The Mayan Apocalypse (25 page)

They reached another door. Again, Quetzal approached another panel. This one was less complicated. The door was fifteen feet high and looked like something that should be hanging in front of a Fort Knox vault. It swung open on massive hinges with very little noise.

Cool air rushed from the opening. High-pressure sodium overhead lights painted the next room in an eerie yellow glow. The art in this room consisted of ceremonial Mayan headdresses, each reproduced in detail and kept safe from dust in cases made of thick plastic.

To one side was a long row of electric golf carts. Morgan counted twenty. Quetzal turned to the group. “Your chariots await. I'll drive the lead cart. Mr. Balfour will drive the next. Any of you CEOs know how to handle a golf cart?”

This time, the laughter was loud.

Quetzal continued. “We have about a mile to go, and all of it is downhill. The walk down would be easy, but the return trip would be a little trying.” He slipped behind the wheel of the first cart. Morgan sat behind him. Sonya quickly took the spot next to him. Rickman chose to sit in the front with Quetzal.

Quetzal raised a hand and motioned forward like the master of a nineteenth-century wagon train. “Tallyho!”

“Could we have just driven in the cars?” Sonya asked Morgan.

“Yes, but we'd be filling the space with exhaust. I'm sure the place is designed to scrub the air, but why tax the system?”

Quetzal glanced. “Absolutely right, Mr. Morgan. In the old days, the Russians hid many things down here, including aircraft. It's designed to exchange air on a regular basis, but we're not running everything to speed yet. No need to for our small group.”

“Are we the first to see this place?” Sonya asked.

“Well, the first of our little group. We bring groups in every few
days. This is the premium shelter. Less than one hundred people will wait out the destruction here. We have two years of food and water stored here. As I'll explain to everyone later, you can live here in full comfort for a long time without ever going above ground. The severity of the catastrophe will determine how long we stay here.”

“We?” Rickman said.

“Yes. We. I will be with you. As you know, we have a few more of these places, but none as nice as this. We even have a sports area. There will be plenty to do.”

“And if nothing bad happens?”

Quetzal cut him a glance. “If you believed that, you wouldn't be here.”

The transit tunnel ended, giving way to a huge expanse. Quetzal exited the cart and waited for the others to do the same. He bounced on the balls of his feet like a child in front of a Christmas tree.

The small group surrounded him. He motioned. “Welcome, my friends, to Xibalba. The next time you're here, this area will be filled with furniture and an eating area. Think of a high-end cafeteria. Right now, you have to use your imagination.”

He started for a hallway at the far end of the space. “For security reasons, I've sent the workers home. After we leave, they'll come back. We have teams working twenty-four hours a day.” He paused. “But let me show you what you really want to see.”

One hour later, Morgan wished he could spend a couple of hours sitting and contemplating what he had just seen. He was a difficult man to impress, but this had taken his breath away.

“Are you okay, Mr. Morgan?” Balfour was in the front seat of the Patriot again. Morgan and Sonya sat in the back. Rickman had decided to ride back to the airport in another vehicle. No one in this car complained.

“I'm fine. Why do ask?”

“You seem distant.”

The driver backed from the entrance tunnel and into the night.

“Just thinking. I don't do it often, so I have to be careful.”

Balfour grinned. “I enjoy your self-deprecating humor. Do you have concerns?”

“Just one.”

“About what you've seen, or are you bothered that we will be spending the night in a hotel? It will be safe. We've rented all the rooms and have brought in our own staff. We need to vacate Xibalba to allow the workers back in.”

“No, that's not it. It's the name.”

Sonya perked up. “You don't like the name? I think it has high marketability. Of course, we're not marketing it.”

“What bothers you about the name, Mr. Morgan?”

“Its meaning.”

Sonya frowned. “What's it mean?”

Morgan faced her. “It's the Mayan word for the underworld. It means ‘the place of fear.' ”

L
isa read the text message again as she had done twenty times before.

WANT TO SEE YOU. NEED TO SEE YOU. PLEASE COME TO OC ON FRIDAY.—M
.

Over the last sixteen months, she had visited Morgan in Oklahoma City many times. He would pay her airfare and hire a limo service to pick her up. They would spend time chatting, visiting restaurants, and had even gone bowling. Morgan was athletic, but bowling eluded him. It was the only sport she stood a chance of winning.

