tapped the steering wheel. “Guess it’s a good thing he didn’t live long enough to see that I’d disappointed him once again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Institute, 1975

  October

  “Any message you’d like me to take to your parents?”

  I feel my blood turn to ice. “No,” is all I can manage. He can’t go near them. Please let him only be taunting me.

  “Since you don’t have any useful information, I have no choice but to go to the source.”

  I scramble to come up with a solution.

  “Let me talk to them. They’ll tell me. I can find them for you, get the coins for you in exchange for my freedom.”

  He laughs at me. “You have no bargaining chips. Once they know I have you here, they’ll hand the coins over, I’m quite sure.”

  My parents were expecting me home a month ago. I wonder if they believe the lies they have been told by Damon’s people. That I failed out of the fellowship and took off to parts unknown. They may believe that I was ashamed enough not to return to them. It’s a feasible cover story, considering how I’ve always defined myself by my accomplishments. They must be so hurt. But my sister will know better. She knows I would never do that to her. I know with certainty that she is searching for me. Oh, how I miss her.

  I think back to the last Sunday we were all together. Mama always made a big dinner, and I went when I could. As soon as she and Papa would return from church, my mother would cook—homemade meals full of calories and love. Over dinner she would tell me about the priest’s sermon. She was always trying to talk me into going to church with them, but I refused. How many times did my mother look at me, tilt her head, and cluck her tongue? Maya, my girl, God loves you. Don’t you know he loves you? After dinner, we’d linger, sipping our coffee, and sampling the assortment of pastries sitting in the middle of the table on a large platter. I close my eyes, and will myself there, to that table I took for granted, where my papa’s smiles warmed me, and my mama’s hand fed me. What I would give for one more dinner.

  “I suppose you think your parents are wonderful, don’t you?” His voice brings me crashing back to the present.

  I don’t know whether he expects an answer or not.

  “Well, Maya? Are they? Are they wonderful?”

  “They’re good parents,” I stammer. “We never wanted for anything. They did their best to provide good futures for us.” I become emboldened. “They sacrificed to pay for medical school for me and my sister.” I sit up straighter. “Yes, they’re great parents.”

  He laughs. A soft, mirthless laugh. “You are a fool if you believe that. Sacrificed? Nonsense. You fed their ego, fulfilled their purpose in your life. Two doctors in the family. How admirable. What good parents. They didn’t do it out of love for you. No, they did it purely for bragging rights.”

  I shake my head, lift my hands and cover my ears. He’s wrong. My parents love me with all their hearts, and I love them. But, I’ll never get to tell them that again. I don’t want to hear any more of his vile perspective on human nature. I will not allow him to steal my past. To pervert my memories.

  He stands up. “Cover your ears all you like. The fact remains: no one loves anyone but themselves. The sooner you accept that fact; the sooner you’ll learn not to be taken advantage of.”

  “Not taken advantage of?” I explode. “I’m a prisoner. I’ve lost everything. My freedom—even the right to my own body. You dare to lecture me on how to live? What choices are left to me now?”

  He advances until he is towering over me. I recoil and slide back.

  “Why are you complaining? You always wanted to be the best. You’ve beat out everyone for the privilege of bearing my heir. You should pat yourself on the back that you were picked. You are elite. But remember, pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.” He laughs again. “Imagine that, me, quoting from the Bible.”

  I won’t accept responsibility for his insanity. Yes, I was proud, but I don’t deserve this. I can’t bear the thought of him getting near my parents. If he’s going to tell them he’s holding me prisoner, that must mean he intends to kill them.

  “Please don’t hurt them,” I beg him.

  “I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  They had been driving for a few hours. Taylor looked at Jack’s hand shifting gears and remembered his touch. He had strong hands. They were nice hands, she thought, not too big but still masculine. They were hands you could depend on. Or they were once. Forget about his hands. What was wrong with her? She sighed.

  “Let’s look for a place to stop for the night,” Jack said.

  Half an hour later, they pulled into the parking lot of a small highway motel. Jack pulled his baseball cap down as far as he could and went to the front office. Minutes later he returned with a room key.

  At least this room had two double beds. She was exhausted and climbed into one immediately. Beau hopped up and nestled by her side. Her mind was racing. A part of her wanted to call out to Jack, to feel his arms around her and relax in his comforting embrace. It would be so nice to just pretend everything was good between them. She shifted again, restless. Stop thinking ridiculous thoughts. She felt disloyal to Malcolm, then a quick surge of anger when she remembered she didn’t owe him her loyalty any longer. She didn’t even know who he really was. She had married him thinking he was a straight arrow, someone who would never betray her. She still didn’t understand how she could have been so easily deceived.

  Watching as Jack bolted the door and pushed a chair against it for good measure, she noticed how the T-shirt he was wearing showed off his muscled back and trim waist. The stirrings of desire fluttered as she remembered the feel of those strong arms. She flipped over to face the wall, her back to him, and pulled the covers up to her chin.

  When he got into bed and turned the light off, she closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. She kicked her leg out from under the sheet, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “You still awake?” Jack whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you have any idea about Malcolm? Any suspicions that something was off?”

  “Of course n
ot. Some journalist, huh?”

  “It’s not your fault. People aren’t always what they seem, and we want to see the best in those we love.”

  They had both married frauds, she realized. But surely, there had to have been more to her marriage than Malcolm’s deception. She couldn’t believe that everything between them had been a lie. No one could be that good an actor. Lying there in the dark, it felt comforting, unburdening, to talk about it.

  “I met him the night Twenty-Four Seven was running a story that had taken me a year to produce. I was exhausted and exhilarated. It was about Operation Paperclip, a covert program that smuggled Nazi war criminals to the US. I was going to my dad’s to watch it, and Malcolm had been invited to dinner.”

  “He was friends with your father?”

  “I guess. I’m not sure how Dad knew him. It was the first time I’d ever seen him. At first, I wasn’t interested, thought he was too old and too typical, Washington-power type. Then I found out that he’d lost both his parents when he was a teenager. It made me feel close to him.”

  “I can see that. What you went through, losing your mom—not many people get what that really does to you.”

  She thought back to the days following the funeral, after everyone had gone back to normal and expected her to do the same. All except Jack. He’d been by her side, not asking anything of her, instead offering a steady and consistent comfort.

  “I’ll never forgot how you helped me through it. Looking back, I don’t know how you stood it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All those nights when I snuck next door to your house and crawled in your room, and you held me while I sobbed. That went on for months. It had to get old.”

  She heard him shift in his bed. “It never got old. But it broke my heart.”

  The raw pain of that memory took her by surprise, and she brushed a tear from her cheek. Trying to lighten the mood, she said, “At least you were rescued when they sent me away to boarding school.”