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The silent stare resumes, causing beads of sweat to break out beneath Dominique’s armpits.

“Dr. Owen, my only concern is to ensure my patient is receiving the best care possible. At the same time, I’m also concerned that, well, that he may not have been justly evaluated in the first place.”

“I see. So, let me get this straight—having worked with your very first patient for nearly a month—” Owen checks her notes. “No, wait, my mistake, it’s actually been over a month. Five weeks, to be exact.” Dr. Owen walks to her office door and closes it with authority. “Five full weeks on the job, and you’re not only questioning the last eleven years of the patient’s treatment, but you’re ready to challenge the director of the facility, hoping to release Mr. Gabriel back into society.”

“I realize that I’m just an intern, but if I see something’s not right, don’t I have a moral and professional obligation to report it?”

“Okay, so based on your infinite experience in the field, you feel that Dr. Anthony Foletta, a well-respected clinical psychiatrist, is unable to evaluate his own patient properly. Is that it?”

Don’t answer. Bite your tongue
.

“Don’t just sit there and bite your tongue. Answer me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Owen sits on the edge of her desk, purposely positioning herself to tower over her graduate student. “Let me tell you what I think, young lady. I think you’ve lost your perspective. I think you’ve made the mistake of becoming emotionally involved with your patient.”

“No, ma’am, I—”

“He’s certainly a clever man. By telling his young, new, female psychiatrist that he had been sexually abused in prison, he hoped to hit a soft spot, and boy did he ever. Wake up, Dominique. Can’t you see what’s happening? You’re reaching out emotionally to your patient, based on your own childhood trauma. But Mr. Gabriel wasn’t sodomized by his cousin for three years, was he? He wasn’t beaten to within an inch of his life—”

Shut up, just shut the fuck up
—

“Many women who’ve gone through similar experiences like yours often deal with post-traumatic symptoms by joining women’s movements, or taking up self-defense, just as you have. Pursuing clinical psychiatry as your chosen profession was a mistake if you’re planning on using it as an alternative means of therapy. How can you possibly hope to help your patients if you allow yourself to become emotionally involved?”

“I know what you’re saying, but—”

“—but nothing.” Owen shakes her head. “In my opinion, you’ve already lost your objectivity. For God’s sake, Dominique, this lunatic actually has you convinced that everyone in the world is going to die in ten weeks.”

Dominique wipes tears from her eyes and chokes back a laugh. It was true. Mick had her so emotionally wound up that she was no longer just humoring him as part of his therapy, she was allowing herself to be coerced by his doomsday delusions. “I feel embarrassed.”

“And so you should. By feeling sorry for Mr. Gabriel, you’ve ruined the dynamics of the doctor-patient relationship. This forces me to contact Dr. Foletta and intervene on behalf of Mr. Gabriel.”

Oh, shit
. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to request that Foletta place you with another resident. Immediately.”

Miami, Florida

Mick Gabriel has been walking the yard for six hours.

Pacing on automatic pilot, he maneuvers around the mentally inept and criminally insane as his mind focuses on reshaping the pieces of the doomsday puzzle floating in his brain.

The radio signal and the descent of the plumed serpent. The dark rift and Xibalba. Don’t make the mistake of lumping everything together. Separate cause from action, death from salvation, evil from good. There are two factions at work here, two separate entities involved in the Mayan prophecy. Good and evil, evil and good. What’s good
?
Warnings are good. The Mayan calendar is a warning, as are the Nazca drawings and the serpent’s equinoctial shadow on the Kukulcan pyramid. Each warning, left to us by a bearded, Caucasian wise man, all portending the arrival of evil. But the evil is already here, it’s been here. I’ve felt it before, but never like this. Could that deep-space transmission have triggered it
?
Somehow strengthened it
?
If so, where is it
?

He pauses, allowing the late-afternoon sun to warm his face.

Xibalba—the Underworld. I can feel the Black Road leading to the Underworld growing stronger. The
Popol Vuh
claims the Lords of the Underworld influenced evil on Earth. How’s that possible … unless the malevolent presence on Earth hasn’t always been here
?

Mick opens his eyes.

