“Dr. Yeoman, this is the police. There’s been an accident.”
“Yes?”
“We believe it to be one of your interpreters.”
“Yes?”
“The rain, sir, lightning struck him as he fixed a flat on his automobile. He must have died instantly.”
“Yes,” he said.
“We need you to come down and identify the body. We could send a car around.”
“Now?” He glanced out of the window and saw the raindrops still being collected on the window pane.
“Well, no, not now sir, the roads are too bad. Perhaps first thing in the morning, say eight o’clock?”
“That will be fine. Thank you for calling.” He hung up without saying goodbye or even asking which interpreter. He already knew. God was on his side.
He stood up from the seat he had occupied for more than four hours, and with a smart little grin on his face he walked over and opened his office door to let the light from the hallway into the room. He took his coat and hat from the coat rack and picked up his umbrella, then gathered up the manuscripts and the notebook from his desk.
The phone rang, again.
The officer must have realized that he hadn’t given the name of the deceased, he thought as he reached past the ringing phone and turned off the lamp. Putting his umbrella over his wrist he turned and walked out of the office, gently shutting the door behind him.
CHAPTER THREE
Cleveland Heights, Ohio
August 1997
“I hate dressing up to go and spend time with those literary weirds. I am definitely not in the mood for them.”
Dealing with the people Mase worked with was so tedious to me. Almost as irritating as it was finding something to wear. I had searched through a hundred boxes still packed from my now spurious move to Boston to try and find something to wear that was appropriate for both the book signing party with Mase’s associates and for my sister’s Claire’s cookout afterwards so I wouldn’t have to come back home to change. I didn’t really like what I had found, it was dated and too small, but I was tired of looking.
“It’s only half the afternoon. The other half we’ll spend at Claire’s,” Mase said. “And, what exactly are literary weirds? Is that an actual term? It doesn’t even make sense.”
“And neither do they,” I said.
I really didn’t like those people. They called Mase “Andy,” and while that’s probably not a good reason to dislike someone, especially since it’s his name, it was a good jumping off point for me. My husband, Andrew Mase Dickerson, was never called anything but Mase, not even by his mother, but those literary folks did, and took it one step further, shortening Andrew to Andy. For some reason that just irked me to no end.
But everything lately had been upsetting to me. I was feeling bad and didn’t know why. I had even quit my job and packed up my house, all set to move my family to Boston. Running away from my problems, not caring that my problems would just be following me.
“Justin, do you think that maybe you are going through an early menopause?”
I sneered at him. “Just come here and help me zip this up.” I was trying to fit into a jean skirt I’d found in one of the boxes. The zipper was in the back and I was tired of having my hands behind my back tugging at the zipper while trying to hold in my stomach.
“Can you still fit this?” He took over zipping it. “Maybe you should wear something else.”
“You know, Mase I need to look at our life insurance policies. Can you get them for me? I think they’re in that stuff I packed from your desk.”
“Sure, why you need ‘em?”
“Oh, I just wanna check on how much I’d get if you met with some unfortunate accident.”
He started laughing. “Oh, so now you’re going to hurt me, huh? Okay, okay, I didn’t mean it, look – see, I zipped it. No problem. Matter-of-fact, you little sexy mama, I think you may have lost a little weight.” He kissed me on my cheek and patted my butt.
“Go away, boy.”
I probably wouldn’t ever really do harm to my husband, but lately, everything and everyone put me on edge. Most days I just wanted to yank out my hair and scream. There just didn’t seem like any purpose to my life anymore. The kids were growing up, didn’t need me like they used to and I felt as if I was rapidly approaching menopause age. Mase’s jokes aside, it was bothering me. I didn’t know what was putting me in such a funk. I just felt blah all the time. My house. My life. My things. All of a sudden just seemed so small, so inconsequential.
I went downstairs. Mase was waiting for me in the car. His impatience didn’t make me move any faster.
Maybe I’ll look for something else to wear, I thought as I tugged on my skirt. My eyes following the stacks of boxes throughout the house. Some opened with its contents hanging out. Maybe not.
Now I’ll have to unpack everything. I maneuvered my way around the boxes. Put everything back where it belongs.
I walked into my kitchen, the heels of my sandals clicking across the terracotta tiled floor. I turned on the lights over the black granite-topped island so the house wouldn’t be dark when we got back home. I checked the cabinets and the dishwasher, then opened the refrigerator and closed it again.
Ugh. What am I doing?
I leaned up against the sink and stared out of the window. I could see Mase, sitting behind the steering wheel.
Tears started sliding down my face.
What was making me so unhappy? I knew it wasn’t my job. I have always loved being a Biblical archaeologist, looking for the evidence of early Hebrew and Christian events. As an archaeologist I’d got to travel, play in dirt, go on treasure hunts. And for the past seven years since I’d been the curator for the Cleveland Museum of Ancient History. It was a dream job. So not that. And it definitely wasn’t my husband.
