He’d died two days after he’d posted his video.
I tried to find more information about him, but there was nothing else to be found. No Facebook profile, no Twitter feed, not even a white pages listing for an address or phone number. If not for the YouTube video and the article about his death, there would have been no record of his existence, at least on the Internet. The only other fact I discovered from my search was that the town he was from was in the same area code where the phone of the man from the airport had been registered.
That could not be a coincidence.
There’s so much more to this story. I know it. I feel it. I shook my head, straining to think of what else I could do.
I tried again in vain to see if the video would play, but it had been removed, or maybe even corrupted somehow. There had been only two views, and I was a current viewer.
“Excuse me,” I called over to my fellow night owl worker, “do you know how to enlarge an image?”
The businessman rolled his seat next to mine and clicked a few buttons, making the screenshot of Ephraim Peterson holding up the book even larger, before rolling back to his workstation without a word.
“Thanks,” I murmured as I tried to make out the title of the book. The words were still blurred and the title looked ridiculously long, but I could make out a few of the letters and piece together some of the words:
Deconstructing. Theological. Moral. Finite.
There was no author listed, but the publisher’s imprint was at the far bottom of the front cover. I was certain that the words “Window” and “Press” made up part of the publisher’s name. Or maybe that’s just what I wanted to see as I was determined to find answers, and somehow connect that man to all that was currently wrong in the world.
One last Web search yielded nothing of significance with the words from the title or imprint. If this book existed, and clearly it did because it was in poor Ephraim Peterson’s hands, its author, and publisher, had kept it well hidden.
Self-published. Had to be. I could not imagine that the man worked along with anyone else, especially if, as he’d asserted, he had not talked to anyone in years.
I was making a lot of assumptions I realized; but every conclusion I came to made perfect sense to me. I just did not know how to explain it to anyone else.
I logged off the computer, shut it down.
“Take care of yourself. Don’t work too hard.” I smiled over at the man whose fingers had to be tired and cramped as he had not stopped moving them across the keyboard.
“No such thing as working too hard.”
There was no humor to his voice. No light to his eyes. No life in his shoulders. He had on a designer suit, designer shoes. Even the briefcase that sat on a chair next to him had a brand name. I imagined everything in his life was high end and he would keep working until he had that car, that house, that jet, that position, that whatever it was that would never be enough.
Yes, I was in the right field. I’d made the perfect career choice for my gifts, talents, and interests. My focus in life, though often confused and flawed, ultimately was to help others be the best they could be. That’s where my heart was as I searched for answers to help, to heal, to listen to and encourage those I served.
For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?
The Bible verse crossed my mind as I closed the door to the business room behind me.
The Whole Soul Center.
This was my purpose, my God-given calling, and it was already up, running, and growing.
I’d have to talk to Laz more about the proposed move to Atlanta.
For now, I had another call to make.
Chapter 36
“You’re still up?” Roman sounded as surprised as I did when he answered my phone call on the second ring.
“What are you doing up? You sound like it’s three o’clock in the afternoon and not three in the morning.” I raised an eyebrow as I talked to him on my way back to my room.
“My brother and I are working on something together.”
“Oh? Oh.”
“I told you. I have this, Mom.”
“You need to be getting your rest to deal with your classes tomorrow.”
“I told you. I have this, Mom,” he repeated.
There would be no changing his mind or stopping whatever ball he’d started rolling, and it was clear that he would not be elaborating on whatever actions he, and his brother, were taking. Though I had not said it, I wasn’t worried. My son took after me in some ways. Once he had a mission in mind, he would see it through to the end with determination and integrity.
At least that’s how I envisioned my efforts at problem solving.
It occurred to me that the same pang of pain that usually shot through me at the mention of RiChard’s other family did not surface just now; at least, not to the degree it usually did.
Maybe that’s what the beginning of forgiveness felt like. Not experiencing the pain again at the same level.
“What’s up, Ma?”
I’d been quiet too long. Focus, Sienna. “Roman, is your school’s library still open?”
“Twenty-four hours a day. Why?”
“I need you to log me into a database they should have on their computer system.”
“O . . . kay.” He paused. “Mom, I told you I’m taking care of everything.”
“Roman, this has nothing to do with your father. I’ve moved on.”
He paused again. I heard a long sigh and then he said something to his brother. Was someone else besides Croix with him? I wondered, as what sounded like a female’s voice sounded in the background. Did Roman have some girl in his dorm room and was he trying to play it off like it was his brother? Focus, Sienna! I could feel myself about to have conniptions. I was on a mission. I had to stay the course. Save the world.
Maybe I just needed to get some sleep; my thoughts were getting delusional.
“Mom.” Roman finally got back on the phone. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes, but I’m bringing you back to my room. I can access the library’s database collection from my computer.”
“Mmm, hmm,” I managed to get out as we both disconnected. Exhaustion seeped into me. I had twenty minutes to take a quick nap.
