The Mayan Apocalypse (22 page)

One question threw her: “Do you know Ned Birdsong?”

“Never heard of him.”

The detective, a round man in a cheap sport coat, stared at her. “What about his girlfriend?”

“Still no.”

“His mother?”

“Detective, I've never heard of Ned Birdsong, and I know nothing about him, his family, his work, or his pets. Who is he?”

“He, his girlfriend, and his mother were found dead not far from Mr. Vickers' home.”

“That's horrible.”

“We searched the house and found several photos in the home that showed Vickers and Birdsong together. You know, hanging out at parties and that kind of thing. We found a similar photo in Mr. Vickers' apartment. It had an inscription: Me and Necco, Spring Break, Ft. Lauderdale.

“Necco?”

“Yes, like the candy. The guy must have been a sugar addict. We found a case of the candy in his bedroom.” The detective scratched his belly.

“Rodney told me that Garrett kept saying the name
Necco
.” Lisa's brain chugged as it tried to make sense of things. “Who would kill three people and then try to kill Garrett?”

“That's what we're trying to figure out, Ms. Campbell.”

The interview ended, and the detective turned to Morgan, who raised a hand. “Don't bother. I've never met the kid or anyone else involved. I don't know the family. I'm just here to support Lisa.”

The detective cocked an eyebrow. “You two a couple?”

Lisa and Morgan spoke simultaneously: “No.”

S
hadows inched westward, cast by large, stone buildings and the bodies of a few thousand tourists. The air smelled of dust, plants, and sunscreen. Children, free of parents too weary to care, chased each other along a stone plaza, weaving between adults as if they were trees. The slight sound of digital clicking punctuated the spring air and mixed with the constant hum of conversation. Overhead, a few marshmallow-white clouds slowly drifted beneath a cerulean sky, amorphous creatures watching the action below.

Morgan wore a faded pair of jeans and a white T-shirt with the emblem of the Oklahoma State Cowboys emblazoned on the front. Next to him stood Robert Quetzal, dressed in ivory Bahama shirt, tan slacks, and leather sandals.

“Entire cities, pyramids, temples, even houses were built with the cosmos in mind. The four corners of every house are set to the cardinal points of the compass. Did you know that?”

Morgan nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

Quetzal smiled. “That's what I like about you, my friend. You're not a follower because of fear, but because of knowledge. You've done your homework.”

For some reason, that comment felt uncomfortable, like a poorly tailored suit. He wrote it off as the usual out-of-source feeling he experienced when traveling. Not an unpleasant one, just a sense he
was a step or two off. He looked at his watch—a few minutes before 4:00 p.m. “It's almost time.”

“Excited?”

“Yes. Maybe
fascinated
is a better word. I've been to many interesting sites around the world, but this is my first time to Chichen Itza. I've avoid it because it seems like a tourist trap.”

Quetzal patted Morgan on the shoulder. “I know what you mean. Every year on this date, about fifty thousand people gather here. That's the size of a small city.”

Morgan agreed. Somehow Quetzal had been able to have a 20-by-20 foot area near the Pyramid of Kulkulkan cordoned off. Around the perimeter crowds had gathered into a suffocating mass. He had no idea what Quetzal paid for this privilege, but he was certain there were a few Mexican officials whose wallets were a little more padded than they had been in the past. Sharing the marked-off area was Balfour and a half-dozen men and women Morgan had met on the plane. Balfour spent his time rubbing elbows with the others. Morgan didn't know why, but Quetzal seemed to focus on him.

“Are you familiar with the term
cosmogram
?” Quetzal turned his gaze to the 90-foot tall, stone pyramid. He seemed proud, as if he had built the structure with his own hands.

“It refers to the pyramid's design; the way it reflects the cosmos.”

“Exactly.” He pointed at the structure. “We're looking at more than a building—we're seeing a centuries-old calendar. Each side has a set of stairs, and each set of stairs has ninety-one steps. Four times ninety-one—”

“Equals 364.”

“Add the top platform as the shared, last step, and we have 365. Just like the number of days in the year. The Mayans divided each of the terraces into eighteen segments, which matches the Mayan
haab
' calendar. I tell you Mr. Morgan, no ancient civilization reached the mathematical and astronomical achievements of my people. Oh sure, the Egyptians and other cultures achieved great things, but nothing so precise, so forward-looking as what the Mayans have done.”