She had attended professional and college basketball games, gone to movies and dinner theater, and even visited museums. When she stayed overnight, he put her up in a local Marriott. Had he invited her stay in his mansion, she would have refused. He never offered. He remained the perfect gentleman.

On several occasions, the conversation turned to Lisa's faith. He argued against it with logic, but he was never cruel. He never mocked her. However, her faith in Christ and his lack of it is what kept them at arm's length.

In her secret moments, when her mind and heart weren't too busy lying to her, she had to admit that she was drawn to the man. She felt this way only when she thought of him—and she thought of him constantly.

No matter how often she wanted to give in to the attraction, it was—as the Bible put it—an unequally yoked situation, a believer tied to an unbeliever. Could they live happily in such a combination? Perhaps, but Lisa knew too many who had tried and failed.

Morgan had told her that he'd be out of town for a few days, but he'd get in touch when he returned. He kept that promise. The text message was time-stamped 3:15 a.m. Lisa didn't find it until she crawled from bed at 6:30.

She went to work, reporting on the mild 2012 furor oozing over the world. Many had predicted panic in the streets, but aside from radio stations specializing in paranormal events, and an unending cascade of documentaries on cable channels, most of the world viewed the pending end with boredom.

And why not? The world had been through this before. In 1974, the bestselling book
The Jupiter Effect
by Gribbin and Plagemann predicted catastrophic events caused by the rare alignment of the planets. Disastrous earthquakes along California's San Andreas Fault were to all but destroy the state. Nothing happened. Then there was Y2K, the heralded end of all electronics as the calendar changed from 1999 to the triple-zero of 2000. Aside from a few microwave ovens that refused to operate, less than nothing happened. Of course, many said the world would forever change at the dawn of the twenty-first century. They were over a decade into the new millennium, and all remained as it was.

She had written scores of articles on fringe groups that took the 2012 prophecies seriously, including groups that stored food and guns. Some were moving into caves and bomb shelters. Lisa had visited several such places.

There had been an uptick in the sales of guns, dried food, cases of water, and toilet paper, but most people treated the whole matter as a curiosity, some resorting to, “Well, if it's my time, then it's my time.”

Still, prophets of doom appeared by the dozens. Each claimed a special insight, a spirit guide, or an ecstatic vision. Some people
purported to be able to read hidden prophecies in the Bible. Not one prophet agreed with another.

What Lisa had not been able to do was write the assigned article about wealthy business leaders like Morgan who invested time and millions of dollars following “the cranks.” Of all the doomsayers, Robert Quetzal remained the “alpha prophet.” No one could match his charisma or intellect. She lost count of the number of times the man had appeared on the talk-show circuit, yakking it up with Leno, Letterman, and every other nighttime and daytime host on the tube.

To Lisa's surprise, many mainline television news shows featured him as a “consultant.” When she was with Morgan, she never failed to ask for new information. He never failed to refuse.

December 21 was just a few weeks away, and she had no idea what would happen. She wasn't worried about cataclysm. She was worried about Morgan. He never told her so, but she knew he had poured a steady stream of money to Quetzal's organization. It was his money, and he could do what he wanted with it. What concerned her was how he would respond after he learned he and the others had been wrong all along. She put the question to him once, and his response was to turn the tables: “I'm worried about your response when all this proves to be right.”

“Won't I be dead?”

He hadn't answered.

That evening, she returned home and packed a bag. She walked by the bedroom she used as an in-home office, stopped, then turned back. On her desk was a file folder: Garrett's file folder. The information was disturbing if it were all true. She had no way to confirm his conclusions and she couldn't use the material without exposing her news organization to lawsuits. Even a simple lawsuit could bring them to their knees. In such suits, even the innocent need barrels of cash, and the
Christian Herald
barely made payroll each month. No, Rodney Truffaut would never allow it.

Add to that the fact Garrett had used less-than-honest means to
get the information. An investigation into the source of the information would expose others, perhaps lead to criminal charges and open the
Herald
to another flood of lawsuits. Even she was subject to legal action, and she definitely couldn't afford an attorney.

She stuffed the file in her bag. She might not be able to share it with the world, but she knew who she could share it with.

