The Veritas Deception

by Lynne Constantine

  I say nothing and file the information away, categorizing it, analyzing it, in case it can be useful to me later.

  “When I was fifteen, we made the plan. It was time for me to go and live with him. Late one night, after my father had finished his bottle of bourbon, I lit the match that would burn that ramshackle hovel to the ground. I barricaded his bedroom door shut. I superglued the windows so he couldn’t push them open and let the smoke out. Thanks to his paranoia, he’d had bars put on them years before, so there was no way he could climb out. Then, I stayed outside and listened for his screams. What music they were to my ears. I knocked on the window. He turned and looked at me, wide-eyed and crazed. ‘Help me, you worthless punk,’ he said, and I raised my middle finger, smiled and watched as the flames licked at his filthy pajamas. He cursed me as the fire engulfed him. Once I knew he was beyond saving, I left. They never connected me to it. The house had burned to nothing, and they assumed it was an accidental fire.”

  “Wasn’t there an investigation? Didn’t they look for you?”

  He sneers. “We were trash. Dirt poor, lowest on the rung in a Podunk town with crooked cops and small-minded people.”

  “Didn’t anyone see you living in the house on the hill?”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “Are you being deliberately obtuse? The point of the story has nothing to do with how I escaped. But I’ll satisfy your curiosity. We moved.”

  I shiver in spite of myself and avert my eyes. I can’t deny that I am glad he escaped from his father, but it shocks me that I’m not more horrified that he did this. He has drawn me into his past, and I feel myself rooting for his escape, angry at this abusive monster that has so warped him. But even as the thought crosses my mind, it occurs to me that he will never escape his father. And then I shudder when I consider the fact that he was able to stand, watching and unmoved to mercy knowing his father was inside burning. What hope do I dare have if he was capable of such an act when he was still a child? His father has turned him into a sadistic murderer. Could he have been saved if Friedrich had been different?

  We walk in silence for the rest of the time, and I am surprised by how tired I am. When we return to my room, I thank him, but only because I hope that we will do this again.

  He turns to leave when I ask, “Why was Friedrich in a wheelchair?”

  He turns back and answers. “He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease after the war, when he was in his sixties. Only a few years before I met him, but by then it had progressed aggressively.”

  “Did they try Levodopa?”

  “Yes, of course. It worked for a while, then stopped. They classified him as a non-responder.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  His lips part in a smile. “Why don’t you see for yourself?” He looks above my head, to somewhere on the wall, and nods. I follow his line of sight and squint. It is then that I see it—a small hole. My face is hot, and I glare at him.

  “You’ve been spying on me all this time?” The fact that someone has been watching while I take my clothes off, sleep, talk to myself—it’s unthinkable. “Have you enjoyed seeing me naked, you pervert?”

  He laughs again. “I’m no pervert, Maya. No one cares about seeing your body, especially as it grows fat. We’re just making sure you don’t try and hurt yourself or the baby.”

  The blood rushes to my head, and I turn away from him and walk to the window so he can’t see the tears running down my face.

  Ten minutes later, the door opens, and I turn around. Steel-blue eyes lock with mine. The white hair is receding and reveals a still-smooth forehead for a man who looks like someone’s grandfather. His features are unremarkable; in fact, he is rather benign looking. His thin lips are a straight line, and he looks at me as if he knows me. When he crosses the threshold, I see he holds a cane in his left hand. It is a struggle for him to walk.

  Damon runs to him, placing a hand on his back and helping him to a chair.

  “Father, can I get you some water?”

  He waves him off, impatient with the fussing, and lands with a thud in the chair.

  “Hello, Maya. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

  The German accent is thick. “You’re Friedrich?” I ask.

  A look of disdain appears, and he looks up at Damon, shaking his head.

  “The youth today—no respect.” His eyes settle on me. “You must call me Dr. Dunst.”

  He spits the words at me, and I recoil. I see it now—the same predatory look that Damon has. They may not be related by blood, but they are the same. He looks at me, expectantly, and I say nothing, watching the fury build in his eyes.

  He leans back in the chair, pulls a silver case from his suit pocket, and extracts a cigarette. His hand shakes as he fumbles trying to ignite his lighter. After several failed attempts, it spits out a flame. Dunst takes a long pull and blows smoke rings. I cannot stop looking at his mouth making the small o’s. He holds the cigarette in the air, and my eyes are drawn to a purplish discoloration on his skin. Damon sets an ashtray on the table next to him.

  “I have met your parents.”

  My heart skips a beat. “When?”

  He arches a white eyebrow. “Before you were born. It’s been almost thirty years. Back when I was stationed on their island.”

  “During World War II?” I ask.

  “When else?”

  It dawns on me with sickening certainty that this man before me must be a Nazi. Can this very ordinary, frail, old man be one of the legion of fiends responsible for the anguish and slaughter of millions?

  “You are a Nazi?” I whisper.

  He looks at me as if I were a cockroach under his foot. “I am an American citizen, a respected scientist. Your country says so.” He laughs.

