The Mayan Apocalypse (9 page)

“That's fascinating, but what does that have to do with 2012?”

“Here's where another 2012 doomsday theory comes in. In this scenario, the earth is on a collision course—or at least a near-collision course—with 2003 UB313. Technically, it should be called a dwarf planet even though it is larger than the dwarf planet Pluto. It has a long elliptical orbit, which doomsayers say will intersect with our inner solar system and create havoc on the earth as it sails by.”

“You know, you sound like you believe this stuff.” Garrett leaned back a few inches as if he expected Lisa to slap him.

“I don't believe in the 2012 prophecies. I don't believe that December of that year will be any worse than any month in any other year.”

“So everyone is wrong?”

“Only those who think the Mayan calendar predicts all this.”

Garrett drummed the tabletop again then caught himself. “Still, there's been the volcano in Mexico and the meteorite in Arizona.”

Lisa rubbed her eyes. “First, the volcano in Mexico—it's a tragedy. Hundreds died, including some of the scientists studying the mountain, but eruptions are not as rare as most people think. From my research, I've learned that over a hundred and fifty volcanic eruptions occur in a decade. Italy's Stromboli volcano has been erupting for more than a thousand years.”

“No.”

“Yes. There are years with as many as sixty eruptions. Some we hear about; some we don't. Some are small; others are very large. And as far as meteorite strikes go, approximately forty thousand tons of material fall to Earth from space. Most of it is the size of a dust particle. Of course, there are some that are as large as a Volkswagen, but that's rare.”

“So what now, boss?”

“I'm not your boss, Garrett. I'm just another reporter, albeit more experienced.”

“Isn't
more experienced
an euphemism for—”

“Watch it.” Lisa stood, closed her laptop, and lifted it from the table. “I'll forward the background research to you. Study it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have to figure out a way to get Andrew Morgan to meet with me again.”

A
ndrew Morgan grunted. He grunted again, then again. Fire blazed in his arms and down his back, threatening to scorch him from the inside out.

The pain grew, expanding into the small of his back and around his ribs. Dots of perspiration spread to form rivulets of sweat coursing from his forehead and cheeks. He closed his eyes to block out the room and—it seemed to him—to keep his eyes from popping out of their sockets. His vision had turned blurry anyway.

He struggled to suck in a lungful of air. He needed oxygen, and he needed it badly.

“Easy, pal. You're gonna bust a gut.”

Morgan ignored him and mustered enough strength to push against the bar, moving it inch by inch to the stops, exhaling noisily as he did.

“I'm serious, man. What are you trying to prove?”

Morgan wanted to do another rep to prove the man with him wrong. He could take it. No matter how much his muscle complained, he could do another set.

The muscles in his shoulders and arms quit. The chrome bar with knurled handles snapped back to its resting position.

Morgan rubbed his arms to prevent knots from forming in the muscles. Lactic acid burned the fibers of his triceps, biceps, and everything connected to them. Morgan leaned forward and groaned.

“Need a nurse. Maybe a pretty nurse.”

“I'm fine, McNair. Stop fretting over me.”

McNair Adams sat on the bench of the adjoining bench press machine, a towel dampened by his own sweat in his hand. Even while seated, he was tall. On his feet, he stood six-four and carried two hundred and forty-five pounds of muscle. His black skin glistened under the overhead lights of the Rockpoint Fitness Gym.

“You may be my boss, but you don't get to tell me who to be concerned about. I am a free moral agent.”

Morgan sat up and smiled. “I've seen your paycheck. There's nothing free about you, and as far as being moral—”

“Hey—I'm a good boy, and you know it. I'm also a pretty good chief financial officer.”

“That's because everyone is afraid of you.”

McNair chuckled. “As they should be. As they should be.”

“Most high-level execs lead by example, not intimidation.” Morgan buried his face in a white terry-cloth towel.

“Lesser men, my friend. Lesser men. Besides, you know that's not true. Most guys in our business lead whatever way we can.”

