In Search of Fate

By Anthony De Benedict

In Search of Fate is the story of a dedicated altruist, Adam Questor, and his self-determined mission to serve others in some meaningful way. The novel begins with Adams personal tryst of conscience regarding a decision thrust upon him by the apparent suicide of a colleague. In his capacity as vice president of Genetic Research and Development at Global Pharmaceuticals, he must decide whether to make his company the sole treatment proprietor of this colleagues life-changing genetic breakthrough or to make this new discovery more broadly available for the benefit of all. Anguishing over this decision and the death of his colleague, he seeks refuge in a monastery. His companys CEO, Ralph Edwards, suspects Adam has knowledge of this breakthrough and fears his altruistic bent. With the help of a brilliant psychiatrist, Evelyn Wyman, Edwards hopes to find out what Adam knows under the guise of her support and counsel. But patient and therapist bond and, together, choose to defy his plans. As a consequence, they face unrelenting pursuit by Edwards hired thugs who threaten them with assault, kidnapping, and even murder. With the help of his dead colleagues artificial intelligence, Adam and Evelyn attempt to stay one step ahead of their pursuers while seeking a safe disposition for their terrible secret. In the process, both realize an end they could not preconceive: for Evelyn, a lasting love; for Adam, a destiny not sought without, but uncovered within. He confides this discovery to Evelyn, Our task in life is to discover our worth for the sake of others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496969859

Anthony De Benedict

Anthony De Benedict was born in Philadelphia, PA. His developing years were spent in California where he earned a BA, studying philosophy and English literature, and eventually an MS, studying systems management. Most of his work career was spent in the development and management of information systems for several different industries. After the dot.com he managed succumbed to the economic downturn, he turned his attention to writing novels. “In Search of Fate,” his first novel, is only now being published after “A Culpable Innocence” and “A Life Apart,” his previously published books. To learn more about Anthony and his writing, feel free to visit his website at www.aculpableinnocence.com.

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© 2015 Anthony De Benedict. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/26/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6962-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6961-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6985-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015902302

Print information available on the last page.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The New Revised Standard Version, Catholic Edition, has the imprimatur of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (September 12, 1991) and the Canadian Conference of Catholic Bishops (October 15, 1991).

Table of Contents

This book is dedicated to my son-in-law, Evan ross, without whose lobbying i may not have re-edited this book for publication.

. . . freedom and fate embrace each other to form meaning; and given meaning, fate—with eyes, hitherto severe, suddenly full of light—looks like grace itself.

Martin Bruber

Chapter One

The Monastery

How does one climb out of the dark well of an uncertain conscience? For Adam Questor he hoped to find a saving rope within the confines of a remote little chapel. Here, he would begin his search for answers to the questions that were holding his mind captive. Had his indecisiveness influenced a friend and colleague to a fatal recourse? And why had fate entrusted him with that friend’s perilous secret? The knowledge he now possessed could be a great boon or, in the wrong hands, a curse. It was a conundrum he alone seemed destined to solve, even if reluctantly. Not only could he find no relief from the turmoil brewing in his conscience; but his self-styled hermitage could not serve very long as a safe haven. For there was one man he knew would feel compelled to seek him out and call him to account.

Despondent, he lifted his gaze longingly at the chapel’s crucifix, its face staring down at him, lifeless and forlorn, frozen forever in both anguish and resignation. Could this pitiful image breathe fresh life into his empty soul? Certainly the abbot had the best of intentions when he offered this isolated chapel for his vigil. But Questor still could find no answers for those questions that burned within him. He was lost in an inner seascape of turbulence, a brigantine with all sails shorn and flailing helpless in a squall. He rose from his knees and began to survey the small chapel. His kneeler was the only semblance of furniture. An unornamented altar jutted out from the wall below the crucifix. Upon it rested a candle and an empty tabernacle, its door ajar.

He had come here to find the quiet and sanctuary he felt necessary to still his conscience and to redeem his future. But recent events were overwhelming his thought processes and only served to animate his anxieties. He began to pace nervously to and fro in the tiny chapel, creating a slight draft that wreaked havoc on the fluttering candlelight. Reflections on the bare walls shimmered crazily in harmony with the dancing flame. As he approached the candle, the shadow he cast on the opposing wall would grow into a grotesque giant, crawling along the ceiling above his head. Turning in the other direction, his shadow would shrink to the size of a fat midget, ridiculously bent and twisted by the square corners where walls and ceiling met. Somehow these recurring phantasms awakened in him portents of things to come and apparitions of what had gone before. Weary of pacing and courting his anxieties, he laid himself down on his sleeping bag. His shadow reclined as well, shrinking and collapsing into itself on the wall opposite the crucifix behind his head. It opposed the quieted flame, settling imperceptibly into a black cloud that hovered ominously above him. Although his eyes were fixed on the light of the candle beyond his feet, his mind seemed to be drawn into the darkness of that shadowy cloud, a beckoning void wherein roamed specters of his past. He began to recall the enormous promise of his youth through the veil of the receding years. He was drifting into a kind of dream state wherein he could recall the day when he first took up his life’s path …