Morgan felt the man's enthusiasm, which was multiplied the tens of thousands of tourists who filled the area, each one here to see the same event. In the three hours he and the others had walked around the ancient complex, Morgan had heard conversations held in Dutch, Spanish, French, Russian, and a dozen other languages. The words were different, but the sense the conversations carried was the same.

Some were tourists out to see something interesting. Others were worshipers. Morgan was certain he had seen every flavor of New Age adherent. Dressed for the warm first day of spring, the crowds moved from the famous ball courts where Mayan men competed to advance a heavy ball by bouncing it off their hips, attempting to propel the sphere through a large stone ring. The prize? Life for the winners—death for the losers.

“It's starting!” Someone shouted.

Morgan turned his attention from the milling crowds and scampering, squealing children to the top of the nine-story structure. Every year, on March 21, the shadow of Quetzalcoatl began a slow, serpentine descent from the top of the structure to its base. As the sun set, the shadow lengthened until the leading edge met a sculpted, stylized snake head at the foot of pyramid. Quetzalcoatl the feathered snake god, sometimes called Kulkulkan, was center of Mayan mythology. And he was returning as a moving, undulating shadow. The designers and builders had been so precise in the placement of the large pyramid, and in the positioning of the stairs and terraces, that on this day, and only this day, Quetzalcoatl's shadow would appear along the side one of the four stairways.

“Amazing,” Quetzal said. “I've seen it many times, but it never ceases to fill me with awe. My people knew more than any civilization of their day. Do you know what their real legacy is, Morgan? They were predictors, prophets of the future. They didn't have just a prophet or two as you find in the Bible. The entire race was committed to chronicling the past and predicting the future. This is proof of their skill, don't you think?”

“It is impressive.”

“It's more than impressive. Other ancient civilizations were fixated on the heavens, but the Mayans went beyond charting the heavens to know when to plant. They predicted future catastrophes.” He paused. “You do believe that, don't you, Mr. Morgan?”

Morgan didn't answer at first. He kept his eyes fixed on the descending shadow.

“I know you believe, Morgan. I can sense it. It's one reason I brought you here. I want you to experience the glory of the past so you will have no doubts about the apocalypse of the future.”

“I don't need to be convinced. I may not agree with everything you believe, but I agree enough.”

“That's good. That's very good.”

Minutes passed quickly, and the body of Quetzalcoatl touched the stone snake head carved by people long gone but not forgotten.

Did they know they were changing the future? Morgan convinced himself they did.

M
organ sat in the last seat of the Bombardier Challenger corporate jet as it cruised at thirty-three thousand feet. Whenever he traveled on commercial airliners, he flew first class, which put him at the front of the aircraft. Even in his business jet, he preferred being directly over the wings—less bounce that way. However, this was not a commercial jet or his beloved Cessna Citation Sovereign. It was a jet owned by Quetzal and the Maya2012 organization. As well appointed as it was, he preferred his own aircraft and pilots.

The cabin was a little over half full. In addition to himself, there were six other guests. Add Quetzal and Balfour to the count, and the number rose to nine in a cabin designed for fourteen. Each passenger had two things in common. First, every passenger was rich— personal wealth in the top fifty of the United States. Second, each believed the world was about to undergo a dramatic and probably cataclysmic change. They believed it enough to spend millions of their billions.

Morgan knew there were others. Quetzal had been up-front about that, although he never divulged just how many people were taking out 2012 insurance policies. “We have followers the world over,” Quetzal had said. “Each brings something special to the table. We will seed the new world with the best and the brightest that humanity has to offer.”

Being one of the best and brightest didn't motivate Morgan.
He was highly intelligent, but he held no illusions about being the sharpest crayon in the box. Although he studied the sciences, especially geology, he never thought of himself as a scientist. He was, at best, an engineer, and he took pride in that. Of course, his days of oil discovery were long past. The countless hours in the field, flying across the country and around the world, were over. Still, he considered them his best days. Now his greatest physical discomfort came from sitting behind a desk for too long.

He gazed out the small rectangular window and saw nothing but blue water and bobbing ice floes. Winter in that part of the country comes much earlier than it does in Oklahoma.

