Page 81 of False Flag

Citogenesis wasn’t always deliberate, nor was it necessarily malicious. It could begin with a mistake by an editor or as a prank. Like the time the invention of the butterfly swimming stroke was attributed to a man named “Jack Stephens” in the Guardian newspaper, based on a previously undiscovered joke edit on the Butterfly Stroke Wikipedia page.

In this instance, it was a seed. A tiny reference. But it had to be deliberate, and with the mention of the Native Sons of British Columbia on the Wikipedia page, it was definitely meant to propagate and become an accepted part of local history one tiny, planted kernel at a time, until the truth was concealed by a forest of lies.

No doubt Osborne or Jennifer Meyers steered the unnamed author of the famous settlers article to the American Camp page. The author could even be Meyers herself, if she existed.

What was the purpose of this insertion into the historical record? No way could Gerard get a permit to dig in or near American Camp, so this had to be about the artifacts themselves. To give them more value and meaning. It also wasn’t a mistake that the fanboy mentioned the Hepburn Stone. The fanboy could also be AI, or even one of the members of the expedition team.

Lloyd? Dahlia? Philip? Riley?

She couldn’t rule out anyone.

There was no reference to where the artifacts were now—or even what they were. But she doubted they ever really existed, and Osborne probably hadn’t wanted to be locked in to a particular description.

As it was, there was nothing to stop him from producing several questionable petroglyphs from the family vault and claiming they came from American Camp. He wouldn’t be held accountable for his ancestor’s theft at this late date, especially when laws protecting those particular artifacts hadn’t existed at the time. Ironically, it was the Native Sons of British Columbia who had pushed for some of Canada’s earliest historic preservation laws.

But that was a different rabbit hole.

She tapped her fingers on the table, trying to guess Osborne’s next move.

It was difficult enough to attempt to date a petroglyph that remained in situ. One that had supposedly been removed over a hundred and sixty years ago?

Impossible.

Chapter Twenty-Six

After dinner that evening, Staci and Jake walked to Finlayson Point on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. While Staci worked earlier in the day, Jake had gone shopping. In addition to clothes and other necessities, he’d also acquired a quaich at a Scottish gift shop and a bottle of Robert Burns Single Malt scotch from a liquor store. Jake wanted to honor his brother as he had his father and mother when they passed. This was the Burns family way.

Staci wasn’t a fan of scotch, but this was meant to be a ceremony, not a picnic. She waited as he stood on the bluff and looked down at the beach with driftwood logs below. He eyed the bench on the bluff, then the beach again before asking, “You mind if we find the stairs and head down to the water?”

“I think being closer to the water would be perfect.”

He nodded, and they circled back to the path and located the steps that cut through the woods on the way to the beach. Once there, they faced another choice—sit on the logs on the rocky beach in the protected cove or on the bedrock that jutted into the strait.

She could guess what he wanted and nodded toward the basalt outcrop. “There. We’ll have a great view of the sunset.” The sun would set over a low, thin strip of land, but from the bedrock finger, their view would be mostly water.

She folded over the blanket Jake had also purchased just for tonight to give them an extra bit of padding before placing it on the wave-smoothed surface of the rock. The folding meant they had a smaller surface to sit on. Their hips touched as they sat facing the setting sun.

Small waves lapped at the rocks far enough out that they were in no danger of getting splashed, and Staci leaned her head on Jake’s shoulder, taking slow, deep breaths of the cool salt air.

The sky filled with pink and orange as the bright yellow sun dropped closer to the horizon. The breeze delivered a faint mist of seawater. There were no other people around to interrupt the peaceful calm of the moment.

Jake poured golden liquid into his new pewter two-handed cup. He held the quaich up and faced the setting sun. “Love you, brother.”

He drained it, then poured again and handed her the vessel. She raised it and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get to know the person Jake knew. I mourn never having a chance to help you and your brother reconcile, and for being another source of strife between you. I think you could have been a good friend, given the chance.” She took a small sip, then, deciding the scotch wasn’t awful, a slightly larger one.

She handed the cup back to Jake and said, “I’m not much of a singer, but I do know ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ Sing with me?”

He set the cup on the rock and slipped an arm around her waist. The sun touched earth as he began, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot…”

His voice was rich and deep. She joined in, regretting that her voice would mar the harmonic sound of his. But she found her pitch, and together they sang Robert Burns’s most famous poem.

Jake knew more verses than she, and she dropped out while he continued to sing. When he finished, the sun had fully set, and they stood looking out at blue sea and orange sky, the only sound wind and waves.

After a long moment, he kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”

“I find it terribly unfair that you have a great singing voice.”

His smile released the dimples. “I know. Sometimes I feel bad about being so hot and so talented.”