“I know. I agree with you. Not because you're right, but because I'm afraid of you.”

A laugh exploded from McNair. “I've known you since you were a teenager, Morgan. You're not afraid of anything.”

Just the dark and loneliness.
“It's all part of the act.”

“So what's eating you?”

“Who says anything is eating me?”

McNair leaned forward. “Like I said, I've known you for a long time. We've been working out together for the last five years. Aside from your little foray into alcoholism, we've been coming here three times a week to keep old age at bay. I know your routine better than you do. You're overworking everything today. Why?”

“I was out of town for a few days and wasn't able to work out. I need to work out the kinks.”

“You're doing a lot more than working out kinks, pal. You're being self-destructive. What's got you going?”

“Nothing. I just need to expend some energy, that's all. Now leave it alone.”

“Nope. You may be my boss, but you're also my friend.”

Morgan tossed the towel aside. “And that gives you the right to poke your nose in my business?”

“As a matter of fact, it does.”

“I can replace you, you know.”

McNair shook his head. “I'm the best-looking chief financial officer in the business. The board loves me.”

That made Morgan laugh. “We need to work on your self-esteem problem.”

“Hey, truth is truth. Now spill the beans. Are the nightmares back?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you had one?”

Morgan stood and stretched his back. The blazing pain had subsided, replaced with a growing stiffness. “I had one the other day.”

“The other day?”

Morgan shrugged. “I may have had another one last night.”

“
May
have had?
You don't have the kind of nightmares people forget about. Did you have one last night, or not?”

“Yeah.” Morgan looked away. He always had nightmares. Talking about them didn't help. They came. They went. They left him gutted and curled up like a fetus on the sofa.

“You never went to the shrink like you said you would, did you.”

“He can't help.” Morgan picked up the towel.

McNair rose and wiped his face again. “First, he is a she; second, I'm sure she could help you.”

“I'm not going to do it. I've got to learn to live with it. No psychiatrist is going to make it go away.”

McNair put a hand on Morgan's shoulder. “Come on, chief, let's go to the bar, and I'll buy you a fruit smoothie. Something with bananas. You're going to need the potassium.”

“You don't care about my potassium level, do you? You just want to poke around in my private life some more.”

“Why, yes, I do. Thank you for the invitation.”

“That wasn't…Oh, never mind.”

The Rockpoint Fitness Gym refreshment bar was a health nut's dream. Patrons could order everything from oatmeal to whole-wheat bagel sandwiches. McNair ordered two large fruit smoothies and then moved to a small, metal table in the corner of the room. The table was next to a window overlooking the parking lot, one floor down.

“Something in New Mexico get your goat?”

Morgan gazed out the window. McNair was impossible to stonewall. “Not really. Sometimes things just pile up.”

“Things?” the CFO asked. “Emotional things? After what you've been through, you've got every right to have some issues and nightmares.”

“It's not that.” Morgan looked at his friend and saw the concern on his face. Most people offered their regrets, looked sad, and then did their best to avoid the topic of his family's death. Not McNair. Of all the senior execs, McNair treated Morgan honestly, never shying away from the darkness Morgan sometimes brought to the office. “I've almost gotten used to the dreams. I imagine they'll be part of my life forever.”

“Maybe.”

A gym employee brought the smoothies to the table. Rockpoint catered to the wealthy and offered services not normal to lesser gyms.

“Anyway, I'm just off a little—that's all.”

“You have no idea how much restraint I'm showing by resisting that setup line.”

Morgan smiled. “I'm testing your mettle.”

“I was born with lots of mettle.” He paused. “If this is none of my business, just say so. Why did you go to New Mexico?”

“You mean, if I told you to butt out, you would?”

“Of course not. Now answer the question.”

“First, is it you who's asking, or someone else?” Morgan kept his eyes on McNair as he took a sip of thick drink.

“I'm the one doing the asking, but I won't lie to you. A few members of the board have stopped by to ask me questions.”

“About me?”

“Yep. There is growing doubt about your fitness to run the company.”

“They know my family started the corporation.”