Garrett eased from the front seat of his 2006 Toyota Camry, and he slowly rose. He was glad to be driving again, but getting in and out of the sedan always caused him pain. The doctors said that would change, but not for a while. For now, he had to learn to live with the discomfort. He had motivation. Every muscle in his body hurt, and the thought of standing in a hot shower gave him the impetus to work through the stiffness. He missed the vitality common to a young man still in his twenties. He moved like a man well north of seventy.

The sun was close to the horizon, and the early evening sky had turned the color of putty. He hated the short days of late fall. Winter would only be worse.

A familiar wave of depression rolled over him as he shut the driver's door. The doctors told him depression was common among victims of violent crime. It, like his aches and pains, would pass in time. He had to learn to deal with it. One nurse said, “Act the way you want to feel, and you will begin to feel the way you act.”

She had been right. It wasn't a hundred percent, but it helped. He straightened his spine and lifted his head and pushed his shoulders back as if he were a man with no problems, filled with confidence and determination.

He still felt depressed. His eyes began to burn. Many times he had burst into tears for no reason. The attack had injured his emotions as well as his body.

Garrett waited a moment until the despair passed and his legs
ceased their shuddering. He took a deep breath and released it in a slow stream. He started around the front of the Toyota and toward the curb in front of his apartment building.

Before he reached the curb, a car pulled alongside his car. Garrett turned to see a silver Lexus. The front passenger window lowered.

“Excuse me. Are you Mr. Garrett Vickers?”

Garrett bent and looked at the driver through the open window. The man was smiling, and it gave Garrett the shivers. “Who are you?”

“Oh. Sorry.” The man held up a leather case. Inside was a badge and an ID that read FBI. “Could I have a moment of your time?”

“Why? I didn't do anything.”

The man smiled again, and it chilled Garrett's blood. “You're not in trouble, son. I'm here because we think we found the guy who attacked you.”

“Really?” He paused. “Wait. The FBI doesn't investigate assault or routine murder cases.”

“We do if the murder crosses state lines or is involved in a hate crime. You work for a Christian news outlet, right?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“I thought as a news guy, you'd know this, but there's been a rise in violence against Christians. It's sad but true. And to us, a hate crime is a hate crime. Besides, the local cops haven't had much luck, so we're helping out.”

“What do you need me for? I told the police everything I knew over a year ago.”

“I've read those reports. As I said, I think we have the guy. He's being held not far from here. We're hoping that you would try to identify him.”

“You need to read those reports again, agent. I don't remember diddly about the attack. Traumatic amnesia.”

The man nodded. “I know, and I know this doesn't make much sense, but we need to have you try. If we don't, it will come up in
court, and we'll look like a bunch of amateurs. You don't want this moron doing to others what he did to you and your friends, do you?

“Of course not.”

“Look, Mr. Vickers. I know it seems silly. A lot of cop work does, but it is what it is. I can get you down there and back in less than half an hour, and then we both can start our weekend.”

The last thing Garrett wanted to do was get in another car, but if they had captured the guy who ruined his life, and if seeing him could jog his memory, then it needed to be done.

“Come on, Mr. Vickers. I promised the wife and kids dinner and a movie. If I blow off another family date, I'll be sleeping in my car.”

“I guess we can't have that.” He started for the Lexus.

“Need help?”

“No. I got it.” Garrett opened the door and slipped into the car. “You guys drive nice cars.”

“It's my wife's. She's in real estate. My service car is in the shop.” He pulled down the road. As he did, the driver removed a photo from the pocket of his suit coat and handed it to Garrett. The photo had been folded in half. Garret opened it, and his heart stopped.

“Know her?”

“What is this?”

“I asked you a question. I suggest you answer it.” The friendly tone had disappeared.

He studied the photo. Lisa sat in a chair. Duct tape held her wrists to the arm of the chair and her feet to the chair's legs. Another piece of tape covered her mouth. Someone with his back to the camera held what Garrett guessed was a 9mm or .45 caliber handgun at her head.

“Yes. I know her.”

“Okay, here's the deal. You give me any trouble, you try to escape, you scream, you do anything I find annoying, and the man holding
the gun will put a bullet in the lady's pretty head. Do we understand each other?”

Garrett raised his eyes and studied the man behind the wheel. For months, he wished he could remember the face of the man who beat him and left him for dead.

Now he wished he could forget again.