Francesca's eyes widened. Never in her life had Rebecca taken such a loud tone with her mother. It was a tone of fear and anger.
"I'm sorry," said Rebecca quietly. She grabbed the text and slid it into her workbag. "I have to get back to the office."
Francesca was still trying to gather herself.
"When I get home tonight, I will destroy this book and that will be the end of it."
Francesca frowned. "Rebecca wait, don't leave angry. I understand the position you're in. I understand the pressure you're under with the marriage coming up. I understand your loyalty to the Ministry."
"That's right mother, I have a lot of responsibility. In case you had forgotten, I'm paired with the future Director of the Dioceses of Social Affairs."
"I haven't forgotten, please don't leave yet," Francesca pleaded. "I'm not saying that the Ministry is wrong or bad, all I'm saying is that Corbin, your biological father, isn't a bad man. And I'm also saying he didn't write that book."
Rebecca smirked at the statement. "Hmmm, this book contains a world that is filled with war, death and chaos—sounds like Heretique to me."
Francesca tried to keep her voice calm and controlled. "You haven't listened. I know the members of the Heretique and I can tell you that they would never want a world like that book describes. That is the Ministry's interpretation, not the Heretique's—think about it."
There was logic in her mother's words but Rebecca didn't want to accept it. "It doesn't matter. I'm destroying this book, regardless of whose interpretation it is."
"That's your decision. But I want you to understand that whoever wrote that book is very, very dangerous, and destroying it doesn't do anything to the person who wrote it."
Rebecca listened but said nothing more. She could feel tears forming in her eyes and wiped them away before they had a chance to puddle. "Good bye mother."
Francesca stood strong. She showed no signs of cracking under the emotion. "Rebecca, if you ever want to know what the Heretique are truly about . . ." she paused as if she needed to really consider what she was about to say, "then go to the Southern Point. There is a man there named Rawling. Tell him who you are and he will take you to them."
The Southern Point, as Rebecca knew it, was the furthest southern boundary of the Sectors, beyond that was unoccupied land and for good reason. "The Heretique are in the Vriezen?"
Francesca said no more. "Good bye my daughter. Please don't think ill of me."
Rebecca could feel more tears welling and she turned away. "Good bye mother."
*******
The wait for the Railway was the longest of Rebecca's life. She had never fought with her mother like that and she had never left on bad terms. She thought about her mother's last words, Please don't think ill of me. Rebecca loved her mother despite how disagreeable she found her actions. She only wished that she had said that before leaving.
Rebecca looked down at her workbag and felt the weight of the text burrowing the strap into her shoulder. This whole mess is because of this stupid text, she told herself. It was quickly ripping her life apart. She knew destroying it would make her feel better but she also knew that her mother was right: the author was the one who was truly dangerous. Destroying the book wouldn't do anything about him. Rebecca knew that if she wanted something done she would have to find out what the author's motive was—if William Coulee actually existed and what did he really want with her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The light above Rebecca glowed green and the train decreased in speed. The skyline of the Capitol City could be seen through every window. Rebecca opened her eyes and looked about. They were sore from crying at the Western Village railway platform. The repetitive stream of emotion that flowed freely was new to her. Feelings were not often needed in a Ministry lifestyle. Everything was planned, everything was expected, life had a path and nothing came out of surprise. Rebecca's life had been planned since the day of her birth. She was living on a well-laid track and cruising at a very comfortable speed. But now it seemed her personal railway had been knocked off course. The translation somehow switched her off the Ministry approved track and Rebecca was beginning to wonder if she would ever get back on. The key, she knew, was to discover its purpose. If she could get some kind of answer maybe she could rid herself of the burden. If she could just get some answers maybe all of it would simply go away. Maybe she could forget.
Like clockwork, as the train came to a rest and the doors hissed open, everyone onboard filed out. Rebecca was caught in the stream of people exiting and ducked out along an alcove of the platform. There was no point in returning to the office, she realized. The only thing that mattered was clearing her name before Quality Control discovered the translation, before the MSF detained her.
