The Mayan Apocalypse (6 page)

The video stopped.

“Oh, my soul,” Lisa said. “Oh, my dear Jesus.”

“Quetzal was right.” Morgan spoke softly and respectfully. “It's begun.”

T
he funeral and reception lasted less than three hours, which seemed slightly less than a week to Morgan. After the funeral, scores of people came by and patted or shook him on the shoulder, each expressing the deep sorrow they felt for him at his loss.

He nodded.

He said thank you.

And when they commented about how wonderful his wife was, how talented his son had been, he agreed and tried not to let on that each word sliced off a piece of his heart.

They held the reception in a large fellowship hall at Johansson's church. Volunteers had brought every imaginable form of casserole, fried chicken, potato salad, and Jell-O concoction. They had laid the food on a series of long tables that reminded Morgan of a buffet line.

When he first arrived, a dour seriousness hung in the air. People spoke in low tones and ladies with decorative aprons ricocheted from the kitchen to the hall and back to the kitchen. None looked up from their work. One gray-haired woman moved a serving tray of spaghetti and meatballs to the end of one of the tables and then disappeared from view. A moment later, another woman with grayer hair moved it back. Morgan wondered if spaghetti protocol had been broken.

A few days ago, the thought would have been funny.

In the center of the room sat the largest table in the room. In the center of the table sat a placard with his name on it. A flash of memory burned his brain. The last time he saw his name on a table placard was at the fund-raiser he attended with his wife shortly before… well, before. The placard had more than his name on it: A
NDREW
M
ORGAN AND
F
AMILY
.

Was this the way it was going to be? Reminders in every room, at every corner, in every sentence? Whoever made the little sign couldn't have known it would evoke such a scorching memory. Not even he could have predicted it.

Morgan took his place at the table and someone offered to fix a plate for him. He looked in the sad eyes of a woman who teetered on the threshold between middle age and matronhood.

“I'm not hungry, but thank you.”

“I'll just bring a little bit of everything.”

Morgan doubted she was strong enough or had a plate large enough to bring a sample of everything. “No, really—”

Apparently the woman had never encountered a “no” she couldn't ignore.

People took turns sitting at Morgan's table. Some made small talk as if his life hadn't been snuffed out; others just sat and looked at him with pity.

A half-dozen pastors and an equal number of deacons flew in, expressed their sadness, then flitted away like hummingbirds.

He stayed for nearly an hour before excusing himself. He felt as if he were being rude, but it was either leave or explode. What did it matter if they thought he was rude? He would never see these people again.

The drive home took four times longer than necessary. He needed time. Like a diver who has been too deep for too long, Morgan needed to decompress, if such a thing were possible. So he drove with no destination in mind. He cruised residential streets and plied the freeways. Tears blurred the traffic, and sadness rolled over him.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles threatened to break through his skin.

As the fuel gauge tipped toward the large E on his dashboard, Morgan headed for home.

Raw emotions wore him down. He had no energy and longed for the blissful nothingness of sleep. But he had one more difficult task to do. He disrobed, slipped into a pair of pajamas, and did something he hadn't done since the accident: He crawled into the bed he shared with his wife. Surely he was weary enough to defeat whatever memories sought to keep him from a restful night.

At 1:15, he thought he heard Marybeth breathing beside him. He reached for her but his hand found only cool sheets, unwarmed by a body.

At 2:10, he caught a whiff of her deodorant.

At 3:10, he was certain he heard her soft snore.

At 4:30, he heard her talk in her sleep.

At 4:35, Morgan went downstairs and curled up on the sofa. In the darkness, he did something he hadn't done since he was a kid. He prayed.

“God, You killed my family. How about You kill me?”

The last few days had left Lisa worn and frayed. Her dad would say she felt like a dog bone chewed to the marrow. Her apartment was large, and if she stood in just the right place and looked over the balcony at just the right angle, she could see a portion of the horseshoe section of the San Antonio River. It was one of the two hallmarks of the city—the other being the Alamo. Lights from the River Walk glowed warmly. Lisa had lived alone for many years, which left her subject to mild depression and loneliness. When the dark emotions clouded her heart, she would go to the shops and restaurants along the famous river and watch the stream of tourists meander the walkway, or dine on barges that plied the waters.

A good meal, a fine coffee, or a clear night was usually enough to
scatter the emotional gloom. A part of her—a large part—wanted to do that very thing. The last few days had been tense and a sense of foreboding rose in her. She took a moment to wonder about it, but could pinpoint nothing to explain the emotional haunting.

“Too much travel; too much uncertainty.” There was no one on the balcony to argue with her.

