Morgan pulled forward again, pressed a button on the remote control for the gate, and pulled to the house.
Garrett was uncertain of where he was. For the first few moments, he thought he was snuggled in bed, but the mattress was too hard and the sheets didn’t feel right—too rough. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. Only one opened. There was no ceiling light above him. His bedroom had a ceiling light with an ancient-looking glass diffuser populated by dead bugs. This ceiling was familiar, like the one in the living room of his apartment.
He turned his head, an act that sent lightning bolts of pain down his neck and into his back. The tables at the side of the living room that held his computer equipment stood bare. A tangle of computer cords rested on the floor. The place was lit by the light from the five-foot-by-five-foot foyer.
He tried to sit up, but the pain was too much. With each new awakening moment, the pain grew. It hurt to breathe, and his legs refused to respond as they should. As his pain grew, so did his awareness. Several facts competed for his attention. He struggled to sort them out, and with each new realization, his agony grew more excruciating. Every inhalation told him his ribs were broken; every effort to sit up let him know that one arm was busted. A few seconds later, he came to understand that both legs were broken just below the knees.
Shock. He decided that he was still in shock. It was the only reason he wasn’t screaming. His mind remained muddled. He couldn’t recall what happened, but enough brain cells were firing for him to realize he was in big trouble.
Turning his head to the left, he saw his cell phone, or what was left of his cell phone. He tasted blood, and the left side of his shirt was wet.
He forced his head to move to the right—to the computer center. A phone lay on the floor, but the cord had been cut.
Garrett began to weep from pain, fear, and frustration. With the one arm that still worked, he touched his side and saw blood. A flash of memory returned. He recalled being stabbed. If he didn’t receive help soon, he would die.
He couldn’t make it to the door, but he might be able to do something else. He used his working arm to push his way to a small set of plastic drawers beneath the table. To reach it, he had to travel three feet. It felt like crawling three miles. Every movement stabbed him with pain. Darkness hovered at the edge of his vision, threatening to flood his eyes forever. Another inch brought another million volts of electric pain.
He cried.
He groaned.
He whimpered.
Sweat drenched him by the time he had inched his way to the plastic drawers. Half of his mind prayed for death. The other half refused to listen.
With two fingers, he pulled open the bottom drawer. Although just a few inches deep, it was too tall for Garrett to reach in. He pulled more until the storage drawer slipped from its home. It took three tries, but he managed to upend it. Computer and video cords tumbled out. He ran his hand through the tangle, struggling to keep enough of his wits to distinguish one cord from another.
Moments passed like decades until he found the one that felt right. He lifted it and saw the business end of a phone cord, an extra he had from when he upgraded to DSL service.
After taking several deep breaths, Garrett inched to the wall. He tried to stay focused. It took eight tries to slip the plastic connector into the phone jack. He gave himself a thirty-second break, and then he forced his trembling fingers to search for the other end, hoping that it wasn’t hopelessly intertwined with the other cords. He wished he were a neater person.
He found the plug and brought it to his mouth, slipping it between his teeth. There was a copper taste in his mouth he knew came from blood, not the phone cord.
He swept his arm along the floor, hoping he was close enough to the fallen phone. He didn’t have the strength or endurance to move along the floor another inch. His hand hit the knot of loose cables, the plastic drawer, then the cool plastic of the phone. Tears coursed down his cheeks.
Moving the phone was like moving a concrete block. His strength was fading. He pulled it close, lifted it, and set the base on his chest. Fingers probed the back of the device until he found the port. Removing the jack from his teeth, he made several attempts to connect it. Finally he felt the gentle click he was praying for.
The handset lay next to him. He lifted and dropped it in the cradle. One second later, he lifted it again and placed it next to his ear, hearing the sweetest sound ever: a dial tone.
“Second row,” he whispered to himself, “third button—no… third row, third button.”
Nine.
“Think, think.” Gray fog swirled in his blood-deprived brain. “First button, first row.” He ran his fingers on the keypad.
One.
“Again.”
One.
Ring. Ring.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“Hurt…attacked…”
The gray fog turned black. As Garrett slipped into the dark waters of oblivion, he heard, “Sir? Sir? Are you hurt? Sir?”
Jaz drove at a leisurely pace along the freeway headed to the San Antonio airport. He rubbed his jaw and looked at his skinned knuckles. The kid knew how to throw a good punch. Caught him right on the left side of the jaw. It had been a long time since someone hit him hard enough to make him see stars.
“Stupid runt.” There was a big difference between landing a lucky shot and putting up a good fight. True, the computer freak landed two or three punches that got Jaz’s attention, but all it did was infuriate him.
That last realization bothered him more than his sore jaw and swollen knuckles. Jaz was a professional, and professionals remained in control at all times. Perhaps it was all the travel he had been doing lately. Maybe it was this stupid idea that the world was coming to an end, a concept he couldn’t bring himself to fully dismiss. He had only slept a few hours in the last few days, and that put him on edge.
He also had to confess that he hadn’t expected the kid to be in the apartment like he should have. That was a blunder.