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Adam, it’s time to leave. If we’re going to get there for the opening talk, we’d better leave now. Oh my … where am I … that’s my mother’s voice. And I am … that boy … me. Is this a dream? God, he’s just like you. He won’t give himself enough time to get anywhere. Mom could not miss an invitation to recant one of her pet peeves. I feel his … my irritation.

I’m never late. That’s my father. Dad was always ready with his favorite defense.

You’re never early! My God, what’s he doing in there? Why does he keep his door shut? You go in there. He’ll scream bloody murder if mom invades his inner sanctum.

Of course, these words are meant for me to hear, even if the pretense is made that I may be outside of earshot. I see myself bristle at the sound of my father moving close to the bedroom door. Then, in his more commanding father tone, he booms, Adam, get a move on. Your mom and I are headed for the car. If you really want to be a priest, you’ll just have to run after us. Then, with a note of pleading finality, he adds, C’mon son, let’s go.

The trip to the seminary, I remember, was uneventful. But there I am once again in the back seat of our old Rambler, my mind racing back and forth as I very actively eavesdrop on my parents. Their voices form a too familiar backdrop that threatens to unravel my fantasies of life away from home. Mom and dad are debating the pros and cons of seminary life. Mom has many comments about those benefits that would suit her son’s needs, but really reflect her concerns.

He’ll have to do his own laundry. That’ll serve him right. They won’t let him go to bed whenever he feels like it. There’s a schedule he’ll have to follow. If he disobeys those priests, they won’t take any back talk. They’ve got discipline. It’ll be good for him. He may be only twelve, but he has to grow up some time.

Although mom is addressing her husband, her words were meant to prick the ears in the backseat. Anxiety about my new life was already peaked, and the drive to the seminary seems unbearably long. But, mercifully, we finally arrive. Dad once again timed it perfectly, as he is quick to tell us. We are 5 minutes early, he says. Although by the time the car is locked and the unfamiliar grounds are traversed, we find ourselves walking into the Great Hall just as the Rector approaches the podium. Mom, I can see now, is embarrassed and casts an angry eye at dad. He shrugs his shoulders and blurts out an aside, We’ll be seated before he starts. For her part mom looks like she just wants to disappear. She focuses on the floor at her feet and hurries towards the empty seats in the front row, undetectably dragging us in her draft. The Rector had paused at the podium while my family steers itself into a semi-soft landing in full view of many patient eyes.

The scene unfolds in my mind’s eye as vivid as it was once lived. Monsignor O’Neill intones his welcome and my father smiles sheepishly. Mom rakes him with a sidelong glance that could have withered a stone. His success was her humiliation. Meanwhile, I’m fidgeting with my tie, the first I had ever worn, and am shamefacedly aware of the familiar spousal dynamics that added tension and life to our household. At the time, it seemed to me that everybody in that hall must have been aware of my entrance and uneasiness. Oddly, my mother’s embarrassment, as I only now can recognize, does not register with me at all. I can only feel my discomfort as I sit stiffly on that wooden chair. The monsignor’s words finally begin to garner my attention. His booming voice succeeds in parting the clouds of my self-consciousness and takes hold of my mind. I can hear his words and remember how I felt, for they seemed to be addressed to me personally.

. . . You have sought meaning in your life and have found the risen savior beckoning. It is not by chance that you come to His table. You are here to find out whether you are worthy of the highest vocation. You have been called to the perfection of His Priesthood, to share in His sacrifice for all men, to represent the Catholic community at his altar, to bring His sacramental graces to His people, to become all things to all men. You are probably confused about your calling. Am I worthy? Is my vocation real or just a wishful fancy? Well, the fact that you are here is no accident. You are here because God wants you to try on the ‘habitus’ of his priest and celebrant. ‘Habitus,’ as you will soon learn, is a Latin word that you may think refers to the priest’s habit or cassock. But it actually connotes a disciplined way of life wherein your will, your appetites, your every action mirror the will of God. It is a life that places all your faculties at the service of your intellect and your intellect at the service of your Faith. In a sense every Christian is called to His service, but you have been singled out for a special service, one sanctified by priestly ordination, to stand as an intermediary between God the Father and mankind. You are here to explore your worthiness to replicate the Son’s role in redemption. The crucifix is your symbol of a new meaning in your life: the very image of redemption, the ultimate example of sacrifice, and both the source and end of all life. Christ, crucified, is your truth, your way and your life. . .

