The Veritas Deception

by Lynne Constantine

  The psychiatrist picks up the thread. “Most of these criminals have been exposed to this behavior from their male caregivers. They have been subjected to torture and abuse themselves, then forced to participate in these crimes until their sexual appetites are perverted. We will attempt to replicate this to see if our theories are indeed correct. We will also inundate them through their auditory channel, with the sounds of women pleading, anguished cries, and so on, until they become desensitized to them. It is a protocol that we’ve—”

  Damon interrupts him. “So you believe you can find the key to how rapists and sadists develop?”

  “That is our hypothesis. We can begin tomorrow.”

  Crosse stands. “I look forward to your updates.” He turns to me. “Let’s go.”

  As we walk down the hall I can’t help but see how pleased with himself he looks.

  “They think they’re working on a cure, but you’re going to use it to make sexual predators.”

  He smiles at me. “Ah, Maya. You’re catching on.”

  “If they’re looking for a cure, why wouldn’t they take existing deviants and try to do the opposite, to make their appetites normal?”

  “It’s too late by then. Those men are too damaged. We need to reach people earlier. The research wouldn’t bear it out, and I couldn’t find anyone to agree to experiment on children. This way, if it works, they can reverse the methods to be used on younger subjects that are pulled from such circumstances.”

  I shake my head. “It’s a specious argument. Your scientists are charlatans.”

  “They are not your traditional doctors. If, at first, they worried about turning normal men into rapists and sadists, their egos allowed them to believe the lie—that they could turn them back. They are lured by the promise of becoming pioneers, of discovering a cure for what is currently incurable. To turn a predatory sexual deviant into a contributing member of society is the head shrinker’s holy grail.” He arches an eyebrow. “See? Self-interest at work once again.”

  “And how are you going to implement this into society? Are you going to kidnap young men and brainwash them?”

  “Of course not. I will implement another training program at The Institute and rewire the brains of our future leaders. I’ll be judicious, but done to the right men, the consequences will be far-reaching. You’d be amazed at what men will do to satisfy their deviant urges. Only a little tweak here and there to a select few—I can’t risk turning out an army of sociopaths, after all, I need to keep control.”

  I hate him with every fiber of my being. I want to crush him. I want to watch him bleed and die. I now understand how someone can murder. I know we are supposed to love our enemies, but this man standing before me is not worthy of love. There isn’t a shred of humanity in him. If I didn’t know better, I would believe he was the devil incarnate. I can’t allow him to raise my child. I must figure out a way to prevent this child from being born alive. I will find a way and hope that God will forgive me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  “Do you have everything?” Jack and Taylor were ready to go to the library.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  She was quiet as he drove. “Jack, do you mind stopping? I want to get a ginger ale. My stomach is upset.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Of course everything is not all right. My husband’s dead, our lives are in danger, and I don’t even know what we’re doing. What if this is just a huge wild-goose chase? And when it’s all over, then what? I thought I had a good life with Malcolm. Turns out he was a liar too.”

  Too? Jack thought. Was that how she saw him? A liar? He pulled up to a 7-Eleven and put the car in park. He turned to face her. “Come on, Taylor. I know you’re grieving for Malcolm, but time will heal.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes. “Is that what you think, Jack? Time will heal? Let me tell you something—it doesn’t heal. It only numbs the pain tearing your heart apart until you can’t feel anything anymore. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” She poked him in the chest. “You and I were supposed to be together. But you ran off and married that psycho!” Taylor threw the door open and ran into the store leaving Jack alone and shaken.

  Jack sat shamefaced, Taylor’s words still ringing in his ears. He looked at Beau, who had leaned forward and licked his hand. “At least you’re not mad at me, huh, fur ball?”

  He stroked the soft coat absently and thought maybe it was a good thing that Taylor had gotten angry. It was time they cleared the air. He wanted to explain about Dakota, but how? He barely understood it himself, and he had no excuses or explanations for what he had done. He couldn’t blame her for hating him. Despite the roller-coaster existence, it had never occurred to him to leave Dakota in the beginning. No matter how low she sank, how nasty she became, he stood by her and opened his heart again when the loving Dakota returned. He held no grudges, never threw her heartless words back at her. For her part, she seemed to have amnesia regarding her black spells. There were never any apologies, no pleas for forgiveness. She accepted it as her due that he would be there, on the other side of her depression, waiting for her return to him. His friends told him he was crazy, that he should leave. It was out of the question. Was he happy, they wanted to know? Happy? Had he ever been happy? In those rare moments of self-reflection, he would admit that yes, he had been happy—when he had been with Taylor. She’d been the only bright spot in a childhood marred by many seasons of melancholy and moroseness.