We’d been married for more than twenty years. Not love at first sight – I was too young for that. My first memories of him were when I was three or four. He was friends with my older brothers. I don’t remember the first time I ever saw him, or what he was wearing, or what he said, nothing like that. He was just the boy who lived down the street, played with me and my brothers, and gave me money to buy penny candy for my sister Claire from the corner store. But was always there for me and now has stuck by me through all of my bouts of craziness.
Like now.
I didn’t know if anyone else could have put up with me through the years without divorcing or shooting me.
“Are you coming?”
I turned and saw Mase. He was standing by the back door. I swiped the tears from my eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “Let’s go. You’re just standing there, staring out the window.”
“I was thinking.”
“Think in the car. We gotta go. We’re going to be late.”
By the time we drove across town to his party, it was late. So late the event was nearly over. Mase was visibly bothered, he hated being late. I, on the other hand, was never on time for anything.
“Aw, too bad we’re late.” I leaned in and whispered.
“Be nice, or we’ll be the last to leave,” Mase whispered back.
CHAPTER FOUR
Israel 1949
The policeman let the phone ring at least ten times before he hung up. Drumming his fingers on the desk, he stared at the phone. Maybe he should let the Captain know that he’d forgot to give the name of the deceased.
Dr. Amos Sabir.
How could he have forgotten that?
It didn’t seem to matter, anyway. Proper protocol wasn’t being followed. Heck, the man he spoke with wasn’t listed anywhere on Dr. Sabir’s personal effects and the person listed on his paper to contact in case of an emergency was a woman in the United States. Usually the deceased’s things would be packaged up and sent home with the body and the family member would be notified. That’s the way things were mostly handled. If it were anything out of the ordinary, or illegal, then the Unite
d States’ Consulate General was called. The only thing was that they were so secretive over there at the University. His Captain had told him to call Dr. Yeoman and no one else.
Who knows, maybe this man’s driver’s license was encoded with some secret message or something.
As he sat at one of the two metal desks in the small office, he toyed with the man’s things – a badly charred watch, the key to his car, his driver’s license, registration and visa which were found in the glove compartment. The body had been badly burnt. Fixing a flat tire in all that rain had been a foolish thing to do. There was one more thing – a receipt, dated with the day’s date. It was from the post office. Seemed this Dr. Sabir had mailed a package to the same exact address that was on his visa. It was to Mrs. Ruth Sabir, the person listed to contact in case of an emergency.
He ran his hand back and forth over the stubble on his jaw and wondered what this man did over there at the University. They had found those Scrolls more than two years ago and nobody had seen them since or heard anything from the interpreters. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and exhaled a cloud of smoke that circled up past his grey eyes.
What was the big deal anyway?
He brushed ashes off of his black uniform pants and ran his fingers down his tie. He decided he would just wait until morning and let that shift handle things. He would leave a note about sending around a car for the doctor at the University. Why tell the Captain he forgot? That Dr. Yeoman didn’t seem too interested in which interpreter was dead, anyway. Heck, he could have asked the name. No need to start a ruckus over something that would be resolved in the morning.
He tugged at the cuffs of his freshly laundered white shirt, put his feet up on the desk and took another drag on his cigarette.
* * * * * * *
By the time Dr. Yeoman began his drive home the rain had stopped and the low, full moon lit the night sky. Unwillingly, he replayed the events of the evening over in his mind, shaking off the chill he got just from the thought of what he had read. He rolled down the window hoping the fresh air would help. He turned on the radio and tried to forget what had happened.
He pulled up into his gravel driveway. The crunching under the tires brought a sense of relief. He was home. The house was dark except for one light in an upstairs room. It was quiet, peaceful, and perhaps, once inside, he thought, the calmness would ease his mood. If he were lucky, everyone would be asleep. He didn’t want to have to face anyone.
He walked in the house and stopped in the foyer. Gripping the darkness, not moving a muscle, he drank in the stillness. Clutching the manuscripts and notebook close to his chest, he drew in a deep breath, and waited for his eyes to adjust. He laid the documents on the table, took off his coat and hat and felt for the hook by the door. He picked up the notebook and manuscripts and walked, hand outstretched, feeling his way down the hall, to his study.
One of the largest rooms in the house, it was sparsely furnished with a desk that sat in one corner. A rather large, worn desk chair and a set of matching upholstered, high-back chairs that faced the desk. There was one wall covered completely with a dark mahogany wood bookshelf, which overflowed with books, papers and periodicals. Two walls were nearly all windows, and along the south wall was a great fireplace. By the light of the moon, he laid the documents on the desk and took out three candles from inside one of the drawers. After lighting each one he went to the fireplace and started a fire.
Gazing down into the hearth, he took time to collect his thoughts. Then readying himself for what must be done, he walked over and seated himself behind the desk. He took out writing paper and a fountain pen from the top middle drawer. He put on his glasses and began to compose a letter.