The urgency now raging inside of me told me I needed as clear a head as possible.
Between waiting for Roman and driving back to his dorm room, I managed to get in nearly fifty minutes of Zs. As I stepped into his corner suite, I realized I’d forgotten how spacious it was. And I had no idea it was so technologically advanced.
With computers, game systems, stereo speakers, and gadgets I didn’t recognize, I wondered if I was stepping into his dorm room or the twenty-second century.
“Do you study here, sleep here, or play here?” I asked as I stepped into his room for the first time since I’d helped him move in last August.
“A little bit of all three.” He chuckled. “Let me get you set up.” He guided me to his workstation as I stepped over mounds of clothes and looked at both loft beds that were in the room. One was unmade, the other barely touched.
“You said you were with your brother. Is he staying here again?”
Roman shrugged, but gave me a half smile. “We’ll be okay. It helps when you have a common purpose to work on together.” He pointed to the monitor. “I’ve got you logged in. What database do you need?”
“One that that will let me search for dissertations and theses from around the country.”
He clicked on an icon and within seconds I was entering the key words I’d pulled from what I’d made out of the title of the book from the YouTube screenshot: Deconstructing. Theological. Moral. Finite. I pressed search. A couple of seconds later, a title popped onto the screen.
“Whoa, that’s a mouthful.” Roman studied the screen from his bean bag chair behind me. “What’s that about, Mom?”
“Nothing.” How did I even begin to explain?
; “It’s something. Can’t imagine why you’d have an urgent desire to read The Secrets to Deconstructing Heroism and a Critique of the Philosophical and Theological Views of Moral Evolution in the Finite Universe at four o’clock in the morning. That’s some pretty heavy information to start out your day.” He chuckled and moved closer to the screen. “By J.B. Infinity? Is this some kind of joke?”
“No. It’s not a joke.”
“What’s going on, Ma?” Roman sobered again as he could see the seriousness in my eyes, the growing panic on my face.
“This is the dissertation of a terrorist.”
“Huh?”
“I think this is the man who is responsible for the bombing at BWI. No. I am certain of it. I feel it. They have the wrong man in custody.”
I looked up at my son, who stood beside me, staring at the screen. Then he looked at me. “Okay, Mom. I know I expressed my doubts earlier, but that’s taking it to a whole other level.” He clicked the Web site off.
“Wait! What are you doing?” I grabbed his hand as he maneuvered his mouse to shut down the system. “Roman, I need to print that out. I need to at least write down the title. Don’t turn it off. I need to—”
“Ma, you need to get some sleep. I’m used to pulling all-nighters, but this staying up until four in the morning is not for you.”
“Roman, I know what I’m doing. I know what I’m talking about. Pull the site back up. Now.”
“You’re in my kingdom, Ma. We’re playing by my rules. You’ve had a tough week. You’ve got jet lag two times over. You saw RiChard for the first time in twenty years. You just missed a terrorist attack by a flight last Saturday. Get some sleep, and I’ll make sure I get you to the airport before my eleven o’clock class. Your flight leaves at ten, right?”
I narrowed my eyes at my nineteen-year-old son. “Um, I don’t care how old you are, or which side of the country we’re on. Understand that I am always the queen. You will always be a subject in my court.” I gave him The Eye, the look I used to use to flash him back into immediate compliance in the church pews when he was eight, at PTA meetings when he was twelve.
He sighed, rolled his eyes, sucked his teeth. But he turned the computer back on. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I will print out the title and the abstract for you, Ma, but please promise me that you won’t do anything drastic. Actually, please don’t do anything at all until you’ve had at least eight hours of sleep.”
I would have told him that I could not promise him anything, but my eyelids were betraying me. I had officially and suddenly met my limit of consciousness for the day. “Go ahead and print it out. I’m going to sleep.” I headed to the futon under his loft bed. “Don’t let me oversleep.”
It wasn’t until the next morning that he broke the news to me. After driving me to the hotel to check out, he turned his car towards the airport. I struggled to stay awake in the passenger seat.
“You have the abstract?” My words slurred together as I tried to remember why I had been in San Diego and why I was on my way to an airport yet again. “What is today?”
“It’s Friday. It’s eight o’clock in the morning. You are on your way back home to Baltimore, and, no, I do not have the abstract.”
“What?” I immediately came to attention as the events of the past twelve hours came back to mind.
“The article apparently had been removed from the database. There was no other information except what was up on that screen you saw last night. Just the title and the author’s name. I did print that out for you and put it in your workbag.” We were at the departures terminal. “Mom, please don’t do anything until you’ve had some sleep.”
I gave him a smile and kissed his cheek as I got out of the car.
I didn’t think either one of us was reassured.
Chapter 37
The Secrets to Deconstructing Heroism and a Critique of the Philosophical and Theological Views of Moral Evolution in the Finite Universe.