What if it wasn’t always here
?
What if it arrived long ago, before the evolution of man
?
What if it’s been lying dormant, waiting for this radio transmission to awaken it
?

The loudspeaker’s five o’clock
buzz
announcing dinner jars a distant memory. Mick imagines himself back on the Nazca desert, patrolling the flat plateau with his metal detector. The electric
buzz
of the metal detector has sent him digging in the soft yellow sand, his ailing father by his side.

In his mind’s eye, he unearths the iridium canister, removing the ancient map. Focusing on the red circle … marking the mysterious location in the Gulf of Mexico.

The Gulf of Mexico … the canister—made of iridium
! His eyes widen in disbelief. “God dammit, Gabriel, how could you be so fucking blind!”

Mick races up the two flights of concrete steps to the third-floor mezzanine and therapy annex. He pushes past several residents and enters the computer room.

A middle-aged woman greets him. “Well, hello. My name’s Dorothy, and I’m—”

“I need to use one of your computers!”

She moves to her laptop. “And your name is?”

“Gabriel. Michael Gabriel. Look under Foletta.” Mick spots an open terminal. Without waiting, he takes a seat, then notices the voice-activation system is not working. Using the mouse, he activates the Internet connection.

“Now just wait one minute, Mr. Gabriel. We have rules here. You just can’t jump onto a computer. You have to have permission from your—”

Access Denied. Please Enter Password.

“I need a password, Dorothy. I’ll only be a minute. Could you give me your password, please—”

“No, Mr. Gabriel, no password. There are three residents ahead of you, and I’ll need to speak with your therapist. Then I can—”

Mick focuses on her identification badge: DOROTHY HIGGINS, #G45927. He begins typing in passwords.

“—schedule you for a future appointment. Are you listening to me, Mr. Gabriel? What are you doing? Hey, stop that—”

A dozen passwords fail. He focuses again on her name tag. “Dorothy, what a pretty name. Did your parents like the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy?”

Her stunned expression gives her away. Mick types in OZG45927.

Invalid Password.

“Stop this nonsense right now, Mr. Gabriel, or I’ll call for security.”

“The Wicked Witch, the Tin Man, Scarecrow … how about we ask the wizard.” He types in WIZG45927.

Connecting To Internet …

“That’s it, I’m calling security!”

Mick ignores her as he searches the web, typing in CHICXULUB CRATER, as he recalls the words he had spoken to Dominique.
The biggest event in history will happen on December 21, when humanity perishes
. Not entirely true, he realizes now. The biggest event in history, at least up until now, had occurred sixty-five million years ago, and it had taken place in the Gulf of Mexico.

The first file appears on screen. Without bothering to read it, he presses PRINT ALL.

He hears security approaching from the adjacent hall.
Come on, come on
…

Mick grabs the three sheets of printouts and shoves them into his pants pocket as several security guards enter the computer room.

“I’ve asked him three times to leave. He even managed to steal my password.”

“We’ll handle it, ma’am.” The muscular redhead nods to his two guards, who grab Mick by the arms.

Mick offers no resistance as the redhead struts forward, getting up in his face.

“Resident, you were asked to vacate this room. Is that a problem?”

Mick sees Dr. Foletta enter the room out of the corner of his eye. He glances at the guard’s identification badge and offers the redhead a smile. “You know, Raymond, all the muscles in the world won’t get you laid if your breath reeks of garlic—”

Foletta approaches. “Raymond, don’t—”

The uppercut strikes Mick squarely on the solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs. He falls forward, doubled up in pain, his body still supported on either side by the two guards.

“God dammit, Raymond, I said to wait—”

“Sorry, sir, I thought you—”

Mick regains his feet and, in one motion, arches his back, raising his knees to his chest before kicking outward, the heels of his tennis shoes smashing hard into the redhead’s face, shattering the man’s nose and upper lip in a spray of blood.

Raymond drops to the floor in a heap.

Foletta bends over the semiconscious guard, staring at the man’s face. “That was uncalled-for, Mick.”

“An eye for an eye, eh, Doctor.”

Two more orderlies enter, brandishing stun guns. Foletta shakes his head. “Escort Mr. Gabriel to his room, then get a physician down here to take care of this idiot.”