Rebecca heaved a heavy sigh and sat down on a bench along the perimeter wall. She turned her digital notepad on and reopened the translation. I need to find some kind of clue, she told herself, something to point me in the right direction. Having learned another dark secret about her biological parents, Rebecca was certain that the text was Heretique in origin—that it must be some desperate attempt at political sabotage. She considered the possibility that her father learned of her upcoming marriage and wanted to create something that would not only destroy it but also ruin her for good. She couldn't justify why he would want to hurt her unless he was disgusted with her appointment into the Ministry. She recalled what the Security Chief had mentioned: that they were investigating Jillian's possible involvement with the Heretique. That's the connection, she told herself. Somehow Jillian or Benjamin Vermil was connected to the Heretique and possibly her father. The location of the text could have been passed to her through the obscurity of those two people, that's saying Benjamin Vermil is even real, Rebecca realized.
She looked down at the translation and accepted that the threat she made to her mother about destroying the book was baseless. Rebecca couldn't get rid of it now, not until she understood more. She located where she left off in the translation and reread the last section before continuing.
William Coulee was meeting with Benjamin Vermil at the mansion. Apparently there was more than Vermil waiting to meet William. He had wrote:
*******
I walked into a large rectangular room with ivory walls and crown molding. The floors were a rich Mahogany with expensive looking rugs that ran under the numerous Victorian furniture scattered about and around a large stone fireplace that was sitting cold. There was a wafting scent of floral air freshener.
Mr. Vermil, who looked a hundred percent healthier than expected, donned a striking three-piece suit with his silver hair parted neatly and his eyes gleaming with delight. He braced himself on a cane that looked Native American in design. There were four other people I didn't recognize—three men (one in a wheel chair) and a woman. None of them were wearing the medical masks.
"I'm so glad you decided to make the trip. Well done William," Mr. Vermil said and then gestured over to the man in a wheel chair, who bore crazy smart looking hair and an expensive looking two-piece suit. There was a distinct sharpness in his eyes and his face seemed to narrow into a tip that made up his chin. "This here is Simon Wylde. You may be aware of his family's businesses: particularly Aeronyte." I had definitely heard of Aeronyte. It was one of the leading aeronautic manufacturers. "Aside from being the president of several Fortune 500 companies, Simon is an expert in medieval romanticism and how do you say it—alternative religions."
"That's one way to say it," Simon said.
*******
Rebecca had to contain her surprise as she looked around to see if anyone was watching. Right there in the translation was her cognitively matched partner, and he was described with eerie perfection. But she didn't understand what William meant by a wheelchair. She continued reading:
Vermil introduced a female who was not so richly dressed and looked more like a free-spirited-hippy from Venice Beach—whatever that meant. William described her as having long
brown hair that was pulled back into a loose ponytail and she was wearing a frumpy breast pocketed shirt with a pair of khaki pants. Her name was Dr. Caroline Thatcher, Yale's finest tenured professor of Balkan languages.
*******
"I'm Yale's only tenured professor of Balkan languages," she said with an awkward laugh.
Mr. Vermil nodded in agreement. "Dr. Thatcher was working with Dr. Theoman in Bosnia. She served as his second in command, if you don't mind me putting it that way."
Dr. Thatcher shrugged her bony shoulders. "Anyway is good I guess."
*******
William wrote that Mr. Vermil gestured toward a heftier man with a thick but well trimmed white beard and a pair of round glasses. He wore a white striped shirt and a matching pair of white slacks and loafers.
*******
He reached out to shake my hand, not waiting for Mr. Vermil's introduction. "Hello William, my name is Morlan Haggins. It's a pleasure meeting a man Ben Vermil reveres."
*******
Morlan Haggins? Rebecca thought with the same resounding curiosity that she felt each time she read the name of someone she knew. Vermil described Morlan as a tenured professor of religious studies and an expert on Abrahamic Religions.