After he finished writing, he folded the letter over twice, sealed it with wax from one of the candles and laid it aside. He picked up the notebook that Dr. Sabir had given him and leafed through it - the translation, plainly written in English for the world to understand, to know its revelation. Placing it back down on his desk, he reached inside one of the drawers and pulled out a locked metal box. Unlocking the box he removed the top notebook that he used as a journal and turned to the next page after his last entry. To the sounds of the crackling fire and the flickering of the candles’ flames, he began to write.
October 22, 1949
I have come across some unusual manuscripts today. It is a set of four. They contain, to say the least, a very disturbing revelation. One of my interpreters has brought them to my attention. He is now dead and cannot reveal the secrets that lie within. It reads, among other things, that there will be a “perfect world” and “one people” will occupy it. It is written in the manuscripts, “All are to be of one kind, one people, for we have found that difference breeds hatred.” This is but one small example, as the manuscripts are filled with precarious statements. Some things I cannot even understand. And most I cannot bear to write or repeat.
Whatever was written in those four manuscripts, we know now that it is not the truth. “One people” do not populate the Earth and hatred indeed thrives. The manuscripts read that the “god within us” could “create the perfect world.” So, it cannot be of our God. We are here today, set at this task, to find the truth that our God has given us. We are day by day proving that the Bible we have is the true and living word of our God, Jehovah. We know for true that God created man, in the person of Adam, and placed him here on Earth. There can be no truth in any other claim.
We look today, in our effort to translate these manuscripts, to find the truth of God’s people, their history and their heritage. These documents will only mar what we have come to hope on, the foundations where we have firmly planted our feet.
I must destroy this evidence. I will keep the assertions that these manuscripts reveal confined to the University and from others for as long as I can. I must have the opportunity to ascertain if they are any other documents of this nature so they can be dealt with appropriately. The world is making its request known. They want to see the Scrolls. I will stall their presentation to the world for as long as I possibly can, and if necessary for as long as I am alive.
Deus adiuva nos.
“Samuel, is that you?”
He looked up from his writing. His wife stood at the door.
“Yes, Miriam it is I.”
“I thought I heard you come in. Are you all right?”
“Yes, dear. I just needed to write down some things while they were still fresh in my mind.” He took off his glasses, laid them on the desk and rubbed his fingers along the T-line of his face, releasing the tension that had amassed.
“How are you?” he asked. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“I’m fine, dear,” she said. “And no, you surely didn’t wake me. I was having a problem getting to sleep. I thought I would make myself a glass of warm milk. Would you like some?”
“Yes, that would be nice.” He placed the letter he had written inside the journal and put it back in the lockbox. He then took the manuscripts from off his desk and placed them on top of the metal box and shut the drawer.
“You have it so dark, there isn’t a light on down here,” she said. You’ll hurt your eyes reading with such little light.”
“I’m fine, dear. The light from the truth at times is almost blinding. You see it is sometimes easier to lie in the dark.”
“Oh my. I think you work too hard, Samuel. Who could you be lying to?” She chucked. “There isn’t even anyone here. Perhaps I’ll fix you a little something to eat, too. That’ll make you feel better.”
“Yes, dear, that would be nice. Now, go along, I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Standing up after she left, he let out a deliberate sigh, picked up the notebook that contained the translation of the manuscripts and blew out the candles on his desk. He walked over to the fireplace and fondled the notebook for a moment before tossing it into the fire and watching the pages wilt and burn. As he watched the sparks of the paper flicker around the fireplace he said,
“Yes, a little something to eat would be very nice.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Cleveland Hts., Ohio 1997
I never thought I’d be so happy to get to Claire’s house.
Claire had come by my house a few days earlier to invite me to her little soiree - my bon voyage party as she called it – in a last ditch effort to get me not to move, to stay and try and figure out what was wrong with me.
“Justin,” she had said. “I can’t understand why you’re so unhappy. I wish I could help you. I wish I could formulate some serum or some antidote for depression in my lab and make things right for you. I just don’t understand you. I don’t even think you know why you’re doing this. You had a good job. You quit it. You have a beautiful home. You’re abandoning it. You have a loving family and you desert them. You’re doing this all to yourself. What more could you want?”
That had made me even sadder. And more determine to go, but just as I was packing up the last box in my study, the phone rang. Claire answered it and it changed everything.
Thanks to that fateful phone call she had taken for me, her little get-together was no longer a going away party. That didn’t matter to Claire, though. A party was a party.
My siblings I were close. We still had that same sibling relationship that people have when they’re children. There were eight children in my family, five boys and three girls. Actually, my mother gave birth to ten children. There had been a set of twins who died shortly after birth, but that never stopped my mother from talking about them like they were still here. Other than that small quirk, our parents were good people. They did a good job raising us. We’re all college educated, except for one, and being black raising eight children in the 1950s was a pretty big deal. And, aside from me and Claire’s mental issues, (she’s unaware of hers), I think we all came out pretty good.
In the Beginning: Mars Origin I Series Book I Page 2