It is late by the time Dominique pulls the black Pronto Spyder into the facility’s parking lot. She enters the lobby, then swipes her magnetic identification card to pass through the first-floor security checkpoint.

“Won’t work, Sunshine.”

The voice is weak and a bit muffled. “Raymond, is that you?” Dominique can barely see the big redhead through the security gate.

“Use the facial scan.”

She enters her code, then presses her face to the rubber housing, the infrared beam scanning her features.

The security door unlocks.

Raymond is leaning back in his chair. A heavy gauze bandage is wrapped around his head, covering his nose. Both eyes are black.

“Jesus, Ray, what the hell happened to you?”

“Your goddam patient flipped out in the computer room and kicked me in the face. Motherfucker broke my nose and loosened two teeth.”

“Mick did this? Why?”

“Who the fuck knows? Guy’s a fucking psycho. Look at me, Dominique. How am I supposed to compete in the Mr. Florida contest looking like this? I swear to God, I’m gonna get that son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I do—”

“No you won’t. You’re not going to do a thing to him. And if anything should happen, I won’t hesitate to bring criminal charges against you.”

Raymond leans forward menacingly. “Is that the way it’s gonna be between us? First you blow me off, then you’re gonna have me arrested?”

“Hey, I didn’t blow you off, I got tied up in a meeting with Foletta. You’re the one who got himself switched to the night shift. As for Michael Gabriel, he’s my patient, and I’ll be damned if—”

“Not anymore. Foletta received a call this afternoon from your advisor. Looks like your patient load around here is about to change.”

Damn you, Owen, do you always have to be so goddam efficient
? “Is Foletta still here?”

“At this hour? You gotta be kidding.”

“Ray, listen to me, I know you’re mad at Mick, but I’ll … I’ll make you a deal. Stay away from him and—and I’ll help you prepare for your bodybuilding contest. I’ll even apply makeup to those raccoon eyes of yours so you won’t scare the judges.”

Raymond folds his arms across his inflated chest. “Not good enough. You still owe me a night out.” He flashes a yellowed smile. “Not just a quick Italian dinner, either. I want to have some fun, you know, do a little dancin’, a little romancin’—”

“One date, that’s it, and I’m not interested in any romance.”

“Give me a chance, Sunshine. I tend to grow on people.”

So does fungus
. “One date, and you stay away from Gabriel.”

“Agreed.”

She passes through the security checkpoint and enters the elevator.

Raymond watches her leave, lust in his eyes as he focuses on the contours of her glutei maximi.

There is only one guard on duty on the seventh floor, and his attention is focused on the National League Championship Series.

“Hi, Marvis. Who’s winning?”

Marvis Jones looks up from the television. “Cubs are up by two going into the bottom of the eighth. What are you doing here so late?”

“I came by to see my patient.”

Marvis looks worried. “I don’t know, Dom. It’s kind of late—” A roar from the crowd forces him back to the screen. “Shit, the Phillies just tied it.”

“Come on, Marvis.”

Marvis checks the time. “Tell you what. I’ll lock you in with him for fifteen minutes, as long as you leave when the nurse comes by to give him his medication.”

“Deal.”

The security guard escorts her to room 714, then hands her the transmitter pen linked to his beeper. “Better take this. He was violent earlier.”

“No, I’ll be okay.”

“Take the pen, Dominique, or you don’t go in.”

She knows better than to argue with Marvis, who is as thorough as he is kind. She pockets the device.

Marvis activates the intercom. “Resident, you have a visitor. I’ll allow her to enter once I see you fully clothed and seated on the edge of your bed.” Marvis peeks through the spyhole. “Okay, he’s ready. In you go.” Marvis opens the door, then locks it behind her.

The lights in the room have been dimmed. She sees a dark figure sitting up on the bed. “Mick, it’s Dom. Are you all right?”

Mick is leaning back against the wall. Dominique sees his face as she approaches, the left cheekbone badly bruised, the eye swollen shut.

Her heart races. “Oh, God, what did they do to you?” She grabs a hand towel, soaks it in cold water, then presses it to his face.

“Ow.”

“Sorry. Here, keep this on your eye. What happened?”