I am that boy in the pew. I feel what he feels. As the Monsignor pointed demonstrably to the crucifix on the wall behind him, my boy-self begins to shake uncontrollably. I am praying that no one will notice, but my body responds from a source outside of myself. I am lost in the moment and feel transfigured into someone else. I am no longer the boy sitting next to his parents, but a new Adam touched by Jesus to become like Him. I am no more, but a new Self is emerging, a perfection of grace that I would work hard to deserve.

Arrested in my personal ecstasy of thought, I am suddenly pulled back to my place in that hard-backed chair by my mother’s nudge. She was glaring at me in disbelief. The monsignor had finished his welcoming speech and people were rising to leave the hall. I feel bewildered and embarrassed under mom’s gaze. I also resent her intrusion into my new reality and her matter-of-fact way of reminding me that I had to act in her world too.

We have to find your room and move you in. Your father and I are supposed to leave by two, so we don’t have much time to do what we have to do. I have to make sure you’re situated here before I leave.

I didn’t know exactly what mom wanted to situate, but she busies herself for the rest of the time allotted us with unpacking and checking out every aspect of my new shared surroundings. Momentarily detached from my boyhood self, I can readily recognize her concern, though my double ganger is impatient, eagerly anticipating his freedom from all mothering. She declares the large hallway bathroom sanitary but not very private. My drawer space, she firmly attests, is woefully inadequate. Given the relative size of the desk area to the rest of my portion of the room I’ll share with three others, she is sure the priests did not expect me to do much in this room other than study. She says she could not understand how I would survive without the privacy I so demanded at home. My father, meanwhile, remains mostly speechless, although he has the look of one who had just lost his best friend. When we say our final goodbyes at the steps of the seminary entrance, my mother starts to cry. I know this must be a dream because I recognize the pain my younger self is incapable of appreciating.

Holding back tears, her voice has a plaintiff quality as she makes her closing argument. I just don’t understand why you’re leaving home like this. But I guess you have to find out if this life is what you really want. You realize you’re going to have to take care of yourself. Wash your clothes every week. Change your underwear every day. I won’t be here to remind you. You have three meals scheduled every day. Try to eat a balanced diet. I wish I had more time to check out their menus. Call me if you need anything. Be a good boy. I love you!

After a crushing hug, she abruptly turns and leaves Dad standing there. He seems to be studying the shine on his shoes. He raises his eyes slowly and fixes me with a strange, wistful look. Son, I want you to be happy. If this is the life you want for yourself, I’ll support you. I love you too and I’m going to miss you. Call me before Christmas and let me know what you would like to do for your break. It’s going to be hard for all of us to adjust to life without you around. Until then, take care.

He also hugs me and surprises me by kissing me on the forehead. I was not ready for such a show of emotion from him. As he walks away, I am ebullient. My feet never touch the ground on the way back to my new shared living quarters.

How strange is it that these memories feel so real, like I am reliving them? And yet I am now so estranged from that time.

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Mr. Questor! Mr. Questor! Are you awake?

Yes, just a minute, Questor responded robotically, for he was not yet fully present. He needed a moment to assure he was indeed awake and in familiar surroundings. But his dream state had left him with feelings of guilt and shame that were foreign to his younger self. Perhaps the innocence of youth cannot be preserved, even in vivid memories. He picked himself off the floor and wiped the sweat from his forehead. As he opened the door, the brother gate-keeper looked quizzically at his face. At first, he seemed speechless. Then he said, There is a Miss Wyman to see you.

Now it was Questor’s turn to look puzzled. I don’t know a Miss Wyman. And how do you know that she’s a Miss and not a Mrs.?

No ring. He pointed to his hand. She seems to be some kind of professional. And she’s very pretty, too.

They teach you to observe such things here?

Well, you two are the first visitors we’ve received in months. So we … I guess, I … seem to notice everything.

If that’s true and she really is pretty, you’d better make straightway to the sanctuary right now and rekindle those vows. Only God knows what else you observed.

The brother colored noticeably, turned away, and began walking back down the path to the Monastery. Avoiding eye contact, he responded, "You’ll find her in the visitor’s waiting room."

Questor followed the quickly disappearing brother. The sun was just peeking above the Monastery walls. Over his shoulder, beyond the chapel that was his designated retreat from the world, he was startled by a brief flash emanating from the forest. He thought of his fellow hermit and wondered whether he could be its source.

Upon entering the visitor’s waiting room, he found himself confronting a complete stranger. She was a young woman around thirty years old. Had she come directly from an office, her appearance could not have been more appropriate—tailored suit, hair drawn into a bun, understated but elegant shoes with no heels. In the Monastery’s austere waiting room, her presence was an affront to its shabbiness and lack of functionality. She immediately rose from one of the tall-backed chairs and self-assuredly put out her hand.