Her body longed for bed, but her mind wouldn't settle.

Still, there were some good things to ponder. She had been rescued by a handsome man who carried her off in a multimillion-dollar aircraft. That was a first.

Could it be? No. She dismissed the idea. Her wakefulness and overactive mind had nothing to do with Andrew Morgan. She knew plenty of women who would salivate at the opportunity to fly in a corporate jet with a billionaire hunk. But she was different. Money, fame, and good looks had no effect on her. Or so she told herself.

Moving back into the apartment, she strolled over the worn brown carpet, past the secondhand sofa and coffee table, beyond the small television, and into the kitchen. If she worked for a larger news organization, a secular news organization, she could afford a better place. But she didn't, nor did she want to. Working for the
Christian Herald
was her mission. And since it was online, they could provide news in a more immediate fashion.

After fixing a cup of Earl Gray decaf tea, she went to the second bedroom of the apartment—the room she called her office. With just the light of her computer screen to illuminate the small room, Lisa sipped tea and answered e-mail.

Then she paused.

No, she had gone too far already. “Leave the poor man alone.” The computer didn't answer.

Once again, Lisa started an Internet search for Andrew Morgan of Morgan Natural Energy.

The rental limo dropped Morgan off at his home. Although the
exterior lights painted the stone walls with yellow splashes, the interior looked as dark as a tomb. It seemed fitting.

Everything looked the same as he had left it: same emptiness. The blankets he had left in a pile on the sofa in the great room were undisturbed, but the sight of them was disturbing. His home was huge, seven bedrooms in all, and he couldn't sleep in one of them. The only place his brain would shut down long enough for him to sleep was the family room couch. The sofa was comfortable to sit on, beautiful to look at, but made a lousy bed.

He dropped his bag and garment bag on the mahogany flooring, slipped from his shoes, flicked on the flat-screen television, and plopped into the leather easy chair his wife had given him for his birthday two years prior. The light from the television struggled to press back the blackness of the room. Morgan had no idea what program played on the screen.

Morgan closed his eyes and tried to lower the revolutions per minute in his mind. Thoughts tumbled in his head. He thought of Roswell. Then he thought of Lisa. He forced his thinking to the words of Robert Quetzal. A moment later, the image of the last Mayan priest was replaced with that of Lisa.

“This is stupid.”

He sat up and glanced at the television. Someone was selling something in an infomercial. He rose, moved to the kitchen, poured a glass of two-percent milk, downed it in several gulps, and then poured another and moved back to the family room.

No matter how he positioned himself, the normally comfortable overstuffed chair felt like it had been filled with chunks of concrete.

The clock showed eleven minutes past ten. Unless travel made it impossible, Morgan liked to be in bed by ten. He had become a man of routine: in bed by ten, up at six, exercise, in the office by nine, home by seven in the evening.

Not tonight.

“Do you know who Horatio G. Spafford was?” He could hear the words as if Lisa were in the room with him. He hadn't let on, but the question and the conversation that followed stung him.

“So what?” He spoke to the dimness. “I don't care who has lost whom. Just because someone else lost a family doesn't mean…”

He rose and began to pace. He took another long draw on the milk, and, for a moment, he wished it was something stronger. He didn't keep booze in the house anymore. He told himself it was because he had become consumed with health and fitness, but the hidden, brutally honest part of the brain reminded him that he was too weak to limit his intake. Drinking only deepened his ever-present depression.

The room closed in on him. The darkness grew thick. Disciplined in every area of life, Morgan grew more frustrated that he could not evict Lisa from his thoughts. She was annoying, nosey, preachy, and someone who walked around in a fog of irrational faith.

So why was he missing her?

Morgan opened the sliding glass door and crossed the threshold into the cool, moist night. The smell of mowed grass mingled with the aroma of chlorine wafting on the large pool a short distance away.

The night painted dew on every surface. Bracing himself against the doorjamb, Morgan removed his socks then walked barefooted across the concrete patio. Still compelled to pace, he walked around the pool to the half-court basketball area he shared with his son so many times before. A basketball covered in condensation rested in a nearby patio chair. He retrieved it, stepped to the free throw line, and shot for the basket. The ball hit the rim, the backboard, then bounced away, landing in the pool with a soft splash. It floated to the center of the pool, well out of reach.

Morgan looked at the safety pole hanging on a post a short distance away. Its length and the gentle curve of the end meant to help a struggling swimmer to the side would be perfect for retrieving the wayward ball.

Instead, Morgan sat in one of the damp chairs and wondered how difficult it would be to drown himself.

