Dismissed Sanctuary Veterinarian Confronts Her Tyrannical Cult Leader Father When A Wild Raptor Strike Exposes Fourteen Million Dollars In Stolen Tithes And Hidden Tax Evasion Micro-Data
“The power’s out in most of the clinic, Maeve,” I said, my voice quiet, but firm, my eyes meeting hers. “And a lot more is wrong than just the power.”
Eli tried to interject, a guttural sound escaping him, but Maeve held up a hand, silencing him without a word. Her gaze, sharp and knowing, locked onto the micro SD card in my hand.
“What is that, child?” she asked, stepping fully into the room. Her eyes, clouded with age, still held a piercing intelligence.
“It fell from Eli’s pocket,” I explained, holding it out to her. “After the eagle… after it struck him.” I watched Eli’s face closely. His eyes widened, a flicker of pure terror crossing them, before he quickly masked it with a grimace of pain.
Maeve reached out and took the small, blood-stained card from my fingers. She examined it for a moment, then turned toward the sanctuary’s main terminal, a sturdy, outdated computer console tucked into a corner of the surgical bay. It was the only system on the compound still running on the clinic’s isolated backup generator, its screen casting a dim, greenish glow.
“This terminal connects to the old network,” Maeve murmured, almost to herself. She inserted the tiny card into the console’s side port. A soft click echoed in the tense silence.
The screen flickered. A command line appeared, then quickly vanished, replaced by a series of cascading folders and files. Maeve typed a series of rapid commands, her fingers surprisingly nimble on the ancient keyboard.
Then, the screen changed again. What appeared next made everyone in the room draw a sharp breath.
A sprawling, complex spreadsheet filled the display. It was an off-book ledger, meticulously detailing financial transactions. Line after line of currency, dates, and account numbers scrolled rapidly. A highlighted sum, impossible to ignore, flashed at the top: “$14,000,000.” Below it, a series of international wire transfers to various shell companies and offshore accounts, all bearing the signature code associated with Patriarch Eli Holbrook. The words “IRS Evasion” were clearly visible in one column heading.
The numbers blared from the screen, a silent accusation. Fourteen million dollars. Compound tithes, diverted and hidden. Eli’s face, already pale from blood loss, drained completely, turning an ashen gray. His jaw hung slack.
“By the Prophet’s own Covenant,” Maeve whispered, her voice laced with disbelief and sorrow, “he has pilfered from us all.”
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