Adam Questor? I … I’m Evelyn Wyman. Your employers asked me to see you to … to find out if there was anything you need. She stumbled over these words, unwittingly acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation.

Questor took her hand. I’m sure it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I can’t presume to know what ‘need’ my employers think you can fill.

For a moment, Miss Wyman’s face seemed to relax its formal rigidity. Questor thought she was either going to blush or smile. But, instead, she released the firm grip she had on his hand and motioned to one of the chairs.

Please sit down and I’ll explain. She paused, apparently deliberating how to begin. Recent events and your sudden departure have alarmed your associates. They’re worried about you and thought that I might be of service to you. I understand John Smite was a close associate. His death—and the circumstances of his death—must have been a shock. Perhaps you’d like to talk about your feelings?

You’re a doctor I presume—a therapist or counselor, right?

Something like that, I’m a clinical psychiatrist. More precisely, I’m Executive Director of the Maryland Institute of Clinical Psychiatry.

You’re quite young for such a responsible position.

And you too are quite young for such a responsible position. There are many people depending upon you, not just within Global Pharmaceuticals, but around the world. Your work affects millions. I would be honored to help in any way I can. Normally, I don’t take on clients outside of the Institute, but when Ralph mentioned your name, I felt obligated to respond. Please, Mr. Questor, don’t think that I’m looking for celebrity clients. I just want to be of service in my professional capacity, especially to a person whose work is so important. Do you understand my motivation? It’s important that you understand that I’m here to help you deal with these recent events. Of course, anything we discuss here I’ll hold in the strictest confidence. How do you feel about me?

I don’t know you?

A half chuckle escaped Ms. Wyman. She suppressed her spontaneous reaction and restated her question. I mean, about talking to me about your feelings?

I’m a little conflicted between a willful suspension of disbelief and distrust.

I don’t follow you.

I can accept your purpose in being here, but I’m not sure of Ralph’s in sending you.

Why, don’t you trust Ralph? Ms. Wyman broke eye contact and momentarily looked down at her hands. She seemed to be gathering herself to maintain her equanimity. "He seemed to have an honest concern for your welfare. Though spoken as a statement, her words had the inflection of a question. He negotiated a temporary leave for you with his Board and personally took over your schedule until your return. Does that sound like the actions of somebody you should distrust?"

Her question was straightforward, but Adam detected something else in her tone. Why did he send you?

I already told you what he told me. Do you suspect another purpose? The quizzical look on her face was too intense to be ignored: she seemed to be really questioning whether there might be another purpose behind Ralph’s request for her assistance.

Well, I suppose we shall see.

Does that mean you’ll talk to me? Ms. Wyman raised a questioning brow, but there was just a trace of whimsy in her eyes.

Questor could not help being intrigued by this woman. It depends upon what kinds of questions you ask.

Okay then, let’s start with why you’re here.

Questor avoided her eyes as he responded, It’s quiet—no phones, time to think.

But why come to a monastery? She paused to reconsider her approach. She wanted to explain herself to this man without making him defensive. "I understand that you once studied to become a priest. Did you come here to pray, to seek spiritual guidance or to find the resources within yourself to deal with the death of a close friend?"

Questor surveyed his questioner as if for the first time. He noted how erect she sat, her eyes fixed on him. Was this her professional posture or did she really find him that worthy of her full attention. With the palms of her hands resting on her thighs, her knees pulled tightly together, she seemed ready to pounce on his words. You seem to have done your homework, Ms. Wyman. Did Ralph provide a dossier on me?

No, she laughed, but I stopped at the bookstore last night and picked up Mason’s biography. Is it an authorized account of your life?

I’ve never read it. Is it any good? What sense does it make of my life? Maybe I should read it.

I’ve only gotten through the first two chapters where he discusses your commitment to the spiritual life and eventual falling out with the Church hierarchy. He seemed to think that you had some kind of crisis of faith. He said your quest for truth went beyond the answers faith provided. Is he right about that?

Questor turned pensive. ‘What is truth?’ Is it logically derived from self-evident first principles as some philosophers say, or is it the epiphany experienced with faith? Is faith the door you must open before you can experience the truth? If so, then what door do you open? Should I be a Catholic, a Jew, a Hindu, or a Moslem? There are many beliefs from which to choose. The irony is that committed belief in any one of these religions has been used to justify the death of non-believers, those ignominiously termed infidels or heretics. If you leave judgment at the door, you are at the mercy of priests, rabbis, gurus or mullahs for control of your life. If you believe judgment can only be found on the other side of the door, then the question of truth is begged at the very start of your search and you are doomed to never answer that question in any rational way. I could not find sufficient evidence to support a leap of faith and discovered that I was not able to trust those who proposed such to me.