McNair nodded. “Yes, they do, and you should know that when your father took it public, he surrendered certain rights to the board of directors.”

Morgan did know that. The fact that he could be replaced was never far from his mind. The problem was, it didn't bother him.

“What did you tell them?”

“It wasn't an official inquiry, just a couple of the members asking casual questions.”

Morgan clinched his jaw. “Doesn't sound casual.”

“My bad. I should have said informal. That's a better word.”

“Okay, what was your informal answer?”

The corners of McNair's mouth rose. “Let's just say they won't be asking me again. Know this, Andrew: I am now and always will be on your side.”

“I know.” Morgan directed his eyes out the window and watched a UPS driver pull packages from his large brown van. “If I told you why I was in New Mexico, you might change your mind.”

“I doubt it. I like my mind. Why would I change it?”

“You know what I mean.” Morgan inhaled deeply and turned his gaze back to McNair. “Do you know who Robert Quetzal is?”

“The 2012 nutcase? I've heard of him. Saw him on some interview show. Why? Oh, don't tell me…”

“Too late. Remember, you insisted.”

“So…this Quartzman guy was there?” The CFO leaned over the table.

“Quetzal. Robert Quetzal. The name is linked to a Mayan god. It's probably an assumed name. Yes, he was there. He's the reason I went.”

“You don't believe that manure he's slinging, do you?”

“I do.”

McNair ran his hand over his face as if doing so would change what he heard. “How can you trust a man who uses a fictitious name? If he lies about his name, doesn't it follow that he might be lying about all this end-of-the-world garbage?”

“You're right. I should toss his ideas aside because he has a pseudonym. While I'm at it, I think I'll start a movement to have Mark Twain books banned from school libraries. After all, his real name was Samuel Clemens. We might as well pass a law preventing the showing of John Wayne movies. His real name was Marion Morrison—”

McNair raised a hand. “Okay, okay. No need to get worked up. I concede the point. Still…”

“Still what?”

“If I were you, I'd keep that to myself. You know the board. They're composed of facts-figures people: engineers and Harvard business MBA types. If they hear that you're…interested in this doom-and-gloom guy, then they'll have more reason to question your loyalty and business acumen.”

“I didn't want to tell you, McNair. What makes you think I'd tell anyone else?”

“True. So what attracts you to this guy?”

“I'm not attracted to him. I'm concerned that he might be right.”

McNair leaned back as if the statement pinned him to the chair's backrest. “Right? About the world ending next year?”

“About the Mayan prophecies; about the things we're seeing. Do you believe the world will go on forever? Don't all things come to an end sometime?”

“Sure they do, but no one can put a date on it. Not even this Quetzal guy.”

“Are you sure?”

McNair frowned. “Yes, I'm sure. You are too smart for this, Andrew. Much too smart. When you walk into the room, the corporate IQ goes up twenty points. I'm…I'm stunned.”

“Let me see if I have this right: You praise my intelligence as a way of saying I'm being stupid?”

“That's not what I'm saying—okay, it is what I said, but it isn't what I meant. Ever since that day—”

“My family's death. You can say it.”

“Okay, ever since your family died in that plane crash you've been…How do I put this?”

“Crazy as a loon?”

“You are many things, but crazy isn't one of them. You've been…without an anchor. You've been drifting like a boat looking for a harbor. You went through the deepest grief and turned to alcohol to get through it. You kicked the juice through hard work and medical help. Now look at you—still young, fit, and determined. Nonetheless, you're drifting from place to place.”

“This isn't an infatuation with an idea. I've done my homework on the subject. I know as much as man can know about the topic.”

“And you believe it?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe it.”

“Well, this will teach me to poke my nose in where it doesn't belong.”

Morgan rose and tried to force his anger back into its cage. “I'm going to take a shower.”

Thirty minutes later, he had changed into a dark gray suit and retrieved his wallet and cell phone. He had missed a call. The caller ID read L
ISA
C
AMPBELL
.

Morgan deleted the voicemail.