by Lynn Sholes
"We have allowed our universe to become out of balance." He knew there were modern scientific explanations of the imbalance, of how on December 21, 2012, many ancient calendars predicted calamity. Scientists calculated that the Earth would be in exact alignment with the sun and the center of the Milky Way Galaxy. The whole mantle of the Earth would slide, resulting in the shifting of the magnetic poles. The result would be global devastation. It didn't matter what scientific terms were used or what modern geophysicists projected. His advisors and other ancients prophesied the same day as cataclysmic. And that day was quickly approaching.
He continued. "We have little time to reverse the gods' discontent. But we will. We will restore universal harmony with our own hands and pay them our endless debt. Tonight you will witness the setting free of the tonalli, the animated spirit that lives within our blood. When we experience great fear, it concentrates in the heart. This is why our gods hunger for the human heart, for without the sacrifice of the spirit and the consumption of the tonalli, they will command the total destruction of our world. Tonight we will ensure that Tonatuih, our sun god, is appeased."
With a nod, he watched two apostles enter a nearby antechamber and return escorting a young bronze-skinned man. The man's hands were bound behind his back, and he was blindfolded and gagged. Coming to stand beside the stone slab, he was made to face Scarrow.
"Are you ready to offer up your tonalli to nourish the great war god, Huitzilopochtli, and to Tonatuih, the god of the sun?"
The young man shook his head as he tried to pull away from the grip of the apostles. His muffled pleas could be heard through the gag as he struggled.
Scarrow signaled for the man's bindings to be cut. With two additional apostles assisting, they grasped the man's arms and legs, forcing him to lie back onto the slab, its shape causing his chest to thrust upward.
His breathing became rapid and shallow, his head darting about in terror. Scarrow pulled the blindfold away. The man jerked his head to each side, staring with wild eyes at the audience around him, then back at Scarrow. The apostles pinned his arms and legs.
The man raised his head to speak. But before he could utter a word, Scarrow stabbed the knife into the victim's abdomen, sliced upwards and thrust his hand inside the wet, red wound. He reached up, beneath the diaphragm, and a second later the victim's head collapsed, hanging over the back of the slab. Scarrow withdrew his hand and raised it, gripping the still-beating heart with its ropes of blood vessels and tissue trailing. "His spirit is with the sun.
He spread blood on the victim's lips, then paraded the glistening organ before everyone. Next, he turned to tread a few steps to a stone carving of Tonatuih, the Aztec sun god. The god's fixed eyes stared out menacingly as if searching for his next meal, mouth open wide, tongue in the shape of the sacrificial knife, protruding through bared teeth, ready to savor the next offering. Carved on either side of his head were claws grasping a human heart. Scarrow shoved the still-quivering organ into the stone mouth, mashing and grinding it into the opening until all that remained was a smear of crimson blending into the scarlet-painted face.
He returned to the sacrificial stone slab. "Soon, you will choose your own honored xochimiqui to give up their tonalli spirits in order to preserve and renew our world. That time draws near as you prepare to go forth to your homelands and make ready for the final days of the old world and the new beginning." He smiled at each one. "When we are done here tonight, we will feast upon what is left of this flesh and celebrate what the xochimiqui have given us."
Memories flooded back to him of almost five hundred years ago when he stood atop the ancient Templo Mayor watching his priests perform this sacred ritual so many times. Tonight, he was not a priest, but he was the teacher of those he called his apostles-his new priests. He had deliberately chosen the final number to be twelve, imitating the Christian faith. After all, was this not the same as the Christian communion-the sacrifice of body and blood? There were still three more apostles to resurrect, but all were within his timeline. He was the new messiah and would prove it beyond any doubt. In addition to his apostles, the Azteca disciples-not his chosen twelve, but still his devout staff of followers-would help prepare the way for him and his Phoenix apostles. He knew the time was approaching when the fulfillment of human sacrifice would return, and the gods would find favor with him and all his work. This was why they had chosen him to receive the special gift of immortality.
"Let us continue the lesson," he said.
A moment later, the next xochimiqui was led from the antechamber to the altar stone-this time a young female. As she tried to struggle and fight, Scarrow watched the apostles cut the straps that bound her hands behind her back. Then they stretched her across the slab.
Standing over the xochimiqui, Scarrow took the still-dripping knife and offered the blade to his apostles.
"Who will be first?"
MANGROVES 2012, FLORIDA BAY
BLACKNESS ENGULFED SENECA. THE impact of the water drove the air from her lungs and she took a choking gulp of saltwater. With arms thrashing and reaching, she broke the surface and sucked in a breath.
"This way!" Matt was yelling. "Get away from the boat!"
As she tried to find her bearings, she glanced over her shoulder. The long black object they'd seen moving against the stars hung in the sky nearby, its rotors almost perfectly silent.
How can that be? Where is the noise?
She could plainly see it was a small black helicopter, maybe twenty feet long or less. No windows or lights.
