Page 48 of Old Secrets

“Familiar enough, but I am open to new learnings,” the older of the men replied.

“Long before China began a cohesive nation, there were many clans or tribes—we’re not quite sure what they called themselves, really. We kept our distance from the young humans, although we did help them from time to time. They had yet to cultivate civil behaviors among themselves and were prone to acting rather like animals. That changed. They developed culture—and beliefs. One of those beliefs was in higher powers. One of those higher powers eventually became Yamāntaka. Greenwich existed at the birth of those higher powers, although it did not take full root until later, taking up the name of the deity they wished to conquer and become.”

“Ancient fanatics, then,” he muttered.

“Not ancient. They are not supernatural. They just pass their quest for greed down from generation to generation, continuing their cause. The snake’s head has not been cut off—but in this case, I would rather incinerate every last one of them. We can cut their heads off before burning them. They are not phoenixes. They will not rise from their ashes. We will see to that. What is your name, and how do you plan to help our cause?”

“You can call me Eric, and my associate is Andrew.” After a moment, he added, “We have chosen American names for ourselves to make it easier for most here.”

Interesting. The Japanese had been patient whenever I’d struggled with pronouncing something, especially names. While I didn’t understand why the Chinese had chosen to Americanize their names, I opted against questioning it.

They had a reason, although I did not understand the reason.

“How do you plan on helping our cause?” my father asked, and something about his tone implied the Chinese spokesman walked on thin ice.

The battle of wills continued in silence for a few minutes before Eric sighed. “You are committed, then?”

“They will burn, and everyone allied with them will also burn. They have murdered our children. We have but one surviving daughter, and they tried to kill her, too—numerous times. Now that we have been set free, we will stop at nothing to see their threat removed. No mere country will stop us, not now.”

Well, that would make our day interesting. While I lacked knowledge about the Chinese and their culture, I understood they took their power and pride seriously.

My father’s statement implied he would tear everything they valued down around them without remorse.

Eric considered my father, and then he rose and dipped into a bow. “Excellent. I will make certain my country knows your stance. We are prepared to assist you in weaponry, skilled personnel, escorts, translators, and access to vital records involving your daughter. We have tracked how your child was sent to the United States, along with information from interviewing witnesses. We have gotten some old camera footage of those who murdered your daughter’s escort. A family member, I presume.”

“Yes,” my mother stated, and her tone was as cold as my father’s.

Eric rose, bowed again, and retrieved two briefcases. One went on his chair, and he opened the other in front of him. He started by unfolding a map, positioning it in front of my parents. He plucked a laser pointer from the briefcase’s pen holder and directed everyone’s attention to a position on the map. “This is where your daughter’s paper trail begins. Are you aware of this location?”

My parents leaned over the map, examining the spot. My mother nodded first, followed by my father. She pointed at a mountain nearby. “Our sanctuary is there.”

“From our research, it had been the nearest town to your sanctuary, although it had been destroyed. I believe your relative meant to leave a clue about your daughter’s origins, hoping someone would discover the oddities in her paperwork. Unfortunately, from what we have learned from the Americans, their inability to read the documentation resulted in her paperwork being filed away; why translate the originating documents for an infant with other papers at that period of time? Those who smuggled her into the adoption agency, and then later processed her adoption with the Johnson family, had done so with much skill.” Eric frowned, and he glanced at me. “And there is the matter of your original adoptive parents.”

“Yes,” I replied. “They were likely murdered by Greenwich. A crime they will pay for, one way or another. We’d initially thought they had killed them in a fashion meant to assign blame to the Fenerec, but upon meeting my parents, we understood that it was this group mimicking how they would dispatch their enemies.”

My father tilted his head and regarded me with a frown. “Do you have pictures of this?”

“I do,” Eric stated, turning and opening the other briefcase and pulling out an inch-thick file, which he handed over to my father. “This is courtesy of the American Inquisition. It came to light when the true time of your daughter’s transport to the United States had been discovered. The escort who brought her into the country is a legitimate agency worker, fooled by the paperwork that your relative and her accomplice provided.”

I wondered why they addressed my aunt as simply a relative. Was it some part of Chinese custom I failed to understand? Filing it away as something to ask about later, I leaned across the table, opened the folder for my father, and flipped to the images that had caught our attention. “It was these photos.”

My parents examined the images, and both nodded.

My mother offered a grim smile. “This was definitely done to mimic how we fight, although they made mistakes we would not. May their souls rest in peace and know our gratitude for their willingness to give you a home.” She took a few moments to sort through the pages, pausing at the medical report. “How tragic. What a sad ending for such honorable people. You are right. Greenwich will pay for these deaths.”

“It may have been a mercy for them,” I admitted, staring at the various conditions that would have left me bereft of my adoptive parents at an early age. “I don’t know how they would have handled my extended infancy.”

“That is a mystery we have not been able to solve,” Eric stated, and he retrieved the file and returned it to his briefcase. “There is a gap in your life we simply have no records of. Someone took care of you in the United States for several years before putting you in the care of the Johnsons. Someone who understood you would be an infant for an abnormal period of time. Someone involved with the selection of the Johnsons potentially assisted with covering up the tragic murder of their son. More importantly, this person coached your adopted mother on the oddities of your development, putting you in an environment you could be raised without drawing much suspicion.”

I considered the possibilities, and with the little I knew of my own childhood, I determined I had no plausible ideas. “But who would do that? Why?”

“It wouldn’t be someone loyal to Greenwich,” my father said, and the certainty in his voice was burdened with ancient grief. “They would have corrupted or killed you upon discovery. It would have had to be someone else—or a traitor within Greenwich’s numbers.”

Traitors came a dime a dozen, and the only thing that made one an ally or foe was the cause they fought for. “A traitor is always an option.”

“Or a surviving member of your family,” Mellisa stated, drawing everyone’s attention to her. My psychologist rose from her seat, pulled out her briefcase, and set it on the table beside my father. “These files came to me this morning, and I wasn’t sure what to do with them. This makes everything a little more clear. May I inquire if there are other types of foxes?”

“What do you mean?” my father asked with furrowed brows.