T
he offices of the
Christian Herald
were small and cramped. Several desks, each with a computer and monitor on the surface, populated the central area of the space. The news outlet occupied one-half of the first floor of an old building in downtown San Antonio. It wasn't the best location, but it was what the small organization could afford. Started ten years prior by a former journalist-turned-pastor, the
Christian Herald
was one of the few purely Christian news organizations in the world, and it was one of the few that survived the recession of 2009 and 2010. Lisa was among the scarce field reporters left.

She entered the office, walked to the battered desk purchased from a used office furniture store, set her purse in the large bottom drawer, smoothed her pantsuit jacket, and retrieved a notepad, pencil, and her BlackBerry.

The conference room was at the front of the building, just a few feet from the entryway and reception area. A glass wall separated it from the “bullpen,” where the half-dozen reporters, researchers, and web gurus worked more hours than they were paid for to put out a daily online newspaper that offered a Christian worldview on current events.

Lisa was the last to enter the room. At the head of the table sat the editor in chief, Rodney Truffaut, an artificially dark-haired sixty-year-old man with a well-lined face. Several others, mostly women, lined the perimeter of the table. Coffee cups and diet soda cans rested on the marred surface. Some of the employees held iPhones and BlackBerrys, poised and ready for note taking. Two had laptop
computers. As much of a technophile as Lisa was, she preferred taking meeting notes with pencil and paper.

“You made it.” Lisa couldn't tell if Truffaut was smiling or grimacing. Like a bear, he was large and looked cuddly, but he could take an arm off with one swipe of his meaty hand. She had never heard him raise his voice, but his glare was deafening.

“Sorry, chief, late night. I overslept.” She walked to him and laid the unused ticket on the conference table. “I did manage to save the company a few bucks.”

“Your airline ticket? What'd you do? Walk?”

Lisa grinned. “Hitchhiked.” She moved to the other end of the table. “My flight was canceled.”

“How'd you get home?”

“A man I met—”

“Ooooooh.” The others mocked her in unison.

“All right, knock it off.” Lisa couldn't hold down her smile, and it bothered her. “My flight was canceled, and he took pity on me and flew me home.”

“How did he do…You don't mean—”

“Yes, he had a business jet.” Lisa's face felt warm.

“Is he good-looking?” Marge Lyman, a dark-haired woman living on the other side of forty-five, leaned over the table.

“Who cares? He has his own jet.” Jennifer Garcia was all smiles. She was the political reporter and one of the best writers Lisa knew. Which was remarkable because English was her second language.

“All right, guys,” Truffaut said. “Let's get back to work. Lisa, I was just introducing Garrett Vickers to everyone. He's our newest hire.”

Lisa studied the young man for a moment. He looked too young to go to college, let alone be a graduate. His skin bore a slight tint, causing Lisa to assume that he had Mediterranean roots in his past.

“Hi.” Lisa followed the word with a nod.

“Back at ya.” Youthfulness and confidence flavored his voice. When Lisa got her first “real job” out of college, she had been a bundle of apprehension and fear, worried that people would learn before lunch
just how ignorant and naive she was. Garrett acted as if he were the chief's nephew.

“Garrett graduated at the top of his class.” Truffaut beamed. “Journalism, of course.”

Lisa couldn't resist. “Nephew? Grandson? Great grandson?”

“I resent that, young lady. I'll have you know that Garrett's distant relation to me had nothing to do with my hiring him. And what do you mean by
great
grandson?”

“Did I say that?” Lisa smiled. The others chuckled. “Okay, I'm going to go with nephew.”

Garrett turned to the editor in chief. “You're right, Uncle. She is the sharpest scalpel on the tray.”

“At work, you may call me boss, sir, or chief. Save the uncle stuff for family dinners.”

“Yes, Uncle—boss.”

He sighed loud and for effect. “If it's all right with the rest of you jokers, maybe we can return to being a news agency.”

The chuckles evaporated.

“Since the rest of us were slaving away in the office while you were vacationing in Roswell and flying around the country on some rich guy's air yacht, we'll start with you.”

Lisa straightened in her chair. “As everyone knows—well, everyone but newbie here—I was in Roswell, New Mexico, to research Robert Quetza—”

“The Mayan priest guy?” Garrett's eyes widened.

“Yes, newbie, but don't bet your paycheck that he's a real Mayan priest. Anyway, I sat through his spiel, which was held in a small movie theater. The place was packed. I got one of the last seats.”

“What's he like?” Marge asked.

“Tall, built like a lineman, articulate, well dressed, and rich.”

Truffaut cocked his head. “How do you know he's rich?”