Where is the pilot?
And yet, even though she saw the spinning rotors, they made only a muffled whopping sound.
A quick burst of flame erupted from underneath its body as more projectiles slammed into the mortally wounded Boston Whaler. Flames burst from the boat's cabin, sending orange and red fireworks shooting out over the chop.
"Swim to the island!"
A beam of light flicked on from a round pod mounted under the nose of the machine and lit up the boat.
"They think we're still onboard," she said.
"Dive underwater!"
Seneca dropped beneath the surface, breast stroking, coming up only briefly when her lungs burned so fiercely that she had no choice. Her long skirt strangled her legs, making it impossible to swim-her sandals had already slipped away. To escape, she had to lose the skirt. Grabbing the elastic waistband, she yanked down and kicked it off.
She surfaced to snatch a quick breath and locate the dark mass of the island. The beam of light swept across the water behind her as if sniffing for a trail. As she went under again she heard another volley of shots impact the boat and felt the concussion of an explosion-the fuel tanks must have ignited.
Seneca struggled, her legs thundering under the surface, her arms taking wide, forceful arcs, using up her precious oxygen.
Then a bump against her thigh.
Sweet Jesus.
A shark? It had to be. It felt big. She knew how abundant they were in these waters this time of year and their need to prowl the shallows for baitfish, especially at night. She and her mother had hooked ten-foot-long, two-hundred-pound lemon sharks and bull sharks in no more than three feet of water not far from here. The water was warm, and sharks were plentiful.
Oh God, oh God. She swam hard.
Maybe it was just a piece of driftwood or the dolphin she heard earlier taking a breath. She tried convincing herself it was the friendly Flipper in a lame effort to lock down the terror. Her heart hammered against her chest as if it might explode with the next beat causing her arteries to rupture from the force of blood pulsing in her head.
Kicking and sweeping the water back with her arms, she kept below the surface until she felt her feet snag the sand. At this point she had no choice but to expose herself to the helicopter attack and run for the island. She shot up and staggered forward. Looking back, she could no longer see the helicopter. With its black form and stealth rotors, it could be coming around
for another assault and she wouldn't know it until the bullets tore into her.
The flames ate at the twenty-six-foot Boston Whaler-she smelled the caustic smoke as the synthetic materials burned.
Reaching ankle-deep water, Seneca dropped onto her hands and knees. When she looked up she saw that just to her right a narrow creek ran through the island like a watery tunnel. In the bare light she caught a glimpse of several pairs of eyes staring back at her. Raccoons, she supposed. Finally, she was able to stand on wobbly legs-her muscles cramping from the frantic swim.
Seneca wished she still had her shoes as she crossed the stubble of mangrove sprouts before reaching a muddy spot on the edge of the island where the suction swallowed her feet. She knew her bare soles would be no match for the hidden edges of coral and shell lurking in the dark.
A swarm of mosquitoes rushed to attack, invading her hair, her nostrils, her eyes. She swatted and spat as she scanned the blackness for Matt. There wasn't enough light from the claw of moon to see more than a few feet. The smoldering mass of burning boat in the distance was no help.
Seneca bent forward and put her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.
"Matt?"
No answer.
FIREBIRD 1981, SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDWEST
"How DID YOU FIND me?" Groves and Scarrow sat in the woodpaneled office compartment inside the private Boeing 727 as it streaked westward across the heartland of America.
"I became mildly suspicious in 1937 when I saw the news of the death of your son in the papers." Scarrow took a sip of tea from the bone china cup displaying the gold Groves Consortium logo on the side. "I was living in Spain at the time teaching Latin American history at Universidad de Barcelona. You know, it's ironic that they never knew I was teaching from firsthand experience. Anyway, you see, William, I have a photographic memory, and I recalled reading the news of your death back in 1919. Because of your stature in the world as a leading industrialist-I believe the press referred to you as the Invisible Titan-I remember feeling regret that I never had the opportunity to meet you. So when I saw the picture of your departed son, something caught my attention. It wasn't the amazing resemblance so much as the way the face stared out at me-the look of mistrust in the eyes, the glare of reluctance at having to be exposed to the public. It was the same expression looking back at me in the mirror every day of my life.
"I dug through the university archives and found your obituary photo in an old copy of the Chicago Herald. Holding it next to the photo of your son, I realized it was more than an uncanny resemblance-it had to be the same person. But without undeniable proof, I chalked it up to being so desperate for answers that I was grasping at ghosts. Then when your grandson passed away in 1960, once again I found myself staring at a familiar face. My gut told me I may have found what I had sought for so long."
"I regretted ever having my picture taken at all," Groves said. "I knew each time I did, I was leaving evidence-a trail somebody could eventually follow. But in those early days, I also never realized I'd have to fake my death and assume the identity of my own son, much less my grandson. I kept out of the way of photographers for over fifty years. But, I knew this day would eventually come." Groves leaned back in the plush executive chair as he felt the plane course correct. "I still find it hard to believe you put this all together based on a few old photographs."