Still, he had done what he needed to do. True, he didn’t have to pummel the kid as much as he did, but the pain sent gallons of adrenaline speeding through his veins.
In a suitcase in the trunk were several hard drives taken from the computers found in the home of the skinny kid with the girlfriend, or as it turned out, the home of his mother—and Garrett Vickers’ apartment. He had taken the time to check the kid’s ID to make sure he had beaten and stabbed the correct man. The name matched what he had been told by the team that tracked the hacker back to that apartment.
A moment of remorse passed over him. It always did on jobs that required extreme action. He gave it sixty seconds and then forced it from his thoughts. There were other things that needed his focus.
He keyed a number into his cell phone. When he heard someone answer, he said, “Done,” and then hung up.
Andrew Morgan’s home office was upstairs and over the kitchen. It felt odd to lead a woman through his home and upstairs to the bedroom wing. No female had crossed his threshold since the accident, let alone make her way into the deep, private areas of the home.
Lisa followed quietly as if she knew that her presence was breaking a concrete rule. He had asked her to concede points reporters seldom gave up. Although he had backed her into a corner, giving her the choice between a story he controlled or no story at all, he appreciated her flexibility. Could he trust her? He didn’t know, but he couldn’t explain why he agreed to let her listen to the video conference. It was a gut decision.
“That is the bedroom wing.” He pointed down a wide hall to his left. “There’s a bathroom three doors down if you need it.”
“I’m good.” She smiled. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
“We’ve got five minutes.” He turned right down the hall. Th ree steps down the wall to the left opened to a large game room. Morgan glanced in. It had been weeks since he had shot a game of pool or watched a game on the big-scre
en television.
“Wow. I could fit all of my furniture in there.”
“It’s not as big as it looks.”
“Maybe not to you.”
Morgan didn’t respond. He pushed open a pair of pocket doors that disappeared into the side walls and stepped in to the large space. Although it held his computer and printer, he considered it more of a retreat, a den where he could escape the pressures of the corporate world. Red oak bookshelves lined two of the walls. Three-dimensional, white plaster panels textured to look like waves covered the other walls. A large dormer with mullioned windows looked over the front landscape. At one time, he felt proud of the space. Now it was just a space.
He glanced at Lisa and saw her wide eyes. “You did all this?”
“Me?” He laughed. “No. My wife got a restraining order to keep me away from power tools. She insisted instead that her husband have all his fingers.”
“Some women are picky that way. Well, whoever did the work did a great job.”
“I suppose she did.”
“Suppose?”
“Things change a man’s perceptions.”
She nodded and had the good sense to keep quiet. Morgan admired that.
Stepping to a long glass table with arching chrome legs, he pushed the power button on the computer tower beneath the desk and sat in a contemporary-looking ergonomic chair. The chair cost several thousands of dollars, and he’d never been able to feel good about the purchase. He bought it because he could—and because it was stylish. Those seemed like foolish reasons now.
A wide monitor dominated the center of the desk. It came to light moments after Morgan turned on the device. He glanced at a small lens built into the top frame of the monitor. A blue light next to it blinked on and then off. The video camera was working.
A few key strokes later, he was on the Internet in the remote “meeting room” he had been told to visit. The “room” was a service provided by a company that served businesses by providing servers that allowed businesses from all over the world to conference with each other.
“Please turn off the light.”
“You just turned it on.”
“I know, but a dark room will help keep you hidden.”
Lisa did as he instructed.
“Okay, close the doors and stand a little further to your left. You’re still in frame.”
“I won’t be able to see from there.”
He turned to her. “Lisa, if you can see them, then they can see you. I’m pretty sure that will end the conversation.”
“Maybe a mirror.” She closed the doors.
Morgan shook his head. “I repeat, if you can see him, then he can see you. Would reflect your image as well as Quetzal’s.”
“I have an idea.” She approached Morgan, glanced at his image on the screen, turned, then sat on the floor behind and to the side of his chair.
“Lisa, that’s not going to work.” He faced the monitor and saw only himself and the wall behind him. “Okay, maybe it will.”
A popup window appeared on the screen, stating that someone else had joined the meeting.
“Promise me you won’t move or speak.”
“What happens if I start choking to death?” He heard the humor in her voice.
“I insist that you die quietly.”
“Sheesh. What a nice guy you turned out to be.”
“I am what I am.”
“Thanks, Popeye.”
Morgan snickered, donned his business meeting face, and clicked the link.
Emotions ran through Lisa like a train through a tunnel. At one moment she was thrilled with her reporter skullduggery—the next moment she was a basket of nerves. Those emotions were followed by the warm flow of joy she experienced over dinner. She had not laughed so much or so hard in years, and she certainly had not had a better time. Still, she was not so naive as to ignore the underlying tension broadcast by Morgan.
Still, here she was, invited into his home. All right, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind him like Labrador retriever, but she was here.
While she waited for the video link to connect, Lisa took another look around. She noticed that things seemed orderly, but there was a thin layer of dust on almost everything. The living room sofa was disheveled from where Morgan had obviously been sleeping at night. She guessed that he spent very little time in here and perhaps had even fired the maid.