“While I waited for my plane to taxi to the runway, Morgan noticed a business jet with a Quetzal logo on the tail.”

Jennifer leaned Lisa's direction. “You mean while
you
sat in a corporate jet, you saw another corporate jet with Quetzal's logo?”

“Let it go, girl.” Lisa raised a hand. “I can't help it if God likes me better than you.”

“Who is Morgan?” Truffaut was trying to keep things on track, something he often likened to herding cats.

“Andrew Morgan. He's the CEO of Morgan Natural Energy and the guy who came to my rescue at the airport. I told you I got one of the last seats in the theater; he got the other. Anyway, he pointed out another private jet and identified it as belonging to Quetzal. Quetzal wears a gold pin in the image of a snake and two feathers.”

“Makes sense,” Garrett said. “Ancient Mayans were polytheistic. One of their gods was Quetzalcoatl, a snake.”

“Right,” Lisa said.

“That seems rather coincidental,” Jennifer said.

Lisa shook her head. “Not really. Albuquerque International Sunport is one of the places people use to reach Roswell. You fly in there and drive the rest of the way. Roswell is not a big city. It makes sense that Quetzal and Morgan parked their aircraft there.”

“Did you get an interview?” Truffaut pressed.

“I tried. The man didn't stay around long. By the time I got to the stage, he was gone. His security people made it clear that he seldom gives interviews after a presentation.” Lisa inhaled deeply. “He offered nothing new. Same nonsense as is on his web page: world coming to an end, 2012 comes and the lights go out, only a few will survive. The gods of the universe have chosen him to lead the select few to safety. The rest of us are toast.”

“A lot of people don't think it's nonsense.”

All eyes turned to Garrett.

“Hey, I didn't say I was one of them. You said the theater was packed, right?”

“I did. And recent events are going to make more people turn to him.”

“The volcano? Popokrakatoa.” Jennifer stumbled over the Indian name.

Lisa corrected her. “Popocatépetl. I'm sure you've been following the broadcast media. Before the mountain blew its top, something else happened. In fact, it happened in the middle of Quetzal's presentation. A meteorite smashed a mechanic's shop in Arizona. Quetzal didn't miss a beat. He told the audience it was one more sign of the coming end.”

“You say Andrew Morgan was in the audience?” Marge's eyes narrowed. She had more experience in journalism than Lisa and the others combined—not counting the chief.

“Yes. He sat next to me.”

Her head bobbed slightly. “How did he react to Quetzal?”

“My focus was elsewhere, but I couldn't help noticing that he did a lot of nodding, and…”

“And what?” Truffaut leaned over the conference table.

“He's a believer. He told me as much on the flight.”

“How can a successful man like him be taken in by a charlatan like Quetzal?” Jennifer never held a conviction she didn't share with others.

“He's…I can't be sure. I think much of it has to do with the tragedy he experienced.”

“Tragedy?” One of Truffaut's eyebrows rose.

“His wife and son died in an aircraft mishap.”

Truffaut scratched his forehead. Lisa had seen this response many times before. He was searching the file cabinets of his memory. “That was what? A year ago?”

“December 26, 2010.”

“The day after Christmas.” Jennifer shook her head. “Doesn't seem right.”

“Would it feel any more right if it happened on any other day?” Marge looked at Lisa. “There's your hook.”

“I agree,” Truffaut said. “If I know you, you've already started doing research.”

“Maybe.”

“Lisa?”

“All right, chief, I may have done a little Internet snooping, but that doesn't mean I found a story—”

“Here's your story, Lisa. Andrew is a rich and powerful man. He has influence, and I assume a pretty good education.”

“He has a degree in petroleum geology. In fact, he told me if he had his way, he'd—”

“There's the angle. Right there, staring you in the face.”

“I know what you're getting at, boss, but—”

“Wait,” Garrett said. “Someone fill me in. I'm new, remember?”

“Your uncle thinks there's a story about a wealthy, successful, educated man following Quetzal.”

“I don't
think
. I
know
.” Truffaut squirmed in his seat. A good story still stoked his fires. “We know people will follow almost anything, but guys like Morgan are different. Why would this guy buy into this nonsense? That's what I want to know. And if he's taking the bait, there might be others. That's what I want you to work on. I'm telling you, it's got Pulitzer written all over it.”

Lisa turned to Garrett. “That's known as
hyperbole
, newbie. Christian news organizations don't get nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.”

Truffaut pointed at his nephew. “Garrett will help. It'll do him good to see how real world journalism works. He needs something more than a college newspaper to cut his teeth on.”

“Chief, you know I work alone.”

“I know you
used
to work alone.”