Scarrow laughed out loud. "Oh, no, William, it was way more than that. In 1960, I was a senior research analyst for the Smithsonian Institute. My specialty, as you know from my business card, is Mexican culture and antiquity. I had unrestricted access to the Institute's research and records facilities along with those of other government agencies. My superiors believed I was working on a side project-an unauthorized biography of the industrialist William Groves. That's how I was able to amass a detailed, sometimes day-by-day record of a certain Arizona Territory cowboy named Billy Groves. I must tell you, William, your amazing rise from a penniless cowboy who showed up in a dusty border town with some Spanish gold pieces to become one of the richest men in the world makes quite a story. You undoubtedly have a natural knack as a business visionary. It's well documented how you've found mere germs of ideas and managed to grow them into international success stories. My compliments to your amazing ability to make money. So to answer your question, no, it was more than the photographs. It took me years, actually decades, to put it all together. But I did, and here I am, your new partner."
"Excuse me!" Groves sat up with a start. "What the hell do you mean, partner? I offered to let you on my airplane so I could hear your story. I was fascinated, nothing more. But we have no partnership. As a matter of fact, we have no relationship at all. I admit, your story is intriguing and I sympathize that you share the same condition as I do. But that doesn't prove anything. Once this plane lands in Phoenix, we'll part paths, Mr. Scarrow. I'll go to my winter home in the desert, and you'll go to wherever you came from. And I can promise you that we will never meet again."
"It's interesting that we are going to Phoenix." Scarrow paused to finish his tea. "Are you familiar with the legend of the mythical phoenix firebird?"
Groves was annoyed that Scarrow seemed to ignore his rebuff. He had never met a man so in control, so calm, so focused. "Somewhat. What does it have to do with anything?"
"According to Egyptian and Greek mythologies, the phoenix was a bird with a tail of gold and red plumage. It lived for about five hundred years. At the end of its life, it would build a nest of twigs. Then it would set fire to the nest and become consumed by the flames. Soon after, a new phoenix bird would rise from the ashes to begin the next five-hundred-year life-cycle."
"That's all well and good. But I don't get why you're telling me this fairytale."
"Let's just say that I'm the phoenix about to end my life-cycle. I need to build my nest and rise from the ashes."
"And what's that got to do with me?"
"You have the means for me to complete my life and begin again. You have what I need to rise from the ashes."
"Which is?"
"Veronica's veil."
As DR. JOSEF MENGELE stood inside the west portal of the Cathedral of the Archangel, he removed his fake mustache, bushy wig, and thick-rimmed glasses, revealing the perfect likeness to the man Scarrow had the plastic surgeons create. He slipped his disguise into the side pocket of his crisp gray suit coat. Mengele glanced at the faded fresco overhead depicting the mass baptism of the Russian people during the reign of Prince Vladimir the Great. It was hard to see since the only lighting came from scattered security lights-the giant chandeliers were shut down hours ago once the last of the tourists left. The Italian Renaissanceinspired, onion-domed church was among the many cathedrals, palaces, and government buildings nestled inside the Kremlin.
Taking an extra moment to adjust his tie and straighten the lapel pin bearing the flag of the Russian Federation, he nodded to the phoenix disciples flanking his sides. Dressed in black suits and bearing the small Presidential Security Service emblem on their lapels, the two men acknowledged that they were ready.
In unison, with Dr. Mengele trailing slightly, the trio started across the echoing marble floor of the five-hundred-year-old church toward the expansive, floor-to-ceiling iconostasis that stretched across the back wall. They passed numerous sarcophagi of Russia's rulers, from Grand Duke Ivan I to Mikhail Romanov, the founder of the Romanov dynasty. As they approached the wall of icons, a soldier on solitary guard duty saw them and rushed to intercept.
"Halt! The cathedral is closed." He pulled a flashlight from his belt with one hand while he removed his pistol from its holster with the other. He glanced at the Security Service emblem on their jackets. "Present your identification, please."
The trio paused.
Shining his light into the faces of the three men, he stopped on Mengele. He took a step forward, his jaw dropping as his eyes grew large. "Mr. President? I-" The hand holding his gun sunk slowly to his side. "I don't understand. What are y
ou ..."
"Get the light out of my face!" Mengele spoke just above a whisper. The Engage wireless electrode implanted in his brain was programmed with several languages including English and Russian. It had translated the guard's words into Mengele's native German and allowed him to answer in Russian.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. President. I never expected to see-"
"I'm here on a matter of state security and I need your assistance." Dr. Mengele took a step forward and placed his hand on the guard's shoulder. "What is your name, son?"
"Dmitry, sir." The young guard's voice was filled with uncertainty. "Corporal Dmitry Sabonis."
"Are you related to our glorious Soviet gold medalist?"
The soldier nodded. "A distant cousin, Mr. President."
"Something to take pride in, corporal." He leaned in close.
