The Mayan Resurrection

by Steve Alten

  ‘Oh my God… . He should have known that, right?’

  ‘I think he did. I think your grandfather committed suicide.’

  ‘No … he was murdered. Look at those wounds? How do you explain the blood loss?’

  ‘Self-inflicted. With all that painkiller in him, he probably never felt a thing. Did you know he changed his Will?’

  ‘I didn’t even know he had a Will.’

  ‘Changed it yesterday. Fits the suicide pattern. This whole thing was premeditated. His lawyer will be speaking with you later this afternoon.’ Colson checks his notes. ‘Now this uncle of yours—Don Rafelo. I’m going to need his statement.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Colson looks over her shoulder, his expression darkening. ‘Oh, hell—’ He hurries into the living room to the television.

  The scene is live, broadcast from a news chopper hovering over the Gandy Bridge in Tampa. Rescue boats are circling, divers are in the water.

  Colson turns up the sound.

  ‘… the former president’s limousine was struck as it approached the construction area of the bridge. The vehicle crashed through the temporary barricade and into the bay.’

  The scene zooms in on a Coast Guard rescue boat.

  ‘Jennie, Brian Bahder here. We’ve just received word that former president Ennis Chaney and the driver of the vehicle have been rescued. Both men are now aboard the Coast Guard rescue boat in stable condition.’

  ‘Brian, what about the missing Gabriel twin?’

  Lilith kneels by the screen, her heart racing. Please not Jacob …

  ‘Divers are still searching, but I have to tell you, it doesn’t look good. Eyewitnesses report the limo sank at least ten minutes ago.’

  ‘For those of you just joining us, you’re looking at a live telecast over the Gandy Bridge where a limousine transporting former president Ennis Chaney and one of his godsons was struck by a hit-and-run driver as it was heading east into Tampa. Chaney and his driver have been rescued, but the unidentified Gabriel twin is still missing.’

  ‘Jennie, from what we understand, Tampa Bay Buccaneers owners Dan and Linda Broersma, had invited Chaney and his godson to watch this afternoon’s football game—’

  ‘Stand by, Jennie, it looks like divers have surfaced.’

  The camera angle changes, zooming in on the stern of the Coast Guard rescue boat where a body is being lifted out of the water.

  Lilith holds her breath as the carcass, supported by a team of divers, breaks the surface.

  It is the dark-haired twin, Immanuel.

  20

  For one more terrible moment in man’s history, the world seemed to stop spinning.

  Over the years, stories about the Gabriel twins had grown to almost legendary proportions. News of Immanuel’s demise stunned the public as much as the deaths of John Lennon, Princess Diana, or John F. Kennedy, Jr.. But it was in Mesoamerica where the Mayan Indians had worshiped the teens as living deities that the news was hardest to swallow.

  Riots broke out in Central America. Zealots took nosedives off pyramids. Schools and businesses closed. People wept openly in the streets. Back in the States, news journalists stormed the gates of the Gabriel compound by the hundreds, forcing the military to shut down access bridges leading into Longboat Key.

  What the public wanted was information, what the media insisted upon was proof. They demanded to examine the body, which had been transported back to the compound to be readied for burial.

  In her grief, Dominique finally relented, knowing there would be no peace without verification. A team of physicians were allowed to enter the Gabriel compound, along with a CNN film crew and two witnesses drawn from a lottery.

  The morbid event was telecast around the world.

  After thirty minutes, a heavily sedated Dominique could handle no more. Everyone but Ennis Chaney and the immediate family were banned from the compound.

  The former president spoke to the world later that evening, providing sparse details about the hit-and-run, saying only that Immanuel’s body would be cremated. A public mass and international day of mourning was scheduled for Monday in Washington, DC.

  Belle Glade, Florida November 5, 2027

  The unmarked police car enters the lot of the Belle Glade Breakers Motel and parks. Lilith gets out of the passenger side and knocks on the door of Room 113. ‘Open up, Uncle Don, it’s me—Lilith.’

  Detective Colson joins her at the door. ‘Do you have a key?’

  ‘Yes.’ She slips the magnetic key in the lock and opens the door.

  The room is empty.

  ‘So? Where is he?’

  ‘I … I don’t know. He was supposed to meet me here this evening.’

  ‘Anyone at the front desk ever meet this uncle of yours?’

  ‘No. I paid for the room. His English isn’t too good.’

  Colson searches the chest of drawers. Looks under the bed. Checks the bathroom. Finds nothing.

  ‘Looks like he took off on you. What was his relationship with your grandfather?’

  ‘I … I don’t know? But if you’re thinking … Detective, I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Please don’t jump to any conclusions.’

  ‘Here’s my card. I want you to wait here and call me the moment he comes back. Meanwhile, I’m going to contact someone from Family Services. If your uncle doesn’t show up by tonight, you’ll go with them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Colson leaves. Lilith locks the door behind him.