Then Mason was right. You did have a crisis of faith. It seems unlikely that you should find solace in a religion you left over a decade ago. So why come to a monastery to sort things out?

Perhaps my crisis was not with my faith, but with my church. You teach children what to believe, because they need guidance. Adults have to fend for themselves or risk becoming ciphers. But, to answer your question, a monastery is not an unlikely place for sorting things out. Initially, the abbot offered me quarters in the guest house. I declined his offer to share space or schedule with the community and asked for a hermitage. He suggested the use of this little chapel which the monks sometimes use for vigils or, on occasion, as a hermitage. At this time there’s only one monk living the life of a hermit. Nobody knows exactly where he sleeps, but one of the brothers brings him food and Communion every day at the clearing in front of this little chapel. I saw him for the first time yesterday. The brother brought me food too, but I declined Communion. Meeting my companion in solitude was a communion in itself. We only looked at each other, but I saw something in his gaze that I recognized.

You knew him?

He did seem to have something to tell me; but no, I didn’t know him. I once knew somebody like him, a man of faith who had passed through the door and was at peace with a knowledge in which he felt secure.

Who was this person he reminded you of?

Myself.

Questor’s inquisitor seemed puzzled at his reply. She tilted her head at an angle, jutted her jaw forward slightly and squinted at him. At the same time she relaxed into the back of her chair and gracefully crossed her legs. Questor stared at her for a moment and then quickly looked away, hiding his embarrassment.

Mr. Questor, may I call you Adam?

If you like.

Adam, I don’t believe you’re here to find uninterrupted time to think. This place is also a refuge from what’s out there. Perhaps you’re looking for solace, or some kind of peace of mind. But I don’t think you can find it by going back to a time you have long since forsaken. You must face whatever has driven you to this isolated Monastery. I think you’re in denial. She paused and weighed her next words before she spoke. "Were you especially close to John Smite?"

We were friends. I don’t think we were especially close. His lab was under contract to Global for key research into genetic structures of interest to our project. Since much of what we were trying to accomplish depended upon that research, I spent a lot of time with John. Most often I was just a sounding board for his flights of imagination. He was brilliant. But he was much more than a scientist. We spent many off-hours discussing everything from the existence of God to the meaning of our individual lives. In some ways, we were kindred souls—both searching for something. I’ll miss him.

Were you shocked by his suicide? It must have been difficult for you to deal with the way he … Ralph said that you never returned his message. You just disappeared from work and home. You know, it would be better if you talked about your feelings, even if you have to confront the manner of his death.

Ralph’s message only said that he took his life. Is there more to know than the fact that he removed himself from his own existence, as well as from all that knew him?

Adam, I’m sorry. I assumed you knew the details, either from Ralph’s message or perhaps from the newspapers.

I’ve not read a newspaper since I left. How did he die?

The police have reconstructed a rather bazaar story. Apparently, Smite planned his death meticulously. He signed a lab disposal form, laid down in a large box used for lab animal corpses, secured its lid, and sedated himself. The disposal technicians followed his instructions and delivered his makeshift coffin to the furnace where it was incinerated. The police found a hypodermic needle amongst his ashes. He left no record to explain why he would take such action. I’m surprised the police have not contacted you. They’ve interviewed everybody connected with Smite in order to find out his motives. Do you have any ideas why he would take his life in this manner?

Questor did not reply, appearing stunned at her account of Smite’s suicide. Gradually, his body collapsed into a fetal position in his chair, his head in his hands. His shoulders began to tremble, and then violent shudders wrenched his body. Ms. Wyman, surprised by his reaction, rose from her chair and stood next to him. She placed her hand on his shoulder gently.

Adam, I’m so sorry. It was insensitive of me to speak so matter-of-factly. Somehow, I didn’t pick up on how close you were to Smite.

I wasn’t, not really. But I can’t talk right now. Questor suddenly rose, almost bumping into Ms. Wyman. She stepped back quickly. He seemed ready to bolt for the door when she recovered and grabbed hold of his arm.

Adam, you can’t run away from these feelings. Stay with me or at least talk to somebody. I don’t know what’s troubling you, but I would like to help.

Questor was surprised by her grip on his arm. It had been a long time since any woman had physically touched him. She was strong too. The tensing of her forehead and eyebrows riveted his gaze. He wondered: Could anybody be this earnest and not be real? He straightened himself and addressed her more directly than at any time since he entered the room. What is Ralph Edwards to you? What claim does he have on you to ask you to intercede with me?