*******
"The big three," Professor Haggins stated quickly, "Judaism, Christianity and Islam."
*******
Rebecca wondered if the Abrahamic Religions had anything to do with the original Heretique leader, Abraham. It wouldn't have surprised her if it did. She pondered the thought for a moment and then continued reading. Vermil came to the last man, who William described as being the most striking individual in the room. His skin was very dark but he didn't look African. He had long braided hair that was pulled back as well as thick and wide eyebrows that accented his chilling pale blue eyes. William wrote that he had never seen a man so striking in appearance. He was both handsome and frightening to look upon. His name was Iah (pronounced Yah) Vadimas and he claimed to be something called a magician. Rebecca had no idea what a magician was, but from the way William reacted to it, she assumed it wasn't something that had to do with history.
William then asked the group how all of their expertise broke down. Simon answered his question by saying:
*******
"Morlan's work stretches from the beginning of organized religion to the present. Caroline's deals strictly with the Balkans, Eastern European cultures and languages, Iah studies metaphysics, and I dabble in a little bit of each."
*******
William was then left with the wondering question as to why Vermil wanted him to meet all of those people. He told William that he could go ahead and take off the medical mask he was wearing and then offered him a drink before finally getting down to business.
*******
"You're probably wondering why you're here. I want to discuss with you our duty as journalists. I'm certain you know the creed I had established when taking over Time."
At first I was caught off guard. Did he really bring me out there to discuss ethics? What Mr. Vermil was referring to was actually Walter William's code of ethics, which were first drafted in 1906. "Do you want me to recite all seven points?"
He laughed. "Certainly not, but I would like to talk about the commonality found within them. I'm sure you have noticed that each point is focused on upholding truth and providing public service, the very essence of what we do."
"Yes, I have noticed. Are my ethics in question?"
Mr. Vermil shook his head. "No, no, not at all; your ethics have been superb. The work you've done has not only served the public with honesty but has helped in their safety. Your ethics is why you're here, right now." He took a second before speaking again. "I want to offer you an opportunity to take your service to the next level." Mr. Vermil picked up a green folder from an end table. "I read in your portfolio, and correct me if I'm wrong, that the most satisfying aspect of journalism is knowing that you're making a difference."
I wrote that six years prior. Back when I was still trying to get Dohlman's attention.
Mr. Vermil set the folder down again and sighed. "I also know all about your time in Iraq and all that you suffered while trying to make a difference. As you might know, I too have suffered through great perils and great loss. I personally covered three wars and oversaw the most recent two. And like you, I lost many friends and colleagues. Some were very near and dear to my heart. Dealing with such terrible loss has been a very trying thing for me to overcome. I've tried many different approaches to cope with it all:"—he raised a frail hand and gestured with each finger— "I tried forgetting, therapy, alcohol, creative expression; but none of them really did the trick. The only thing that has seemed to work for me is this" —he gestured toward the medical mask still in my hand—"death."
I didn't know what to say, I just continued to listen.
"William, the reason I called you here today is to offer you a new assignment, one that could possibly take your career to new heights." He looked deep into my eyes. "I'm sure Derrick filled you in on the story."
"He told me about the murder that happened three months ago."
Mr. Vermil nodded. "And I'm sure he told you about my refusal to allow his writers to cover the story?"
"He did. He also told me that you want me to write an exposé on the crime."
Mr. Vermil cleared his throat. "Yes, I do."
A seemingly long pause separated us for a moment. "Mr. Vermil," I said, "if you don't mind me asking: why now? Dr. Theoman's murder is news to me but apparently I'm the only one. Dohlman told me that every major news organization covered this already." I then chose my next words carefully. "What new light are you hoping I'll shed?"
Now it appeared that Mr. Vermil was choosing his words very carefully. "William, there is so much that's not known about Charles's murder or what he was doing in Bosnia."