  ‘Bastard.’

  She spins around, shocked to find Don Rafelo lying spread-eagle on the bed.

  ‘Don’t worry, I put the evil eye on him.’

  ‘Where were you? How did you get …’ The sudden realization shocks her, dropping her to her knees. ‘No … you’re … you’re not real, are you?’

  His smile reveals diseased gums. ‘Of course I’m real. Thoughts are real, aren’t they?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘The power of the Succubus is real.’

  ‘But you’re just in my mind. You’re not really here. Not in the physical sense.’

  He sits up and leans in close, and she can smell his foul old man’s breath. ‘Real is what the mind can conceive and believe. Thoughts are things. Your thought energy is as real as mine.’

  Lilith swoons. ‘Those boys you killed—’

  ‘You mean, the ones you killed. And the old woman.’

  ‘And Quenton?’

  ‘Of course. I instructed you, gave you confidence, but it was you who did the deed. And now there’s more to be done, before we travel to Mexico.’

  ‘Jacob?’

  Don Rafelo nods. ‘He’ll be in Washington for the memorial service. Security will be tight, but he’ll be out in the open, where we can reach him through the nexus.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to see me anymore.’

  ‘Jacob’s value is in his seed. Your union will be the first of two nearly pure Hunahpu. Your child, Lilith, shall be a god.’

  West Potomac Park, Washington, DC November 7, 2027

  Towering 555 feet high, the alabaster marble obelisk known as the Washington Monument is located at the east end of Potomac Park, approximately one mile west of the Capitol Building. At the very top of this hollow structure is an observation room, affording visitors a magnificent view of the park’s reflecting pool, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the 9-11 wall, the Middle East War Memorial, and the Lincoln Memorial.

  The Lincoln Memorial is constructed of thirty-six columns—the number of states in the Union at the time of Lincoln’s death in 1865. Situated within the massive enclosure is sculptor Daniel Chester French’s giant stone-carving honoring the sixteenth president of the United States.

  Ennis Chaney, the forty-sixth president of the United States, listens to Rabbi Steinberg’s opening invocation as he looks out upon a vast sea of bodies gathered around the Memorial and the park’s long rectangular reflecting pool. Network hover-cams dot the gray winter sky, each suspended in
its preapproved flight pattern. Security cams dart in and about, scanning the crowd, who have already been searched for weapons. Congressmen and visiting dignitaries are seated along the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Several dab at their eyes, though few are actually crying.

  Seated on one side of the former president is President Marion Rallo. Jacob Gabriel is on Chaney’s left side, the white-haired teen wearing a black suit and tie and dark, tinted, wraparound shades.

  Concealed in an opaque envelope in the teen’s left hand is a photo of former secretary of state Pierre Borgia.

  The crowd bows their heads as Rabbi Steinberg completes the invocation with a prayer.

  At the east end of the park, Pierre Robert Borgia, dressed in a black SWAT team uniform, enters the Washington Monument. He flashes his false identification badge to the two armed guards, then allows them to scan his new false eye and fake retinal implant.

  ‘You’re clear to go on up, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Concealed within Borgia’s backpack is the Barrett M101-A .50-caliber Browning sniper rifle and bipod. Waving to the guards, he takes the elevator up to the observation deck, which is to remain closed until after the ceremony.

  *

  Ennis Chaney follows President Rallo at the podium. A harsh winter’s wind causes him to shiver, despite the heavy lining of his dress coat and undergarments. He touches his right ear, repositioning the dime-sized communication device.

  ‘Distinguished guests, members of Congress, my fellow Americans, my fellow citizens of the world: It’s not easy to have faith. It’s not easy in this, the twenty-first century, nor was it easy in the first century, when our ancient ancestors looked up at the stars and wondered, “Where do we come from? What is this life all about?”’

  Chaney’s eyes are dancing now, moving to the rhythm of his words.

  ‘We need faith. Faith that is not predicated on fantasy. And yet we, as educated and sophisticated caring souls, must rely on faith to get us through times of confusion, times of pain and suffering …’

  Borgia exits the elevator and steps out onto the observation level. He passes the bronze replica of George Washington and heads for the west windows facing the Lincoln Memorial.

  Removes the glass cutter. Adheres it to the thick pane using the twin suction cups. Sets the automated device for an eight-inch circular cut.

  As the device slices the glass, Borgia assembles the high-powered rifle, attaching it to its bipod.

  Chaney looks from the right TelePromPter to the left. ‘Many years ago, another African-American stood on these same steps and addressed his people. He spoke of freedom and equality. He spoke of rising up from the dark and desolate valley of segregation into the sunlit path of racial justice. He shared with us his dreams. He shared with us his faith.