  How had he failed to see it? He’d replicated his childhood when he’d married Dakota—it was the same wretched, unpredictable, insanity-filled life. Each pregnancy his beautiful Irish Catholic mother—with a poet’s soul and a mournful heart—endured had plunged her deeper into depression, her emergence from the depths more arduous with each subsequent baby. Jack was her second. For as far back as he could remember, she had always been pregnant. When he left home at eighteen, he had seven siblings and a mother barely functioning. He’d begged his father to do something. Get her help. Stop knocking her up. They were Catholics, his father reminded him. Birth control was a sin. His father rebuked him for interfering with their “personal business” and insisted there was nothing wrong with his wife that a little time wouldn’t cure. Taylor had been his mooring. Her family became his, and he spent his evenings at their dinner table, wishing they were his family instead—until the day when he knew he wanted much more from Taylor than to be a brother. How different both of their lives would have been if he’d kept his word to her. God knows he had paid the price for his mistakes—was still paying it every day. But that did nothing to alleviate Taylor’s pain or to absolve him for causing it. Taylor approached the car looking sheepish and got in.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I don’t know what got into me.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. You were right. I should have never married her. To say I’m sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it, and I don’t know what I could ever say to make up for what I did.”

  She ran her hands through her hair.

  “It’s water under the bridge. Long time ago,” she said quietly. “The stress of all of this, it’s making me a little nuts.”

  “No, it’s not. Taylor, can we please talk about it? I can’t stand to have this huge thing between us. I know what I did was unforgivable. I’d like to at least try and explain.”

  “I don’t think I really want to rehash it all. I know things didn’t turn out well for you, and I’m sorry.” She looked down.

  He didn’t mince words.

  “Are you talking about the baby?”

  She looked up. “Yes.” She ran her thumb back and forth over her fingernail. “How could she? I’ll never understand it.” She shook her head.

  Clearing his throat several times he finally answered. “She blamed it on me.”

  “What?”

  “She hated being pregnant, gaining weight. She used to berate me daily about what I’d done to her.”


  Taylor said nothing.

  “The day it happened, we’d had a fight. She kept egging me on, trying to get me to say that I thought she’d be a terrible mother. I finally did. I’ve never seen a look of triumph like the one on her face that day. When I came home, I found her in the tub. Right before she passed out she told me it was all my fault.”

  Taylor was horrified.

  “Jack, don’t you see that she’d planned it all along? No woman is going to cut a child out of her stomach just because of a few words. No sane person would do that.”

  He put his head in his hands. “I know that intellectually. But I still feel responsible. She killed my child just to spite me. That’s how much she despised me. How could I fall for a person like that?”

  Taylor pursed her lips. “How did you?” It came out as a whisper.

  He was anguished. “I wish I knew. It was the worst mistake of my life. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

  She closed her eyes and finally answered, “I don’t know if I can.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The Institute, 1975

  December

  I retrieve the shard of glass from my hiding place and slip it into my pocket. I dare not try anything in my room or my bathroom—I know he has cameras everywhere. But today he is taking me to the screening room. He wants to show me the television programming of the future. I plan to ask to use the bathroom in the middle of it, and then I will do what needs to be done.

  “Would you like to see an example of one of these shows?”

  Not really, I want to say, but I know he’ll show me anyway. I merely nod.

  “This first one will be what we’ll call a ‘true life show.’”

  “A what?”

  “A show where the characters are real people, not actors. Cameras will follow them, and we’ll get a glimpse into their actual lives. What you’re about to see is the model for one of these shows.”

  The room goes dark and the screen lights up. Red letters appear one at a time until the title is displayed: AFFAIRS OF THE STREET. It looks like a normal neighborhood backyard barbecue. There are five couples sitting around a fire pit, drinking alcohol, laughing and talking. One of the women stands up and walks over to a hot tub.

  “Anyone want to join me?” She takes off her top and her pants and climbs into the steaming water in nothing but her bra and underwear.

  A few more people follow suit until there are just two people left sitting on the patio.

  The woman who is left behind goes into the house, and the others are drinking and laughing, seemingly oblivious.

  A short while later, the man she was sitting with goes inside.

  The camera cuts to the interior of the house, to a bathroom, where the couple is kissing and peeling off each other’s clothes.

  The woman throws her head back and laughs. “I wondered if you’d follow me in.”

  He looks at her. “I’ve been wanting to do this to you all night.”

  The next scene shows them getting into the hot tub five minutes apart. She sits down next to another man.

  “There you are,” he says. He looks at one of the women sitting across from him. “Didn’t know if she’d get in. She’s a little sensitive about that all baby fat she’s carrying around.” He pinches some flesh on her side and laughs. “Right, my little chubs?”

  Everyone stops talking, and his wife’s eyes fill as the camera zooms in on her.

  Another woman gives him a dirty look. “I think Nina looks beautiful.”

  Nina gives her a grateful look.

  Damon gets up and turns light on.

  “You get the idea.”

  “What’s entertaining about that? Why would anyone watch that garbage?”

