by Steve Alten
That's rather unusual for a schizophrenic, isn't it?
Unusual, but not unheard of. My point is-he'd only toy with a social worker or rehab specialist. It takes someone with your training to see through his bullshit.
So when do I meet him?
Right now. He's being brought to a seclusion room so I can observe your first encounter. I told him all about you this morning. He's looking forward to speaking with you. Just be careful.
The top four floors of the facility, referred to as units by the SFETC staff, each house forty-eight residents. Units are divided into north and south wings, each wing containing three pods. A pod consists of a small rec room with sofas and a television, centered around eight private dorm rooms. Each floor has its own security and nurses' station. There are no windows.
Foletta and Dominique ride the staff elevator to the seventh floor. An African-American security guard is speaking to one of the nurses at the central station. The seclusion room is to his left.
The director acknowledges the guard, then introduces him to the new intern. Marvis Jones is in his late forties, with kind, brown eyes that exude confidence gained through experience. Dominique notices that the guard is unarmed. Foletta explains that no weapons are permitted on residential floors at any time.
Marvis leads them through the central station to a one-way security glass looking in on the seclusion room.
Michael Gabriel is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the far wall facing the window. He is wearing a white tee shirt and matching slacks, his physique appearing surprisingly fit, the upper body well-defined. He is tall, nearly six-four, 220 pounds. The hair is dark brown, a bit on the long side, curling at the fringes. The face is handsome and cleanly shaven. A three-inch scar stretches across the right side of the jawline, close to the car. His eyes remain fixed on the floor.
He's cute.
So was Ted Bundy, Foletta says. I'll be watching you from here. I'm sure Mick will be quite charming, wanting to impress you. When I think you've had enough, I'll have the nurse come in and give him his medication.
Okay. Her voice quavers. Relax, God dammit.
Foletta smiles. Are you nervous?
No, just a little excited.
She exits the station, motioning to Marvis to unlock the seclusion room. The door swings open, stimulating butterflies to take wing in her stomach. Pausing long enough to allow her pulse to slow, she enters, shuddering as the double click seals the door behind her.
The seclusion room is ten by twelve feet long. An iron bed is bolted to the floor and wall directly in front of her, a thin pad serving as a mattress. A solitary chair faces the bed, also bolted to the floor. A smoked panel of glass on the wall to her right is the undisguised viewing window. The room smells of antiseptic.
Mick Gabriel is standing now, his head slightly bowed so she cannot see his eyes.
Dominique extends a hand, forcing a smile. Dominique Vazquez.
Mick looks up, revealing animal eyes so intensely black that it is impossible to determine where the pupils end and the irises begin.
Dominique Vazquez. Dominique Vazquez. The resident pronounces each syllable carefully, as if locking it into his memory. It's so very nice to ...
The smile suddenly disappears, the pasted expression going blank.
Dominique's heart pounds in her ears. Stay calm. Don't move.
Mick closes his eyes. Something unexpected is happening to him. Dominique sees his jawline rise slightly, revealing the scar. The nostrils flare like an animal tracking its prey.
May I come closer, please? The words are spoken softly, almost whispered. She senses an emotional dam cracking behind the voice.
Dominique fights the urge to turn toward the smoked glass.
The eyes reopen. I swear on my mother's soul that I won't harm you.
Watch his hands. Drive the knee home if he lunges. You can come closer, but no sudden movements, okay? Dr. Foletta's watching.
Mick takes two steps forward, remaining half an arm's length away. He leans his face forward, closing his eyes, inhaling-as if her face is an exquisite bottle of wine.
The man's presence is causing the hairs on the back of her arms to stand on end. She watches his facial muscles relax as his mind leaves the room. Water wells behind the closed eyelids. Several tears escape, flowing freely down his cheeks.
For a brief moment, maternal instincts cause her defenses to drop. Is this an act? Her muscles recoil.
Mick opens his eyes, now black pools. The animal intensity has vanished.
Thank you. I think my mother must have worn the same perfume.
She takes a step back. It's Calvin Klein. Does it bring back happy memories?
Some bad ones as well.
The spell is broken. Mick moves to the cot. Would you prefer the chair or the bed?
The chair's fine. He waits for her to sit first, then positions himself on the edge of the cot so that he can lean back against the wall. Mick moves like an athlete.
You look like you've managed to stay in shape.
Living in solitary can do that if one's mind is disciplined enough. I do a thousand push-ups and sit-ups every day. She feels his eyes absorb her figure. You look like you work out as well.
I try.
Vazquez. Is that with an s or a z?
Z.
Puerto Rico?
Yes. My . . . my biological father grew up in Arecibo.
Site of the largest radio telescope in the world. But the accent sounds Guatemalan.
I was raised there. He's controlling the conversation. I take it you've been to Central America?
I've been to many places. Mick tucks his heels into a lotus position. So you were raised in Guatemala. How did you find your way to this great land of opportunity?
My parents died when I was young. I was sent to live in with a cousin in Florida. Now let's talk about you.
You said your biological father. You felt it important to distinguish him as such. Who's the man you consider your true father?