  “But you were part of the Nazi regime that occupied my parents’ island?” I know it is true, but I need to hear it from his lips.

  He shrugs. “I was not there on holiday.” He pulls a bottle of eye drops from his pocket, leans his head back, and squirts two drops into each eye. A thought occurs to me, and I continue to watch him.

  Damon moves a chair next to his and sits.

  “Did your mother talk about bringing something of value with her to America? Of hiding a treasure?” Dunst asks.

  Again, I search my mind for any memory, but I still remember nothing. I shake my head.

  “She never talked about some coins, silver pieces?” he persists.

  They are both staring at me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.

  “My mother doesn’t like to talk about those days. The occupation was hard on them. The Germans”—I give Dunst a pointed look— “were cruel. They took whatever they wanted with no regard to anyone or their feelings. Everyone was starving while they ate like pigs and—”

  “Quiet.” Damon’s command slices through the air, and I feel the anger emanating from him. Dunst seems unaffected by my outburst. I suppose he is used to the hatred of others.

  Dunst sneers at Damon. “Don’t waste your energy. Her opinion matters not.” Then he leans forward and enunciates very slowly. “Think hard, Maya. Try to remember where your mother might have put them.”

  “Why are these coins so important? What are they?”

  Neither of them answers.

  “How do you expect me to tell you anything if I don’t know what they are?” This provokes a reaction. I am lying, though. I have no knowledge of anything at all related to treasures or silver from Greece. But I want to know what they are so desperate to find.

  They exchange another look, and Dunst nods his head so slightly I wouldn’t have seen it if hadn’t been looking.

  Damon turns to me and says, “The thirty silver pieces Judas received for betraying Jesus.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Taylor grabbed Jack’s arm. “Someone’s back at the cabin!”

  Jack swore. He had to gather his thoughts. So, the man hadn’t
come alone. If Jack hadn’t realized right away that he wasn’t legit, the man likely would have continued with the charade until he found the map and instructions. Then he would have killed them both.

  “He must have had a partner. They’re going to make it look like I’m a killer.”

  She gasped. “What?”

  Jack looked at her.

  “My fingerprints are all over that cabin and so are yours. I think I was set up.” He hit his hand hard on the steering wheel. “I don’t understand how they found us. It’s my friend Craig’s cabin, and he’s the only person I talked to. He’s the one I told you about, the ex-military guy I worked with in Columbia.”

  “If Malcolm knew about the cabin, maybe whoever’s after us did too.”

  Jack bit his lip. “Maybe. But the guy said he was the doctor. So somehow he knew about the conversation I had with Craig.”

  “Could Craig’s phone have been tapped?”

  “Doubtful. It’s a burner. And no one could have traced the call—we didn’t talk long enough.”

  He had a sinking feeling he knew what had happened. “I think they were there when I called Craig. Whoever we’re up against must have one massive intelligence network. If they’ve investigated my background, they’d know Craig and I worked together in Columbia. They must have gotten to him, made him pretend to agree to send someone, and then killed him once we hung up.”

  “How are we going to fight against someone so ruthless? Who are these people?”

  “I wish I knew. Damn it! Craig didn’t deserve this. We can’t reach out to anyone, Taylor. Not your Dad. None of my friends. I can’t be responsible for putting anyone else in harm’s way.”

  They had even less time now. By tomorrow morning Jack’s face would be all over every news station, every paper, every media outlet. He might even make the FBI top ten. If they arrested him, Taylor would be on her own—an easy target. His thoughts turned back to Taylor.

  “How are you feeling? Any more spotting?” he asked, worry suddenly flooding him.

  She shook her head. “No, not since yesterday morning. I’m hoping it was a fluke.”

  “I wish I could take you to the doctor, but I really don’t think we can take a chance right now.”

  He felt so impotent. He’d promised Malcolm he would keep her safe. How was he supposed to do that when he couldn’t even make sure she received proper medical care?

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  She cleared her throat. “What happened with the baby?”

  He felt the color rise to his cheeks, and he tightened his grip on the wheel.

  She pressed on. “I read about it and followed the trial. Did you have any idea she was capable of something like that?”

  He sighed. “Things were bad for a long time. I tried to help her, but she didn’t want any help. All she wanted was an audience for her suffering. I was ready to leave her when she told me she was pregnant. I couldn’t bear the thought of putting a child through what she was putting me through. She was five months along when she told me. She was so thin; I couldn’t even tell.”

  “Did you tell her how you felt?”

  “She didn’t care how anyone else felt. I don’t think she even wanted kids. It was just another way for her to manipulate me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He didn’t want to rehash it all, but she was looking at him with that expression, the one that said you can tell me anything. “She refused to take her pre-natal vitamins. She drank wine and let me know that the baby’s well-being was at her whim.”

  “That’s horrible. I can’t imagine. Couldn’t you talk some sense into her?”

  “I tried. It backfired. She held that baby hostage, and I had no choice but to go along.”

  “Tell me the rest,” Taylor whispered.

  Jack shook his head. “I can’t talk about it, Taylor. Please.” Jack was sorry for what he’d put Taylor through, but it was a long time ago. She had no right to go dredging up memories that he wanted to keep buried.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Institute, 1975

  October

  My mouth drops open.