  “I’ve only shown you the highlights. We’ll make them care about the people. By the time a scene like that airs, the audience will already be invested in their stories. We’ll make them sympathetic to the couple having the affair, make it seem justified. But there’s more. That’s just the beginning.”

  I sit riveted over the next several hours watching all kinds of shows that promote promiscuity, the occult, perversion, abortion, prostitution, criminal lifestyles, and more. The villains are the heroes, and I can see how people might root for them. He’s right. Commercials are as bad as the shows: ads for condoms, sex aids, and pornographic materials abound.

  Then he tells me about a drama—his favorite idea—one about demons. He calls it Sympathy for the Devil. It’s about a cadre of demons exiled from hell due to an act of kindness. They are sent back to earth to prove that they are worthy of their roles in the dark kingdom. The twist is that these demons have a compassionate side they can’t seem to shake. In each assignment, they start off doing what is expected of them, but somewhere along the way, they meet a human who sparks a seed of sympathy or empathy, thus beginning the cycle all over again. He says he’ll make sure they cast actors with boyish good looks, rakish charm, and their transformation into demons will be mildly appealing.

  “You see, Maya, after a few episodes, the fact that these are demons will recede to the background of people’s consciousness. Some people will even like it. In the next few decades, less and less will be offensive. In fact, the only thing that will be offensive is intolerance to these things.”

  I glare at him. “You won’t rest until you strip society of every shred of decency.”

  “There is no decency in humanity. All I’m doing is stripping away the facade.”

  At first, I find it utterly impossible to believe that people will ever accept this type of thing. Deep in my heart, however, I fear that he’s right. Over time, and with the right framing, I think he will accomplish his goals. I shudder when I imagine this bleak future, beset with darkness and iniquity. My beloved child, I am more convinced than ever that I must release you from this dark destiny.

  “I need to use the bathroom. I feel nauseated.”

  “Can’t it wait until we return to your room?”

  I pretend to gag. “No!”

  He makes a face and leads me out to the hallway to the lavatory.

  “I’ll wait here.”

  I go in. There are four stalls. I turn the water on, hoping the noise will be enough to keep him from hearing my screams until it is too late. I walk to the stall farthest from the door and go in.

  “Forgive me, God.”

  One deep swipe is all it will take. Nick the jugular, and I’ll bleed out before he can do anything. I pull out the long shard of glass and take a deep breath. I hold my hand in front of my neck, bracing myself. As I am about to do it, I feel a kick. An overwhelming anguish overtakes me. How can I do this? But how can I not? I position myself again and tell myself to get it over with. It’s the only thing I can do to save my child. Another move inside my belly causes me to pause, and I hear my mother’s voice inside my head. Life is sacred. God has a purpose for each of us. Can He really have a purpose for my child? The battle wages in my heart as I wrestle with myself. My shirt is damp with perspiration, and I am dizzy. What should I do? God, what should I do? A small, quiet voice stops me. If I am to embrace my faith, I must embrace it all. I have to believe that God is stronger—stronger than Damon and Dunst and the evil one they serve. I throw the glass into the toilet and flush it down. I stand and watch as it swirls away, disappearing—along with my last hope of saving my child.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Damon Crosse sighed in annoyance at the persistent ringing. He hated being interrupted.

  “What?” He barked into the receiver.

  “We’ve located them.”

  His hold on the phone tightened. “Where are they?”

  “A motel in New Hampshire. We just got a call from one of our men inside Jeremy’s organization. They checked in last night.”

  “And I’m only being informed now?”

  The voice on the other end grew quiet.

  “Well?”

  �
��My phone died. I forgot the car charger. I just picked up the message.”

  He clenched his jaw, swallowed, then spoke evenly. “Have you dispatched someone to intercept them?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re on their way now. They’ll arrive within the hour.”

  “Contact your people and tell them to call me once they have them.”

  “I can take care of it, sir I—”

  “Have them contact me directly.” He terminated the call and pressed the button on his desk.

  Jonas entered.

  Damon handed him a piece of paper. “Give this to Dakota. Tell her she can indulge herself with this one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell her to make sure there is no mistaking her work. I want it to serve as a warning to the others that we take carelessness very seriously.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  When the door had closed behind Jonas, Damon picked up the crystal goblet and threw it across the room. It smashed against the brick wall, and Peritas jumped up, startled.

  “Come here, my boy.” Damon pushed his chair back from the desk to allow room for the dog.

  Peritas put his head on Damon’s leg and wagged his tail while his head was rubbed.

  Damon closed his eyes and continued to stroke the lush fur. It would do no good to lose control, he reminded himself. They would be in his possession and then Taylor would play her part in leading him to Jeremy—all in good time. In the meantime, he must keep a cool head.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  They pulled into the empty lot of the Fiske Library.

  “That’s strange,” Taylor said.

  Jack pulled around to the entrance, and she got out to read the sign. “Closed on Sundays.” He sighed. “Great.”