By J.B. Infinity no less.
This had to be him. The title, even the author’s name had all the hallmarks of that man’s convoluted, confusing reasoning.
B. Maybe for Bennett?
My questions only increased as the plane approached DC. In my exhaustion, I’d forgotten that I had flown in and out of the DC. area, and not Baltimore; but with four hours of in-flight uninterrupted sleep, I felt ready to tackle whatever was next. I wanted to catch up with Laz and show him my research.
But this only proves that his mind may be a little off, I imagined Laz saying. What does his dissertation have to do with the terrorist attack, if you can even prove that this is even his work?
There are too many coincidences, I’d respond. The man happened to call me from a number that was in the same area as a now-dead young man who took to the Internet to discuss the dissertation-turned-book.
Explain the book. Who published it? Where does it exist? Laz would question next.
Before we go there, I imagined myself responding to him, let’s consider that he also coincidentally was at the airport just before the attack, with verbal plans to go to the same destination that the suspect in custody happened to be going to with his family. Why not look up his itinerary and see if that was indeed his planned destination and if he was in line to board the plane?
Okay, what’s his name? I imagined Laz asking. Let’s start with that and then we can move on.
His name? I would reply. Uh . . .
Even in my imagination, Laz, the fact-finding, investigative reporter, won. I needed more proof. Though my gut told me I was on the right track, I still needed that definitive piece of evidence, that undeniable fact of correlation before I talked to anyone about my suspicions.
My car.
Even the officials at the airport had acknowledged that it wasn’t there when I went to pick it up; but when it showed up inexplicably in front of my house, the police officer who responded to my 911 call refused to even take a report. My guess was that the yellow Jeep from West Virginia was being safely driven by its owner with nobody but me even aware that it may have been stolen.
No matter how I looked at it, I was still at square one. No name. No clear connecting point. No irrefutable evidence to turn over and be taken seriously. Maybe I should skip trying to catch up with Laz just yet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have been cleared for landing. We will be at our gate in ten minutes.” The pilot’s voice was scratchy on the overhead speaker.
My conclusions, though they felt right, were scratchy at best. What could I present to anyone? I thought about Camille and shuddered. I had to have something more tangible to offer. She said she would be in touch with me soon.
Though I’d left California in the morning hours, the time difference on the East Coast meant my nonstop flight was arriving just after six-thirty p.m. Not far from DC, Dulles Airport was in Northern Virginia, near Jamal Abdul’s hometown. I had an idea.
It was a risky idea, and it would involve Laz, but I had to take action. What other options did I have?
As soon as I landed, I dialed him.
He answered on the first ring and spoke before I could get out one word.
“Meet me at the same restaurant from yesterday in thirty minutes.” He hung up.
I dialed right back.
“Hey—”
“Thirty minutes!” He hung up again.
What was wrong with him? What was going on?
I started to call back. I started to simply get in my car and drive home; but his pointedness and urgency told me that I needed to get in my car and meet him at the restaurant, no questions asked.
I got there nearly fifty minutes later and saw him as soon as I turned into the parking lot. I could not miss him as he was parked in the first space by the entrance. Oddly, he sat slouched in the driver’s seat, his face almost out of view. He waved a hand at me and pointed to an empty parking space next to the black Range Rover he was in. Did he get a new vehicle? I wondered
as I pulled into the space and cut the engine. I’d never seen him in this SUV before.
“Quick,” he called out to me from his slightly opened window. His hand waved in a frenzied gesture.
“What?” I wrinkled my face as he hurried me even more as I got out of my car. I heard him unlock the door.
“Get in, quick.” He pointed to the passenger seat. “Wait. Leave your phone in your car.”
“Laz, what are you—”
“Sienna, please. I don’t have time to explain, but I will. Please leave your phone in your car, and hurry up and get in mine.”
My phone was my life line, but the look on his face told me I needed to do as he said.
“Is this a new car or something?” I asked as I stepped into the Range Rover.
“What took you so long?” He completely disregarded my question and glared over at me. “I told you to be here in thirty minutes. It took you almost an hour.”
“Um, traffic?” And getting out of the airport and getting to my car. I didn’t tell him all that as I recalled that I had never told him about my plans to fly out to the West Coast; though he didn’t seem to have any questions about my whereabouts and he somehow knew that I was near the restaurant.
He groaned as he put the car in reverse, then backed up and braced himself like he was about to shoot out of a chicane on a Grand Prix racetrack. After several loud screeches, he pulled out of the lot and a few turns later we joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Dulles Toll Road. He swerved and changed lanes three times, all to a loud chorus of beeps and honks.
“Okay, Laz. I’m here. I left my phone in my car for some reason and you are driving like you’re about to have a baby. You’re scaring me. What is going on and why the new truck?”
Sacrifices of Joy Page 20