The monitor flashed, and the image of Robert Quetzal appeared on the screen. Seated behind him—and to one side—was the thin man Lisa had seen at the Roswell presentation: Charles Balfour. For some reason, Lisa thought of a ventriloquist and his dummy.
“Mr. Morgan, it is a pleasure to speak to you. It’s an honor.” Quetzal’s grin was almost Cheshire-Cat quality.
“I think I’m the one who should feel honored.”
Oh brother. A mutual admirations society.
“I understand that Mr. Kinkade paid you a visit.”
“He did.” Morgan leaned back, and his chair squeaked. “I wasn’t sure what to make of him. To be honest, he made me uncomfortable.”
Quetzal’s smile disappeared. “Really? Did he say anything to offend you? He’s normally a very polite man.”
“Oh, he was polite, all right. I just don’t like being investigated.”
Lisa realized what Morgan was doing: He was setting the tone for the meeting, putting the other man on the defensive.
The smile returned. “Oh, that. Yes, he is thorough. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be working for us. Our operation requires…” He seemed to struggle for just the right word. “Discretion. These are times unique to history, Mr. Morgan. We must be very cautious about the people we invite into the Circle.”
“Still—”
“Still, nothing, Mr. Morgan.” Quetzal’s words were sharp. “Please, let’s stop posturing. You’ve spent a fair amount of time investigating us.”
“Not with a paid investigator.”
“Granted. Look, I know you’re the CEO of a large, multibilliondollar business and that you’re used to running meetings your way. You want to lay down ground rules and choose the tone. I recognize the technique and appreciate it. It increases my admiration for you. I know the tricks, but I’m not a junior executive made to sit in a chair lower than yours so you can have the psychological advantage. I don’t have time for gamesmanship. I have to fly out of the country, and my plane leaves in twenty minutes. Now we can spend that time jockeying for control, or we can get down to business. Which do you prefer?”
This guy’s good. Lisa gently pulled a notepad from her purse. She would have preferred to use her smart phone for note taking, but she feared the glow of the screen might give her away. She would have to do this old-school with pen and paper.
“I’m ready to listen.” Morgan straightened in his seat.
“I’m going to make an offer. It will sound outlandish, and maybe even impossible, but I assure you, everything I say is the gospel truth.”
Odd choice of expression for a so-called Mayan priest. Lisa studied the background behind Quetzal but saw nothing but a blue backdrop. Was he hiding something behind the screen or just using it to make himself more visible over the video? She had no way of telling.
“Okay,” Morgan said.
Quetzal hesitated as if he sensed something was wrong. Lisa looked at the window on the monitor that showed Morgan. She could see him and the bookshelves behind him. She did not see herself. “What’s that behind you?” Quetzal cocked his head.
Oh no.
“Excuse me?” Morgan turned and looked at shelves along the wall. “Do you mean the bookshelf?”
“Yes. Are those books about 2012?”
Morgan turned again, nodded and faced the monitor again. “Yes. As you know, there’s a new book a week. I try to keep up on all of them.”
“So you are a believer, then?”
“In the coming 2012 event? Yes.”
“You didn’t hesitate.”
“Shoul
d I have? I’ve not let it be known because of the business implications.”
“Which theory do you ascribe to?” Quetzal steepled his fingers.
“I’m open to them all. I’d like to think that December 21, 2012, will usher in a new age of reason.”
“You’d like to believe it, but do you?”
“There’s no way for me to know.”
Quetzal’s head bobbed, but Lisa doubted it was from agreement. “I know. In a few moments, I’m going to let you in on something known only to a handful of people. It will be news soon, but right now, it’s still under wraps. But first, I want to know why you believe.”
“Why? It’s not enough that I do?”
“No, it’s not. Your answer will tell me if I should let you into the Circle.” He paused a moment. “Look, the sad truth is, I don’t have room for everyone.”
“Room?”
Quetzal’s smile turned sad. “Space is limited. I’ll explain later, but for now, I need to hear why a wealthy, successful, university-trained man like yourself believes in all this nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” Lisa saw Morgan tense. “Are you telling me it’s a sham?”
“No, I just wanted to gauge your reaction, and I like what I see. So, why do you believe?”
Lisa couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Quetzal was doing her job for her, asking questions she had asked but Morgan had sidestepped.
Morgan took a deep breath and let it out. “Because I don’t believe in coincidence. I can’t bring myself to believe that a group of people who were so accurate in their astronomy and architecture could be so wrong in their calendar. The fact that people groups hundreds of miles away have similar calendars without ever having contact with the Mayans indicates that ancient people had an insight we don’t today.
“I cannot believe that we can pass through an alignment with the galactic center and not experience some kind of influence. Recent Earth events have leant credibility to the Mayan prophecies. Because…” Morgan drifted off. Lisa could hear a change in his voice.
“All good reasons, Mr. Morgan. Judging by the books behind you, I have no doubt that you can give me a hundred reasons, but I need to hear the real reason. I need to hear the reason of your soul.”
The Mayan Apocalypse Page 16