Ms. Wyman released her grip instantly. Ralph is my brother-in-law. There’s no special relationship between us other than my sister. Elizabeth and I have always been very close and supportive of each other. She never questioned my single-purpose pursuit of a career in clinical psychiatry when everybody thought I was sacrificing my personal life. And I tried not to question her judgment in marrying somebody like Ralph.

Questor surveyed her face searchingly, Ms. Wyman, you just told me something about yourself. He continued in this direct manner, Perhaps we could talk, but, if we do, it’ll have to be a dialogue, a two-way exchange. You may be able to help me, even if it’s not the help you may have anticipated. But I need to know more about you before I can … Questor chose not to complete his sentence. Instead, he moved towards the door.

She blurted out, Would tomorrow be too soon for our next meeting? Same time, or is this time too early? I’ll be staying at a nearby hotel, just 20 minutes away. So I can see you at any time.

Questor turned at the door and replied, I’m not going anywhere. Just tell the brother gatekeeper to get me. Hopefully, he won’t be too overwhelmed with your presence. Questor was gone before he could witness Ms. Wyman’s puzzled reaction to his parting comment.

After Questor left Ms. Wyman, he wandered the grounds of the Monastery aimlessly. His thoughts were as random as the direction of his feet. How did Ralph find him here? Could he have been followed? Obviously, Ralph had not shared his whereabouts with the police. Could this Ms. Wyman—whether Miss or Mrs.—be so astute and yet so naïve? Certainly Ralph is using her to find out what he knows about John’s work. He would not confront Questor directly for he probably still harbored questions about his reluctance to produce recent lab results. Questor’s sudden departure may have stirred suspicions. No deliberation was involved; he had just acted spontaneously.

John’s death had jolted him. How could John so commit himself to a course of action that was fatal both to him and to his work? And now Questor was the only person who could speak to that work. Ralph must not have believed he could get any answers except under the ruse of using Ms. Wyman. Questor wondered about her role. If complicit in Ralph’s strategy, she cloaked her intent better than any actress. If not, then how does Ralph plan to use her unwittingly? In either case, Questor needed to convince her that his sudden departure had no other explanation than John’s death. Unfortunately, he may have already given her reason to assume more. Still, there was no explicit implication of John’s work in Questor’s erratic behavior. Here was an avenue for Questor to explore. Perhaps he could use Ms. Wyman’s apparent credibility, just as Ralph had planned, but to his own purposes. But an inner voice spoke of a higher priority: he felt a need to know whether she was a willing participant in Ralph’s scheme.

His musing turned to John. Did he actually believe his self-immolation was an act of finality? In fact, he left Questor as the loose end in their affair. Why couldn’t John wait until Questor had resolved their dilemma? As the Vice President of Genetic Research and Development, it was his responsibility to keep the CEO and the Board of Directors informed of all research results. Now Questor could be implicated in a cover-up. Even if he had come to agree with John that perhaps his work should be buried, he never would have condoned such an extreme action as suicide. Perhaps it was arrogant of them even to believe the decision was theirs to make? From the beginning, Questor had felt the need to consult with a higher authority. They both needed direction from a counsel of sages. The problem, of course, was that informing the Board did not meet Questor’s criteria for such a counsel. What held him back then was still arresting him now. At least John had decided on a course of action. Unlike Questor, he had resolved his moral dilemma.

Questor stopped abruptly. Standing in front of him, covered in a white surplice, was the gate-keeper, Brother Mercurius, now free of those duties that allowed him to interact with visitors. Absent the liberality of speech, he was motioning broadly for Questor to follow him. The contortion of his face into a fish-like pout and the bulging of his eyes made an almost comical pantomime. But the obvious concern on his brow helped suppress Questor’s urge to smile. Instead, Questor quietly followed him into a side altar of the main chapel where one of the priests was preparing to fulfill his daily duty of rite. As the brother joined the priest to assist at the tiny altar, Questor slid onto one of the kneelers. He sunk his head into his hands and closed his eyes. The priest intoned "Introibo ad altare Dei …" while Questor drifted into a meditative trance. Disconnected images flitted pass his mind’s eye: Smite’s body in his self-styled coffin, Edward’s scheming in his executive suite, and the mysterious Wyman woman. There was something about her in particular that intrigued him … His scattered mindscape slowly shape-shifted into a past memory and another chapel.

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I see myself leaving the seminary chapel, hands behind my back interlocked in a wrist-hold, Francisco gracefully merging in-step with me. As usual, he has his hands hidden in the sleeves of his cassock, holding onto his elbows or possibly a rosary.

In that confessional tone of his, Francisco opens the conversation with a question. Do you want to come into town with me Sunday, after Solemn Mass? We could leave right away, just skip lunch. Okay?