  “You’re serious?”

  “This is a waste of time. The girl knows nothing.” Dunst leans on his cane and struggles to a standing position. As he stands, his eyes roll back in his head, and he faints. Damon catches him just before he hits the floor.

  “How long has that been happening?”

  Damon lays him on my bed and pushes the button next to it to call for help.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Why do you care?”

  “I think he’s been misdiagnosed.”

  “What are you talking about?” He whips around and looks at me.

  Before I can answer, the door opens and a large man pushes a wheelchair in. Dunst has started to rouse and is mumbling. Damon helps him to a sitting position, where he falls back one more time until, finally, he begins to stabilize. They settle him into the chair and wheel him out. He looks straight ahead, completely ignoring my presence, embarrassed, I assume, by his show of weakness.

  Damon escorts him to the hallway and I hear the murmur of conversation. A few minutes later he returns.

  “What do you mean you think he was misdiagnosed?”

  I see hope in his eyes, an expectation perhaps of good news. What I have to tell him is not good though—not for him or Dunst, but I feel no sympathy for either.

  “The dry eyes, the skin discoloration, the fainting upon sitting up or standing—they are symptomatic of something more. I believe he has multi-system atrophy. It mimics Parkinson’s but is much more aggressive and debilitating.”

  He rushes toward me, his hands poised to strike me, and I shrink back.

  “You’re wrong.” He pulls back suddenly and appraises me as if seeing me for the first time. His voice is calmer now. “Why didn’t his neurologist figure it out?”

  “When was he diagnosed?”

  “1957.”

  “It wasn’t fully understood until 1969. And it looks the same as Parkinson’s in the beginning. The fact that he stopped responding to Levodopa is a red flag. Did he continue to see his neurologist?”

  Damon shakes his head, looking at the floor.

  “When the medicine stopped working, he went a few more times, but there was nothing else they could do. He said it was a waste of time.”

  “One thing I don’t understand is how is it that he’s walking? If he’s had the disease for almost twenty years, he should be completely bedridden by now.”

  “It’s has to do with the coins,” he says.

  “What?”

  “During the war, Friedrich was part of a unit that specialized in religious relics. He was Himmler’s second-in-command and was responsible for finding artifacts and relics for the cause. The silver coins have special powers.”

  He walks over to the table and pours a glass of water for himself. “When Satan entered Judas, his touch was conveyed to the coins that were held in Judas’s hands. Friedrich has been trying to find them for over thirty years. In the hands of someone who knows how to use them, they are powerful indeed. Friedrich dispatched a team to search for them after the war. He found ten, and that was enough to heal him. For a while.”

  The manner in which he conveys this information is shockingly banal, as if the story is commonplace. The fact that Dunst worked directly for Himmler chills me to the bone. “He wants the coins to heal himself again?”

  “He needs to be healthy to continue his great work.”

  “How could you give your allegiance to a Nazi?” In truth, I am not surprised that a man who would do what he has done to me would align himself with such evil. But I ask him anyway.

  He sits down, crosses his legs, leans back into the leather chair and clasps his hands together.

  “He is a brilliant scientist, a visionary.” He shrugs. “The Nazi party was lucky to have him. Their cause was
misguided. He served his country but never believed in the Nazi cause per se. But he was passionate about the work of the Ahnenerbe.”

  “The Ahnenerbe?”

  “The Ancestral Heritage Research and Teaching Society. The group Himmler started. Friedrich led the charge in searching for relics in Rumania and Greece. Before that, he had worked in their top-secret section, the Institute for Scientific Research for Military Purposes, doing scientific experimentation. But he found the occult more compelling. When he learned about the coins, he knew he had to have them. They have a rich history. They were handed down from Abraham all the way to Peter. They were even given as a gift to Jesus himself, by a king whose son Jesus healed. But Jesus knew the destiny of the coins, and he refused them, and they went instead into the treasury. Do you know what happened next?” he asks.

  I remember my Bible history. “Of course. Judas went to the chief priests and agreed to betray Jesus, and they agreed on a price. He was paid the thirty silver pieces in exchange for his betrayal. Judas led them to Jesus when there was no crowd around and kissed him.”

  “Not quite right, Maya. He tried to kiss him, but Jesus stopped him and asked: ‘Are you betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?’”

  Is he quoting Scripture? I narrow my eyes. “You read the Bible?”

  “Sunday school every week until I was twelve. My good Christian parents might have beat me at home, but they looked after my soul. But go on, Maya. What happens next?”

  “Why ask me? You seem to have all the answers.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. Poor Judas, he ended up regretting his actions. When he saw they were going to put Jesus to death, he went back to the chief priests and returned the thirty silver pieces, and confessed his sins, but it was too late. So he hanged himself.” He shrugs. “The chief priests decided they couldn’t keep the money in the treasury, as it was blood money. Instead, they bought the Potter’s Field—a burial place for strangers—called the Field of Blood to this day.”

  “What happened to the coins after that?”