  ‘My godson, Immanuel, was a gentle soul. Like his father, Immanuel believed in humanity, but worried about our survival. On his last birthday, he shared with me a passage his brother, Jacob, had transcribed from one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The passage described something called the War of the Sons of Light versus the Sons of Darkness. Manny explained that the Sons of Darkness are the mass murderers of the innocent and all who support them. They are the zealots, who distort faith’s teachings as an excuse to commit mayhem. They are the greedy, who force society down paths that retard the future of mankind, solely so they can remain in power. “The war is on,” my godson told me, “and humanity must triumph, or our light shall be extinguished.”’

  Behind the former president, Jacob Gabriel closes his eyes, focusing inward, as his mind searches the psychic realm for the signal line he seeks.

  Borgia adjusts the bipod’s height so that the barrel of the rifle protrudes out the hole in the window. He loads a high-velocity .50-caliber exploding round, then peers down the infrared scope with his only functioning eye.

  It takes him a full thirty seconds to lock the target in.

  Gun scope …

  The reflecting pool … viewed from above.

  The podium … he’s not targeting me, he’s after Chaney!

  Jacob’s eyes snap open as he speaks into the microphone cuff links. ‘Washington Monument—observation deck!’

  There are 147 members of the Secret Service patrolling the area, all tuned in to Jacob’s radio frequency, but it is Dominique Vazquez-Gabriel, disguised as a security guard, who is first to react.

  Aware of the TelePromPter, Borgia activates the infrared laser, invisible to the naked eye, and brings the glowing orb to the center of Ennis Chaney’s chest. He slips his right index finger around the trigger. Collects his breath.

  Pulls the trigger.

  ‘Martin Luther King said the ultimate measure of a man is where he stands during times of challenge and controversy. As we stand here, united in our sorrow, our survival is being tested. History is asking more of us than tears, it is asking us to rise to the challenge of our own mortality. As intelligent beings, created in God’s image, it is our obligation to reach out to the stars and experience the heavens before we die, so that we may realize our true place on this Earth—’

  Adrenaline pumping, Jacob commands his mind to enter the nexus.

  The area suddenly brightens as everything slows around him. Chaney’s rasping voice crawls to a dull echo.

  Jacob cannot see the bullet, but he can see the gelatinous ripples as it pushes through waves of energy, angling down from the distant white tower.

  He jumps to his feet, his Hunahpu mind dissecting time and distance—

  Jacob!

  Jacob’s heart skips a beat. He sees her standing in the twentieth row, an azure-eyed vixen whose fluid movements, as she approaches, separate her from the rest of the crowd.

  Lilith … please—not now!

  You deserted me!

  Gelatinous ripples widen as the bullet appears.

  I came here for you, Jacob. I’m offering you a last chance.

  Ignoring her tantalizing presence, Jacob leaps—

  A bucket of crimson explodes from Jacob Gabriel’s black suit as he and former President Ennis Chaney tumble sideways off the dais.

  Pierre Borgia smiles, then turns suddenly at the elevator bell signal. Reaching into his pocket, he fumbles to load another .50-caliber exploding round into the chamber.

  Dominique steps out of the elevator.

  ‘You?’ Borgia slips the bullet into place, his finger at the trigger. ‘I should have killed you and your wacko patient when I had the chance!’

  ‘You tried. Now it’s my turn.’

  Borgia raises the rifle barrel—

  —as Dominique’s flexes her right biceps, commanding the microwave pain-cannon to fire.

  The blast of searing heat separates assassin from gun, sending Pierre Borgia writhing on the ground, his nerve endings sizzling.

  Desperate cries rend the crisp November air.

  Waves of onlookers at the west end of the park drop for cover. Secret Service agents sweep President Rallo into an awaiting vehicle. Congressmen and guests disperse, some for their limos, others for the interior of the Lincoln memorial, where Secret Service agents huddle around the bloodstained body of Jacob Gabriel.

  Rabbi Richard Steinberg grips the white-haired youth’s lifeless hand and prays as a dozen news hovercams jostle for airspace overhead.

  A terrified physician pushes through the throng. With quivering fingers he gently unbuttons Jacob’s suit coat, revealing an undergarment drenched in blood. He shakes his head.

  The horrified crowd yields to an ambulance. Word carries with the panic: ‘The other Gabriel twin’s been shot! Jacob’s dead!’

  Seconds later, the insanity of the moment is interrupted by screams coming from the park’s east end as a window shatters atop the Washington Monument and a body—the body of Pierre Robert Borgia—hurtles through the air, splattering like a sack of scarlet flour at the base of the Monument below.

  A wisp of thought, in the consciousness of existence.

  Jacob?


  Where are you, son?

  Where are you …

  PART 6

  ADULTHOOD

  ‘To succeed is nothing, it’s an accident.