The trip began with Morgan's flight to Atlanta, where he stayed in the five-star Albert Lloyd hotel near Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. That night, Quetzal treated his guests to a banquet served by the hotel's top chef and staff. Nothing about the pending end of the world was discussed. Little more needed to be said. Once Morgan had signed on and sealed the deal with a ten-million-dollar “contribution,” he received weekly updates about events around the world. As the months passed, weekly updates became daily. All information was routed through secure servers that only the “future-nauts” had access too.

Morgan hated the appellation. Someone had jokingly referred to the inner circle of supporters as “future-nauts,” and the term stuck.

The next morning, he and the others boarded the Bombardier and took to the air. The aircraft was capable of flying over three thousand miles, especially with a passenger list just sixty percent full. Still, they made a stop in Vancouver to refuel and to clear customs. From there, they flew northwest over Canada and made one more stop in Anchorage, Alaska. They took time to dine and stretch their legs before starting the next leg of the journey. A little over three hours into the trip, the pilot's voice poured from the intercom system. “Lady and gentlemen, I thought you might like to know that we've crossed over the International Date Line. It is now yesterday.”

The comment sent titters through the cabin. Morgan found it
amusing but not worth drawing his attention from the rolling, icedabbled ocean below.

His mind ran to Lisa, as it often did. The last sixteen months had passed quickly, and their relationship had grown but had reached a stalemate. Like a fish kept in too small of an aquarium, it just refused to grow any larger.

Heaviness pressed on his chest, which was something that was happening more and more often. He wasn't looking for a new love, and he had made that clear to Lisa. She had made it clear that she could not love a man who rejected Christ. They settled on being friends.

“The party is at the front of the plane.” The voice, nasal but confident, drew Morgan's attention from the window. Charles Balfour slipped into the rear-facing seat opposite Morgan. “We have champagne, beer, wine, and an exceptionally good burgundy.”

“No thanks.” Morgan hoped his smile came across as genuine. “I notice that you're not drinking.”

Balfour chuckled. “Very observant. Alcohol doesn't agree with me. I have a sensitive stomach.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Balfour tipped his head to the right. “Really? I'm sorry. I forgot. You have a problem with—sorry, that's a lousy way to begin a sentence.”

Morgan wasn't surprised that the thin man knew of his previous battles with booze. “That's all right. I'm not ashamed of it. Truth is, I describe myself as a sober alcoholic, but I was probably just drowning my grief. Some people do that. I may not be a textbook drunk, but I got close enough to see it.”

“Well, that's one problem I'll never have. The stuff makes me puke.”

Balfour had always come across as a refined gentleman. Hearing him use the word
puke
made Morgan smile. Balfour raised the corners of his mouth too. “I did plenty of that, but it wasn't until the morning after.”

“As you can tell, Charles Atlas has nothing to fear from me. I'm a tad puny.”

“Charles Atlas? That's an old reference.”

Balfour shrugged. “When I was a kid, I read his ads about body-building. Even sent away for his material. Didn't work. My father used to say God gave me less body and more brain than He gave others.”

“Your father was a religious man?”

“Not at all. He was a medical doctor and believed only in what could be measured and tested. For him,
God
was just another word to sling around.” Balfour shifted his small frame in the leather seat. “What about you? You a spiritual man?”

“No.”

Balfour remained quiet. Morgan suspected he was waiting for a longer answer. Morgan didn't feel obliged.

“I can't speak from firsthand experience, but losing loved ones can squash a man's faith.”

“To be honest, Mr. Balfour, I didn't have much faith to begin with. Never saw much sense in it.”

“We've known each other—albeit mostly over distance—for many months now. Isn't it time you started calling me Charles?”

“Sure. If you want.”

“I insist. We are going to be partners in the New World, Andrew. We need to be comfortable with each other.”

“It takes me a while to bond with others.”

“Understandable. Understandable.” Balfour folded his hands on his lap. The roar of the engines filled the silence between them.

Morgan wondered what the man really wanted. At first, he thought Balfour was just being a good host. Now, he sensed there was motive behind the visit. Morgan decided to wait him out.

Finally, Balfour leaned forward and spoke in low tones. “I'm wondering if you've chosen who you will be bringing with you. You know…when the time comes.”