Isadore Axler. He and his wife adopted me. I spent some time in an orphanage after I left my cousins. Iz and Edith Axler are wonderful people. They're both marine biologists. They operate a SOSUS station on Sanibel Island.
SOSUS?
It's a sound underwater surveillance system, a global network of undersea microphones. The Navy deployed SOSUS during the cold war to detect enemy subs. Biologists took over the system, using it to eavesdrop on marine life. It's actually sensitive enough to listen in on pods of whales hundreds of miles away as-
The penetrating eyes cut her off. Why did you leave your cousin? Something traumatic must have happened for you to have ended up in an orphan-age.
He's worse than Foletta. Mick, I'm here to talk about you.
Yes, but perhaps I've also had a traumatic childhood. Perhaps your story could help me.
I doubt it. Everything turned out fine. The Axlers gave me back my childhood, and I'm-
But not your innocence.
Dominique feels the blood rush from her face. All right, now that we've established that you're a quick study, let's see if you can focus that amazing IQ of yours in on yourself.
You mean, so you can help me?
So we can help each other.
You haven't read my file yet, have you?
Not yet, no.
Do you know why Director Foletta assigned you to me?
Why don't you tell me?
Mick stares at his hands, contemplating a response. There's a study, written by Rosenhan. Have you read it?
No.
Would you mind reading it before we meet again? I'm sure Dr. Foletta must have a copy stashed in one of those cardboard boxes he calls a filing system.
She smiles. If it's important to you, then I'll read it.
Thank you. He leans forward. I like you, Dominique. Do you know why I like you?
No. The fluorescent bulbs perform a moonlight dance in his eyes.
I like you because your mind
hasn't become institutionalized. You're still fresh, and that's important to me, because I really want to confide in you, but I can't, at least not in this room, not with Foletta watching. I also think you may be able to relate to some of the hardships I've gone through. So I'd like to talk to you about a lot of things, very important things. Do you think we could talk in private next time? Perhaps down in the yard?
I'll ask Dr. Foletta.
Remind him of the facility's rules when you do. Would you also ask him to give you my father's journal. If you're to be my therapist, then I feel it's of vital importance that you read it. Would you mind doing that for me?
I'd be honored to read it.
Thank you. Would you read it soon, perhaps over the weekend? I hate to give you homework, this being your first day and all, but it's vitally important that you read it right away.
The door swings open, the nurse entering. The guard waits outside, watching at the doorway. Time for your medication, Mr. Gabriel. She hands him the paper cup of water, then the white tablet.
Mick, I have to go. It was nice meeting you. I'll do my best to have my homework done by Monday, okay? She stands, turning to leave.
Mick is staring at the pill. Dominique, the relatives on your mother's side. They're Quiche Maya, aren't they?
Mayan? I-I don't know. He knows you're lying. I mean it's possible. My parents died when I was very-
The eyes look up suddenly, the effect disarming. Four Ahau, three Kan-kin. You know what day that is, don't you, Dominique?
Oh, shit... I-I'll see you soon. Dominique pushes past the guard, exiting the room.
Michael Gabriel places the pill carefully in his mouth. He drains the cup of water, then crumples it in the palm of his left hand. He opens his mouth, allowing the nurse to probe with her tongue depressor and pencil-thin flashlight, verifying that he has swallowed the medication.
Thank you, Mr. Gabriel. The guard will escort you back to your room in a few minutes.
Mick remains on the cot until the nurse has closed the door. He stands, returning to the far wall, his back to the window, the index finger of his left hand casually sliding the white pill out of the empty cup and into his palm. Resuming his lotus position on the floor, he tosses the crumpled cup onto the bed while slipping the white tablet into his shoe.
The zyprexa will be properly disposed of in the toilet when he returns to his private cell.
Chapter 2
SEPTEMBER 8, 2012
THE WHITE HOUSE
Secretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia stares at his reflection in the washroom mirror. He adjusts the patch over his right eye socket, then pats down the short graying tufts of hair along both sides of his otherwise balding head. The black suit and matching tie are immaculate as usual.
Borgia exits the executive washroom and turns right, nodding to staff members as he makes his way down the corridor to the Oval Office.
Patsy Goodman looks up from her keyboard. Go on in. He's waiting.
Borgia nods, then enters.
Mark Mailer's gaunt, pale face shows the wear of having served as president for nearly four years. The jet-black hair has grayed around the temples, the eyes, piercing blue, are now more wrinkled around the edges. The fifty-two-year-old physique, noticeably thinner, is still taut.
Borgia tells him he looks like he's lost weight.
Mailer grimaces. It's called the Viktor Grozny stress diet. Have you read this morning's CIA briefing?
Not yet. What's Russia's newest president done now?
He's called for a summit between military leaders from China, North Korea, Iran, and India.
For what purpose?
To conduct a joint nuclear deterrent exercise, in response to our latest tests involving the Missile Defense Shield.
Grozny's grandstanding again. He's still fuming about the IMF canceling that twenty-billion-dollar loan package.
Whatever his motive, he's succeeding in stirring up nuclear paranoia in Asia.
