The Veritas Deception

by Lynne Constantine

  “Nope. I gave the clerk an extra bill to let us bring Beau.”

  “Good thinking.”

  In the room, Taylor threw her bag on the bed and sorted the dishes and food they had picked up for Beau.

  “Tomorrow we’ll go to the library and find the address. This time tomorrow night we could be talking to Jeremy,” Jack said.

  Taylor nodded at him absentmindedly while she fed Beau.

  “Any luck on tracking down the pharma company involved with the vaccine?” she asked.

  “No, but I did some digging on Brody Hamilton and he has sponsored a number of bills relating to Alpha Pharmaceuticals, mostly lessening of regulations, like labeling and side effect warnings.”

  “Could you find a connection between them and the latest bill? Or the vaccine?”

  He shook his head and put his palms up. “Nothing.”

  “Shoot. Let’s hope that Jeremy can shed some light on it,” she said without much enthusiasm.

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  They were getting closer to unraveling the mystery, and Jack should have been relieved, but he realized that he was reluctant to complete this mission. He didn’t want to let her go—let her go again, that is. But he was being a selfish jerk. She deserved better than him, and he owed it to her to leave her alone, to find love again with someone who wasn’t jaded, hadn’t ruined his life and everyone’s around him. No. It was good that things were coming to a close. He would deliver Taylor safely to Jeremy, figure out what they needed to do to take down the bad guys, and would go on with his life.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The Institute, 1975

  December

  I fear my parents are dead, and I dread finding out. I can’t bear to think of what has been done to my dear mama and papa.

  I pray every day now. Last night, I felt a peace wash over me, covering me like a warm blanket. It was comforting and strangely tangible, emanating from a source outside of myself. My hand goes to my neck, and I grasp the christening cross that I’ve worn each day of my life since I was thirteen. Until now it had ceased to hold any significance, other than nostalgic. But now, it is my most precious possession, my only real possession, and merely feeling it against my skin fills me with hope. I think of all it symbolizes and make myself meditate on its meaning. I wonder why he has allowed me to keep it, but I don’t dare ask for fear he will take it.

  With every fiber of my being, I rebel against the lies he tries to instill in me. That I carry within me the continuation of evil. I won’t accept it. I hold fiercely to the belief that I am connected and forever bound to the God of the universe. Damon may hold my body captive, but he will never touch my soul. How ironic that I owe my salvation to the man who imprisons me. Would I have turned back to God if I’d been allowed to continue on my chosen path? Medicine was my god. Education was my god. And yes, I even made myself into a god. What a terrible thing pride is. If it were only my life to be lost, I could almost be grateful, for in losing it I have found it. What grieves me with unrelenting desolation is the knowledge that I am leaving my precious child, alone and unprotected, helpless to resist the evil that will encapsulate him. I will pray for this child until my dying breath.

  I am talking to my baby, telling him how much I love him—I feel I’m having a boy. I tell him stories of his family. The yia yia and papou who would spoil him, the aunt who would adore him.

  I don’t know how long he has been standing outside my door, only that he has overheard some of it. He opens the door, stares at me, and then begins to laugh.

  “Love! My child will have no need of this emotion full of fallacies. They say God is love. My child will have nothing to do with either. Don’t waste your time, Maya. You are merely the vessel. You will have no influence on what my child thinks, feels, or believes. He is going to be powerful. More powerful than you can ever imagine. I would have thought that would have been enough for you. Your ego should love that, no? You, the mother of the most powerful man in the world?”

  “You are insane!”

  “Insane? Far from it.”

  “What has happened to my parents?” I demand.

  His gives me a contemptuous look, and his lips form a scowl. “No matter what we did, they wouldn’t give up the hiding place. They admitted they brought them from Greece, but they refused to say where they are hidden.” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand it. They were unshakable.”

  “What did you do to them?” I choke the words out. I don’t want to know, but I have to suffer too, must know what they went through.

  He makes a dismissive gesture with his hands. “It doesn’t matter. They are gone now. Your sister will believe that they had an ordinary automobile accident. Nothing to arouse suspicions. And we will keep watch on her. Surely there will be something in the will or in their papers that she will find and lead us to the coins. We will wait for as long as it takes.”

  My grief is intermingled with relief. They won’t kill my sister. She is useful to them. I can only hope that my parents took the secret of the coins with them to their graves.

  He stands and paces. “What would make someone so stubborn? Their faith could not be broken, no matter how hard we tried.” He brings a fist down on the table so hard that the glass on it tips over and water runs off.

  My parents didn’t die in vain. Now I understand the faith my mother told me about—the one that sent those three men into the fire. I sit up straighter and stare into his eyes.

  “My child will return to God one day.”

  He looks at me with such murderous rage that I shrink back, afraid he will strike me. He comes close to me, until he is just inches from my face, and I can feel his breath on my cheek.

  “My child will never worship your God. He will rule nations, and be responsible for turning others away from your God. Know this, Maya: your prayers are impotent. His destiny is sealed.”