“No. I may not bring anyone.”

“You're entitled to do so. Your contribution level makes space available for almost anyone.”

“Almost?”

Again, Balfour leaned back. “By now, you should know that we are a…careful bunch.”

“Paranoid comes to mind.”

An ear-to-ear grin spread across Balfour's face. “Yes, just like you, we're paranoid. Considering what we've undertaken, paranoia is a requirement.”

Morgan couldn't argue the point. It was one of the things that attracted him to Quetzal and Balfour. If they hadn't been overly cautious, he would have doubted their sincerity.

Balfour drummed his fingers on the arm of the seat. “I would have thought you might want to bring Ms. Campbell with us, or perhaps Candy.”

“How do you know about them?”

“We never interfere in the private lives of our people, but we do need to be cautious.”

“You've been spying on me?”

“Of course. You're not really surprised, are you?”

Morgan's jaw tensed and then relaxed. “No, not really.”

“We have too much at stake here, Andrew. For example: Suppose you wanted to bring with you someone with a terminal disease or a mental illness. How would we care for them? We have made provisions for some medical care, but some things will be out of reach. So, yes, we monitor—without invading privacy, mind you—our participants.”

“Candy and I have dated on and off, but that's it.” Morgan hated to admit it, but loneliness drove him to see the woman again. In subsequent dates, she showed herself to be more intelligent than she let on.

“Most men want a dumb woman, Andrew. I made a mistake thinking you were like others.”

Once he noticed that she had put away the airhead persona,
Morgan found Candy to be more likeable. Still, there was one problem: Even in Candy's presence, his thoughts would run to Lisa. He hated that.

Balfour continued. “Have you spoken to Ms. Campbell about joining you?”

“She's not interested.”

“Not interested in survival?”

Morgan rubbed his eyes. “She thinks it's all nonsense.”

“Ah, we know the type, don't we?” Balfour bent forward, and Morgan wondered if the man was this antsy at home. “Well, you're under no requirement to bring anyone. There are several who are coming alone—some even have families.” He shook his head. “I don't know what they're thinking, but I'm not a counselor. Anyway, it's all up to you. But time is running out.”

Balfour stood. “I leave you to your thoughts. Perhaps you'll feel like joining the festivities. It's a great way to pass time. Did I mention there is shrimp?”

“No, you didn't.”

“Come and spend some time with your fellow ‘future-nauts.'

” Morgan fought off the urge to cringe.

Lisa watched Garrett work his way through the bullpen and felt a fresh wave of guilt sweep over her. Over the months, she had watched him slowly heal. It took three months before he recovered from the broken bones in his legs and one arm. The recovery process had been made longer by the dozen surgeries and weeks of physical therapy. Plastic surgery reconstructed his fractured cheekbone and eye socket. More than once, he had confided to her that he feared looking like Quasimodo, with one eye situated inches lower than the other. Medical science had saved him that fate. He looked very much as he did that day she sprinted from the office to the airport, leaving him behind to ponder what to do with his new information.

The swelling and casts were gone, but not the limp that required the use of a cane. Doctors assured him that he would not need the cane for much longer, but Lisa wasn't so sure.

Her guilt was misplaced. She knew that, but she had a hard time fighting it off. Morgan had told her several times that she felt guilty because Christians enjoyed the feeling. To feel lowly and useless made them feel spiritual. No matter how she argued against the claim, he stuck to his guns. It infuriated her, but she refused to give up.

Garrett hobbled down the narrow aisle formed by the bullpen's rows of desks. She watched him, turning her eyes away to disguise her gaze. Step, limp, lean on the cane—step, limp, lean on the cane. He held a file in his free hand. The clacking, clicking of computer keyboards filled the open space, something she seldom noticed. Today, it seemed unusually loud. Perhaps it was because business had been good over the past year, and the number of reporters had doubled.

Garrett pushed into Lisa's area and plopped down in the chair beside her desk. “Fine.”

“What?”

“I'm fine.”

“I didn't ask how you were doing.” She pushed back from the desk.

“You were going to. You always do. If I walk away for an hour, you ask how I'm doing when I return. You're still fighting misplaced guilt.”

“Now you're a psychologist?”