"And you're hoping that I'll uncover these things?"
Mr. Vermil smiled and said: "I'm hoping for more than that."
*******
A message alert showed up on Rebecca's digital notepad screen. It was Simon Wylde calling. Rebecca felt her heart skip from the unlikely coincidence. She minimized the translation and hesitated before answering, fearing why he was calling. The day had been filled with all kinds of unpleasant surprises, she prayed for the call to not continue the pattern.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rebecca clicked the receive button and Simon's sharp handsome face appeared in the message box. He didn't look like he was feeling an ounce of stress. "Hello Rebecca, how are you this afternoon?"
She felt the building tension in her chest release and smiled warmly. "I'm very well. How are you Simon?"
"I just left a dreadful DSA meeting and couldn't be happier to see your face."
Rebecca blushed as she pushed a few strands of hair from her eyes. "What has you calling?"
"Well, I realized it has been several weeks since we last saw each other and I was hoping you would grace me with your presence at dinner tonight."
"You want to have dinner?"
"Is that a problem?"
"Oh, of course not."
"Fantastic. Let's say at 1500h."
1500h? thought Rebecca. That was awfully early. Normally she would still be at work. It just so happened she was out for the rest of the day. "Where do you want to meet?"
"I have reservations at The Eagle's Nest."
The Eagle's Nest was the Minister's favorite restaurant. "That's in District 29?"
"That's right." Simon then looked as if he had just remembered something. "Oh, did Jonas conduct his security interview yet?"
Apparently he had not heard the results. "Yes, we had it earlier today."
"Wonderful. How did it go?"
"Well it—"
"Actually," Simon said cutting in, "hold that thought and tell me about it over dinner. I have to run. Another meeting calls. See you then." He then disconnected before Rebecca could say goodbye.
Wond
erful, she thought. Normally Rebecca would be head over heels excited about meeting Simon for dinner but today was not a good day. Every second counted. But what could she do? If she said no then he would have most certainly known something was wrong. Rebecca had to play it cool. She didn't want to cause any unnecessary suspicion.
Looking around at the people passing by, Rebecca checked the time. She had nearly two hours before her dinner date. Anxiety was washing over her at this point. Normally she would be doing what her Ministry assigned schedule had planned for her—working. Aside from the morning, Rebecca had not done a single thing she was supposed to. Very seldom could people go off schedule. Usually the entire world noticed when someone did. Rebecca was wondering how many people noticed she was completely off track. It turned her stomach to think about it. There's nothing I can do, she tried to assure herself. It didn't help, however. Rebecca contemplated returning to the office, just to get some normalcy back, but she knew that it would be a fruitless attempt. She was doing the only thing she could do—reading. With a long sigh, Rebecca reopened the translation and continued forward. Vermil was just beginning to explain to William about his relationship with Theoman:
*******
"Charles and I went way back," he stated after clearing his throat. "We formed the nonprofit organization Project Renew Our History together." Mr. Vermil then gestured to the others in the room and said: "Every person you just met here is a senior member of the group. But in the beginning it was just Charles and me. He did the work while I did the financing. He was truly a wonderful man and an incredible scholar. His theories and ideas were leagues above his contemporaries."
"What's the purpose behind Project Renew Our History?" I asked.
Mr. Vermil wetted his lips before saying: "Exactly as the title states. It was actually Charles's conception. He was the brain behind the organization. We were merely acquaintances when he came to me with a new theory, one that, if proven true, would absolutely shake the very foundation of several highly researched and discussed topics."
Everyone in the room nodded their heads in agreement before Mr. Vermil continued: "You see William, Charles had a unique outlook on mankind's development. He believed archeologists were merely scratching the surface of what was buried in our long forgotten past. My involvement spawned from a question he once proposed: How historically accurate is history?" Mr. Vermil directed the question toward me, "Can you answer that William?"
The Sinner King: Book of Fire Page 10