Francisco, if you plan on seeing that girl again, you’re just asking for trouble.

Adam, you’ve become so negative this past year. You used to be the most pious person in our class, always positive and really an inspiration to all of us. Now all roads lead to hell for you. Your philosophical gravitas is beginning to weigh on me.

Don’t pick on philosophy. Without it, Aquinas could not have argued to the reasonableness of our faith and of all that theological dogma we call our Catholic tradition.

It’s not just Aquinas that you read. Sister Liberian told me about some of the books you’ve been checking out. Does your spiritual director know what you’re doing? You can’t possibly have permission to read the forbidden philosophers.

Actually, I do. Why do you think those books are hidden away in our library? They’re meant to be read. Father believes my way is through the mind. He thinks that I can be of service to the Church, perhaps as an apologist. He says that some of us must be knowledgeable of the arguments of agnostics and atheists in order to defend the faith.

But you’ve changed so. You seem to be absorbing a realm of thought outside of the Church’s teaching.

Actually, it’s not outside of it, but envelopes it. Did you know that there were many in Jesus’ time who claimed to be the Messiah? Many of the myths of our faith date back before the historical Christ and have their counterparts in the Greek Diaspora. There is nothing new about a virgin birth or a sacrificial god. What is important is what these myths signify. Even our way of deducing dogma from revealed truth borrows from the early philosophers. Augustine, a true Roman of North African origin, followed Plato. Acquinas was so wrapped in Aristotle that he could never free himself from the preeminence of the intellect, a conceit that the entire West has followed religiously—if you’ll forgive the irony. What does ‘cogito ergo sum’ have in common with Newton’s laws of gravity or the theory of special relativity? They are all mind conceived systems which begin by assuming their reflection in the physical world. But maybe behind this physical world are possibilities as limitless as the stars. What brings the world we inhabit into existence?

Hold on! You’re doing it again. Before you go into your dissertation on how the Church ignored Duns Scotus in favor of Aquinas, would you just answer my simple question?

Sure, I’ll go with you on Sunday. But don’t expect me to condone your proselytizing. That girl has something else in mind rather than religion. You’re just too … too something. I just couldn’t call Francisco naïve, because he was bright. He just seemed to filter everything through the glasses of his faith.

You really are an enigma, you know. Everybody likes you, but I don’t think any of us really can connect with that part of you that remains aloof. You’ve become so liberal in your thinking and yet so puritanical in your actions. Worse, your ostensible virtue is not without allusions of vulgarity.

You, Francisco, really need to understand the difference between liberal and libertine. If I said more, I would’ve offended him. He never shared my restraints because he truly was an innocent. He loved life, and girls. He really was a male ingénue with that dimpled smile that charmed everybody. To be with him was to crave that smile, that ‘amor vitae.’ Now he’s looking at me as if I’m over the top.

Adam, are you insulting me or her or both of us? I don’t think Scotus would be proud of you. A glint appeared in Francisco’s eyes. Did he not defend the virtue of the Blessed Mother? I think the Church has credited him with that much.

And do you think your girlfriend is a virgin. Or do you already know differently?

Now you ARE being insulting!

Well, you did implicate Scotus in your self-justification. He has always deserved better than the treatment given by those who did not understand him.

Oh no! Francisco threw his head to the side as if I had just landed a punch. I did give you an opening.

Sure, he advanced devotion to the Blessed Mother. I think he recognized how much the goddess image was lacking in the testosterone driven Church hierarchy. But he also advanced our understanding of the free will as the faculty that is dominant in an intellect, ‘causa subserviens voluntati.’ His teaching raises the degree of accountability for our actions—with or without the power of grace. It also challenged the Church’s dogma regarding how evil entered the world of an all powerful and good God. Augustine’s dictum that evil is simply the absence of good absolves everybody including God. With just a few more visits to the well of grace, we can all become perfect and good, in the image of God, right? Isn’t that what you’ve been taught? What you believe? Well, I no longer accept the cult of perfection; and I believe the road we must follow is one we freely choose amidst limitless possibilities, both good and evil. Only our decisions and actions illuminate our way.

Adam, stop! For goodness sakes, stop! Sometimes I think you go too far. You’re strangling me. I love you like a brother, but at times your words seem to annihilate everything and everybody before you. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, my good friend, than our dreamt of in our philosophy.’

Yes, Horatio, there are ghosts who invade our minds and tell us what to do.

Francisco cuffed me on the shoulder just enough to break my stride. You are grim, and then added with a laugh, you’ll make the perfect chaperone on Sunday.