Marko, the Security Council meeting's this afternoon, so I know you didn't bring me in just to discuss foreign affairs.
Mailer nods, then drains his third cup of coffee. Jeb's decided to step down as vice president. Don't ask. Call it personal reasons.
Borgia's heart skips a beat. Christ, the election's in less than two months-
I've already held an unofficial meeting with the powers that be. It's between you and Ennis Chaney.
Jesus... Have you spoken with him yet?
No. Thought I owed it to you to brief you first.
Borgia shrugs, smiling nervously. Senator Chaney is a good man, but he can't hold a candle to me when it comes to foreign affairs. And my family still wields plenty of influence-
Not as much as you think, and the polls show that most Americans aren't interested in China's military buildup. They perceive the Missile Defense Shield as being the see-all, end-all of nuclear war.
Then let me be blunt, sir. Does the Republican National Committee really think the country's ready for an African-American VP?
The election's going to be tight. Look what Lieberman did for Gore. Chaney would give us a much-needed toehold in both Pennsylvania and the South. Relax, Pierre. No decision's going to be made for at least another thirty to forty-five days.
That's smart. Gives the press less time to pick us apart.
Any skeletons in your closet we need to be concerned with?
I'm sure your people are already looking into that as we speak. Mark, level with me, does Chaney have the inside track?
Opinion polls show Chaney's popularity stretches across both party and racial lines. He's down-to-earth. The public trusts him even more than Colin Powell.
Don't confuse trust with qualifications. Borgia stands, then paces. The polls also show Americans are concerned about Russia's collapsed economy and how it will affect the European market.
Pierre, take it easy. A lot can happen in forty-five days.
Borgia exhales. I'm sorry, Mr. President. It's a great honor just to be considered. Listen, I'd better get going, I have to meet with General Fecondo before this afternoon briefing.
Borgia shakes his friend's hand, then starts for the camouflaged panel door. He turns before leaving. Marko, any advice?
The president sighs. I don't know. Heidi did mention something at breakfast. Ever thought about replacing that patch with a glass eye?
Dominique exits the treatment facility's lobby, the south Florida summer heat blasting her in the face. A distant bolt of lightning streaks across an ominous afternoon sky. Shifting the leather-bound journal from her right hand to her left, she presses her thumb to the keyless entry, unlocking the driver's side door of the brand-new, black Pronto Spyder convertible, an early graduation gift from Edie and Iz. She places the journal on the passenger seat, buckles her seat belt, then presses her thumb to the ignition pad, registering the annoying microscopic pinprick.
The dashboard computer jumps to life, flashing its message:
Activating Ignition Sequence.
Identification Verified. Antitheft System Deactivated.
She feels the now-familiar double dunk as the axle locks disengage.
Checking Blood-Alcohol Level. Please Stand By . . .
Dominique lays her head back against the leather seat, watching the first heavy drops of rain pelt the polyethylene terephthalate plastic hood of her roadster. Patience is a requirement of the new safety ignition features, but she knows it is well worth the extra three minutes. Drunk driving has become the leading cause of death in the United States. By the fall of next year, all vehicles will be required to have the blood-alcohol devices installed.
The ignition activates.
Blood Alcohol At Acceptable Levels. Please Drive Safely.
Dominique adjusts the air conditioner, then presses the power button of the Digital DJ CD player. The built-in computer processor reacts either to voice inflection or touch to interpret the driver's mood, selecting the appropriate music from among hundreds of pre
programmed selections.
The heavy bass of the Rolling Stones' latest album, Past Our Prime, begins pumping out of the surround-sound speakers. She backs out of the visitors lot and begins the forty-minute drive home.
It had not been easy convincing Dr. Foletta to relinquish Julius Gabriel's journal. His initial objection was that the late archaeologist's work had been sponsored by both Harvard and Cambridge University and that, legally, it would be necessary first to receive written permission from both grant departments before releasing any sort of research documents to her. Dominique countered that she needed access to the journal, not only to do her job properly but to gain Michael Gabriel's trust. An afternoon of phone calls to department heads at both Harvard and Cambridge confirmed that the journal was more a memoir than a scientific document and that she was free to use it, provided she did not go public with any information. Foletta had finally conceded, producing the two-inch-thick binder by day's end, releasing it only after she had signed a four-page nondisclosure agreement.
The rain has let up by the time Dominique pulls into the dark parking garage of the Hollywood Beach high-rise. She deactivates the car's engine, staring at a ghostly image appearing on the heads-up display of the windshield. The picture provided by the infrared camera mounted on the front of the roadster's radiator confirms the garage to be empty.
Dominique smiles at her own paranoia. She takes the antiquated elevator up to the fifth floor, holding the door open so Mrs. Jenkins and her white miniature poodle can enter.
The one-bedroom condominium owned by her adoptive parents is down the hallway, the last apartment on the right. As she enters the security code, the door at her back opens.
Dominique-so how was your first day at work?
Rabbi Richard Steinberg embraces her with a warm smile from behind a graying auburn beard. Steinberg and his wife, Mindy, are close friends of her parents. Dominique has known the couple since she was adopted nearly twenty years ago.