  I bite my lip and take a deep breath. Then a thought occurs to me, and I move my face even closer to his, in our own twisted version of chicken.

  “We shall see about that, Damon. We both know how the story ends. I assume you have read Revelation, the book written by Saint John on Patmos. The Battle of Armageddon will see your master thrown into the pit forever. Christ will be victorious. The battle is already won.”

  His eyes narrow to slits, and he flies from the room, and the lock clicks behind him. My heart is still pounding, and I breathe deeply to regain my equilibrium. I begin to wonder if I’ve gone too far. When dinner time comes, there is nothing but beef stew. He knows I hate beef. By morning, I am ravenous but its red meat again. A bloody steak this time. So he will have the last word after all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The cocooned darkness of the limousine enveloped Dakota. She rested her head against the soft leather and closed her eyes, her stomach fluttering in exquisite anticipation of the evening ahead. The iron gates opened, and they drove through and onto the immense property. Thirty minutes later, they were in front of the sprawling castle, and Dakota was escorted up the familiar steps to the hand-carved wooden door that would lead her back into the only domain in which she felt at home.

  Damon was waiting for her in his private chambers. They said nothing to each other. She went to him and caressed his face, lingering on the rounded scar on his left cheek. He allowed her this one touch—only one and only her. She reveled in the knowledge that no one else ever had or ever would get this close to him. She knelt before him and bowed her head.

  “Master. Thank you for calling me home. I am ready.”

  He placed a hand on her head. “You have served me well. Rise. There is still much to do.”

  “It is my greatest honor.”

  He nodded.

  “Your room is ready. They are waiting to examine and prepare you.”

  He pointed to the door. She knew better than to attempt to use her charms on him. He wanted to be alone and nothing she would say or do w
ould dissuade him. She wanted more, but she would bide her time.

  She nodded to him and left, closing the door softly behind her.

  * * *

  Dakota was still groggy from the anesthesia, and it took her a few minutes to get her bearings. She blinked until her vision cleared. Glancing to her right she saw him sitting there, staring at her.

  “How many did they get?”

  Damon looked pleased.

  “Eight. You’re a very fertile young woman.” She was thrilled. Her position was now assured.

  She laughed. “Good to know. How many are they going to fertilize?”

  He looked bemused. “What does it matter to you?”

  Not the answer she was looking for. She sat up and smoothed her hair back from her face. She wouldn’t allow him to cut her out. “Who is the surrogate?” After her self-inflicted abortion, her uterus was no longer viable.

  He rose. “Don’t concern yourself with the details. You are being spared the indignity of another pregnancy. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Shouldn’t I have some say in who hosts my babies?” She didn’t care about the embryos that would turn into babies. She did, however, care very much that she be afforded the respect she deserved in providing them.

  He gave her a sardonic look. “I’m well aware of your maternal instincts. These children will be kept far from you.”

  * * *

  Damon Crosse left the room without another word. He went to his library and sat down at his desk. There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  Jonas poked his head in. “Dr. Whitmore would like a word with you, sir.”

  “Send him in.”

  The doctor came in and stood until Damon invited him to sit. This was a man he had known over thirty years, yet their relationship was still as formal as it had been on the day they’d first met. The doctor looked at the floor, then at his fingernails, and finally at the folder on his lap—anywhere but at Damon.

  Damon cleared his throat and the doctor reluctantly met his eyes. “Well?”

  He blinked repeatedly, then pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up to the bridge of his nose.

  “I’m running out of patience,” Damon warned.

  “It seems that, ahem, your sperm count is quite low.”

  Several seconds of silence ensued before Damon spoke. “How low?”

  The doctor looked down at his feet. “Nonexistent actually. I’m afraid that even intra-cytoplasmic sperm injection won’t work. I see no viable options here.”

  Damon nodded. He would not react. “That is all.”

  The doctor rose and hurried out of the room.

  How could this be? It had never occurred to him that he had anything to worry about. If the idea of producing a specimen wasn’t so disgusting, perhaps he would have made provisions earlier. It had taken him months to provide the sample for Jeremy. He wasn’t wired with a single sexual urge. He was horrified at the messiness of it, the loss of control. It was something he would never understand. The irony. How many men had lost kingdoms, untold wealth, all they held dear, because of sex? He was not susceptible to such yearnings and for that he had always been grateful, but now it had the power to be his undoing. Never one to wallow in regrets, he stood and began mentally preparing for his next steps. He was filled with renewed resolve as he pondered his good fortune in concocting a contingency plan so long ago. He went to his bedchamber and packed his suitcase. He rang for Jonas, his thoughts racing while he waited.

  “Yes, sir?” Jonas came into the room.

  “I’ll be gone for a few days. Please see that everything runs smoothly in my absence. What time is the new group scheduled to arrive?”

  “Five o’clock, sir.”

  “I presume everything is prepared?”

  Jonas nodded. “Of course, sir.”