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A hand on his shoulder broke Questor’s reverie. He looked up slowly from his slouched position on the kneeler. Brother Mercurius was motioning with a pinched forefinger and thumb at his mouth that it was time to visit the dining hall. But hunger was not yet part of Questor’s awareness. Instead, he felt an intense weariness and actual physical pain in his knees. He had no idea how long he had been in his slouch, but a call to the dining hall meant that the Mass he unconsciously attended had long since ended.

Lunch in a monastery is not usually a memorable experience. Questor had no incentive to sit with a congregation of monks in silence. He shuffled along slowly behind Brother Mercurius and sat down beside the good brother. As soon as the food was brought to the table, he collected a bun and an apple, rose from the table and gently bowed to excuse himself. Only Brother Mercurius seemed to notice his polite gesture and motioned for him to stay seated. Questor pretended not to see this gesture, and quickly left the hall.

He found himself climbing the path west of the Monastery on his way to the little chapel which had become his personal hermitage. Vaguely, he remembered the flash of light he saw over his shoulder that morning. What caused that momentary reflection of the morning sun? A vision of his fellow hermit with a pair of binoculars flitted through his mind. He dismissed the incongruity of this image and decided at once to walk past the chapel and into the dense forest that bordered it. He would confront the source of that flash of light. Maybe it could reveal how Ralph Edwards found him.

Even at near midday, his pupils needed time to dilate from the lack of light. His sense of direction was guided by the obvious distinction of up from down. He was climbing now. Even if he was unable to retrace his steps, he could steer himself downwards. In due course he would either encounter the Monastery or intersect the road leading up to the Monastery somewhere in its winding path around the mountain. Recklessly, he pushed forward through the underbrush. The overhanging canopy not only shielded him from the light; it also provided cover for the dark premonitions that crawled below the surface of his consciousness. What he was about to encounter could be more than he was prepared to handle. Ralph never did things halfway. Obviously, he had Questor followed; he likely still had somebody watching and perhaps waiting. Questor had no idea what mission might be given to a potential tracker or what would happen if he was unexpectedly encountered in this forest. He only knew that he had rather confront him than not. It would be better to meet his suspicions in the flesh than allow them to haunt him indefinitely. Blindly, he pushed forward and upwards, generally in the direction from which he thought he saw the flash.

After about half an hour, he admitted to himself his mistake in taking on this venture without a plan. He was more than just lost in an unfamiliar environment. His very mind was in chaos. Should he trust his suspicions or any of the actions he had taken in the last two days? John’s death began to play in his mind. Images of John fitting his coffin lid and then doping himself with a hypodermic needle paralyzed Questor. He fell to the ground and started to cry. Slowly, he rolled onto his back and let his eyes fix on the flickering light seeping through the ceiling of leaves. Their mild wavering in the passing breeze seemed to promise a brief exposure to sunlight. But the promise was unfulfilled. The covering canopy was too thick and unyielding. Questor felt himself sinking into a kind of oblivion. He knew he was not capable of following John’s chosen path? Would he ever be that sure of a course of action that even the surety of his own death would not stand in the way?

A face suddenly appeared in his line of vision. Somebody was bending over him. Questor jumped to his feet. He felt the heat of blood rushing to his head and adrenaline energizing every nerve in his body. When his mind finally caught up with his animal reactions, he found himself facing a strange apparition. Those eyes he could not fail to recognize. They had fixed him yesterday morning in front of the chapel. What had otherwise left only a hazy impression the previous day was now the very corporeal presence of a man of the mountains. He was wearing a monk’s habit, but it was ragged and dirty. His face was almost indistinguishable within the unruly beard that enclosed it. Only his eyes demanded someone’s attention. They seemed grounded in eternity.

You are Adam Questor, I presume? Are you lost?

Questor stumbled for words. He was shocked by the hermit’s manner of speech as much as he was mystified by his seeming apparition. Yes, I suppose I am … lost, I mean. That fact is easily presumed, but how could you possibly know who I am?

I overheard your name in a conversation, and I know something about why you’re here.

I thought Cistercian monks take a vow of silence. Now I find out they not only talk within the sacred walls—and, apparently, in the surrounding forests—but they also engage in gossip.

You’re correct. We do take a vow of silence, so gossip is quite out of the question. However, as you know, we’re dispensed with our vow of silence for certain tasks—and, at our own discretion, in case of an emergency.

So what is your dispensation? Are hermits permitted to talk to the animals and any lost vagrants they meet in the forest?

I have no special dispensation. But I do suspect you are in danger.

In danger of losing my immortal soul? Or just my material existence?

Only God knows about the condition of your soul. The hermit’s eyes seemed to penetrate into Questor’s head. "You can probably speak for the nature of this danger better than I. Will you be so kind as to follow me?"

Without another word, the hermit turned and quietly moved into the bushes. He never looked to see whether