  Damon sank down into the soft cushion of his silk chaise, suddenly tired. He felt all of his seventy years. In the space of an hour, he had gone from a vital thriving man to a withered shell. No. He raised his head. He was Damon Crosse. He was never out of options. He knew where he must now focus his efforts. It would take longer, but in the end, all that mattered was that he had a suitable heir. Perhaps this was better after all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The Institute, 1975

  December

  His revelations leave me breathless and heartsick. Is there no one who can stop him? He interrupts my desperate prayers.

  “A futile effort, Maya.” He laughs derisively. “Don’t count on any help from your God. He has abandoned you just as you will abandon your child.” He sneers at me as he lifts his coffee cup to his mouth.

  “Shall I continue? Let me see, where did I leave off? Ah, yes, the legal victories. Our plans are to make sure that prostitution will be legalized in more and more states. This has been in motion for some time. The fools believe that legitimizing it will contain disease and eliminate the victimization of women, but things will only get worse. We will be able to entice more women in to prostitution with promises of safety and easy income.” He laughs again. “So much easier to continue forcing the downtrodden into the trade because no one bothers investigating suspicious circumstances. You’d be amazed at what poverty can do. Already parents are willing to sell their children for a loaf of bread. Soon, they won’t even feel any guilt about it and more will follow. Women will become another commodity in a world for sale. Many more young men will lose their virginity in this manner and look at sex as purely recreational. We will succeed in separating sex and love at last.”

  I can keep quiet no longer. “Why?” It is the only question worth asking.

  “The more we can increase the antipathy between men and women the easier it will be to perpetuate these crimes against women and pervert the men. Men will pull away from God out of shame and women will do it out of a feeling of abandonment.”

  “It sounds like you are trying to create hell on earth.”

  He smiles. “Nicely put. Don’t you want to know the role your son will play?” He laughs again. “Soon we will reduce the time required for divorce to a matter of days. By the time we’re finished, there won’t be a shred of moral decency to be found anywhere. But my best is still to come. One day, it will be virtually impossible to give birth to anything but a physically perfect child.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Genetic testing. We will use it on pregnant women, and if the child has a birth defect, we will mandate abortion.”

  “You’re crazy! A law like that will never pass.”

  “That’s what they said about abortion. It will happen, and when it does, it will make the abortion rates skyrocket.” He was gleeful.

  “What does increasing the abortion rate do for your cause?” I ask.

  His eyes look upward. “There’s nothing more precious in the eyes of God than new life. Anything I can do to destroy those lives, I’ll do.”

  I am without words. The more I am forced to endure his lectures, the more tainted and soul sick I feel. I say the only thing I can think of to make him angry.

  “You won’t prevail. No matter how important you think you are, there will always be many more good men and women who will fight you.”

  “Good men and women? There are no good people. They are all self-interested, easily manipulated little pawns. I’ll show you.”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t want to see any more of your work.”

  He grabs my arm. “It’s not a request.”

  Still, I refuse to move. “Why do you care what I think? What difference does it make if you show me these things?”

  “You will accompany me to this meeting but you will say nothing. Do you understand? Or should I have your sister brought here?”

  “I understand.” I stand and follow him from the room. He has taken my parents from me, and I can’t let him take her too. Despite all he is capable of, I cling to the hope that he wi
ll keep this promise to me. Do I believe she is truly out of danger? As long as she is his only connection to the coins, I think she is. But I can’t take any chances.

  He opens a door to a boardroom and sits at the head of the table. He points to a chair on his right, and I take a seat. There are three people sitting at the long, chrome table. No one asks who I am; they only glance quickly in my direction.

  “Good day, doctors. I trust you have found it easy to work together and come up with a program with which you all agree? Let us hear from the psychiatrist first.”

  A man who looks to be in his mid-forties, balding, with round-rimmed spectacles answers, “It has been most interesting to hear the opinions of my esteemed colleagues. I now have a better understanding of neuroscience, as well as sexual medicine. We have put together a protocol which we believe will please you.” He hands Damon a folder.

  Damon opens it and makes a face. He looks disgusted. I get a glimpse of a naked woman being restrained. I can’t see the rest of the photo, but my imagination fills in the blanks.

  Damon puts the picture back in the folder and throws it down. “How does it work?”

  The psychiatrist looks at the woman next to him and then back at Damon. “I will let Dr. Droskin, our neuroscientist, answer that.”

  Droskin speaks. “We will combine video, magazines, books, and auditory measures to stimulate the subjects and to measure which has the greatest and most immediate effect. Video will leverage the mirror neuron tendencies by zooming in and making the subject feel he is experiencing what is happening on the screen. We will measure response to stimuli and whether or not we can change the sexual appetite by repeated exposure to negative stimuli if it follows positive stimuli closely enough.”

  Damon is nodding. He turns his attention to the last man in the room. “Let’s hear from our sexual medicine specialist.”

  “In a nutshell, we show them something that turns them on. Right after, we show one of the scenarios they find abhorrent—rape, torture, bondage. We see if repeated exposure to the negative, closely after erotic stimulation, eventually pairs the two scenarios until the subject is aroused by all the scenarios. It is our theory that sexual predators are made, not born. If we can understand the process behind it, we have great hopes of curing them.”