Steve Alten - The Mayan Resurrection

‘He gets tonight’s special.’ Kurtz drags the unconscious assistant into the bushes, then enters the mansion. He follows the polished marble floor to the back of the house and out through the kitchen to the back porch. ‘Mr. Mabus?’

Peter Mabus looks up from his lounge chair. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Maurice’s cousin, Phillip. The chef at Le Vielle Maison sent something special for you tonight to go along with your entrees. Your bodyguard said he’ll take it if you can’t finish it.’

Mabus approaches, intrigued. ‘So? What is it?’

Kurtz reaches into his thermal pouch and removes a fifteen-pound lobster, holding the animal by its tail. ‘Is this a beauty or what?’

Mabus’s mouth waters. ‘I like it, give it to me.’

Kurtz squeezes a trigger hidden in the lobster’s belly.

Two darts shoot out from the claw openings, puncturing Mabus’s chest.

The billionaire’s eyes roll up as he collapses to the wood deck.

Kurtz shoves the lobster-gun back inside the pouch, then bends over Mabus. Checks his pulse. ‘Pep, he’s out.’

‘Better move fast, the kid’s left his room.’

Kurtz removes the two darts and tosses them in the pouch. Removes the hypodermic needle from his belt.

‘He’s coming down the steps.’

Kurtz removes Mabus’s sandal, then injects the clear elixir between the big man’s toes.

‘First floor, heading for the kitchen.’

Kurtz replaces the sandal. Gathers his thermal pouch.

‘Five seconds… move!’

Kurtz hurries out the back porch, hustling silently down the walkway to the beach.

Twelve-year-old Lucien Mabus stubs his cigarette out in an ashtray, then heads outside. ‘Hope dinner’s ready, I’m starving. Dad? Oh, shit-’

The boy bends over his prone father. Presses his ear to his chest. ‘Rempe, get in here, Dad’s having a heart attack! Walker? Maurice?’

Peter Mabus’s pulse ceases long before the ambulance arrives.

From the sundeck of their rented yacht a half mile offshore, Beck and Kurtz feast on lobster and fillet tips, the light show provided courtesy of the Hampton Police Department.

Gabriel Compound 9:02 p.m.

Jacob’s head throbs in pain. His arms are pinned behind his back, his wrists and ankles in handcuffs.

He forces his eyes open, bile rising in his throat as he takes in the scene.

His mother is seated across the room, bound by duct tape to a wicker chair. Her hair is tousled, her eyes wild above the gag as the slight, middle-aged predator methodically finishes taping her ankles before turning his attention to Jacob’s twin brother.

Manny is bent chest down over the kitchen table, his arms splayed and bound over the granite top, his lower body dangling free.

Solomon Adashek pulls up a kitchen chair and sits beside the boy. Liver-spotted hands gently probe the unconscious youth’s hairless muscular legs, savoring the moment before pulling down the boy’s boxer shorts, exposing his bare bottom.

Jacob and Dominique grunt and groan as if jolted by electricity, thrashing within their bonds.

Solomon looks up, his eyes cold and twinkling, his thin mouth grinning like a snake.

Jacob’s heart beats like a timpani drum, his adrenal glands pumping like a river – as the room seems to brighten, and time suddenly slows to a crawl.

Through waves of invisible energy, he forces himself off the ground, balancing within his shackles. He struggles with all his might against the steel handcuffs.

No use… I can’t break free!

Eyeing his mother, he bunny-hops toward her as Solomon Adashek’s head slowly turns toward him, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

Jacob jumps off the ground and double-kicks the man as hard as he can in the chest, sending him headfirst over the kitchen table.

Lactic acid washes over the boy’s muscles as he bends to his mother, the fingers of his shackled hands tearing at her bonds, ripping apart the duct tape.

Freed, Dominique springs out of her chair, pulling the tape from her mouth. She rushes toward the mantel and grabs the Katana, the larger of the two Japanese swords on display.

Jacob collapses to the floor, his exhausted muscles quivering, his body bathed in sweat.

Solomon Adashek shakes the cobwebs from his brain. He rolls over on the kitchen floor – gazing up at Dominique Gabriel, who stands over him, her eyes breathing fire.

Raising the Katana high above her head, she rasps out a command, ‘Jacob, look away. Mommy doesn’t want you to see this.’

Jacob stares, his azure-blue eyes widening in glee as his mother’s Katana loops downward in one magnificent slash, separating Solomon Adashek’s head from his body.

The government-appointed psychiatrist continues jotting down notes on a smart-pad, his presence in Dominique’s living room more than a bit unnerving. ‘Go on, Mrs. Gabriel.’

Dominique’s hand quivers as she tucks her hair behind her ears. ‘Jacob thinks he’s Superman, and a few of his trainers-you know, all the Smith and Jones CIA guys, I think they encourage it. Jake’s ego’s out of hand, and God help you if you try to argue with him, unless you want an earful about Mayan Under Lords and Death Gods. He quotes endless passages from the goddam Popol Vuh. Xibalba this and Xibalba that-’

‘Xibalba?’ Dr. Shyam Tanna looks up from his smart-pad. ‘Please, what is Xibalba?’

‘The Mayan Underworld, a place he’s convinced his father was exiled to. This is all my fault. I was so stupid, letting his Aunt Evelyn brainwash me. I never should have given Jake his grandfather’s journal or let him read all that Mayan mumbo jumbo. I created a… a Mayan monster.’

‘Mrs. Gabriel, while Jacob’s fantasies concern me, my primary reason in seeing you today was to talk to you about your son’s I.Q. To say it’s way off the scale is almost an insult to Jacob.’

‘I know. His brain’s like a sponge, it absorbs everything.’

‘Of that I have no doubt. However, it is this Hunahpu gene that causes us the greatest concern. Extensive analysis of the chromosomes affected by the gene indicate that Jacob’s condition lends itself to an extreme form of schizophrenia. Now, I’ve taken the time to review his father’s medical records and-’

‘Mick wasn’t schizophrenic!’

‘He was diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic by two major institutions.’

‘It was all a setup. Pierre Borgia wanted him put away permanently.’

‘Perhaps. But consider the possibility that Michael Gabriel showed signs of oncoming dementia-signs that, emotionally, your heart refused to allow you to see. And with Jacob, the Hunahpu gene appears much more dominant.’

‘What are you telling me? That I should institutionalize my son?’

‘If not now, then at the first sign of dementia.’

‘Forget it, I won’t do it, and he’d never stand for it anyway.’

‘And that, in itself, is a problem. An adolescent with Jacob’s strength and intelligence makes for a very difficult individual to rear, let alone control. What will you do when the schizophrenia takes over and Jacob starts responding to commands from his Mayan warlords? What if he claims to be receiving messages from his long-lost father? You were a psych major, Mrs. Gabriel. You know the ramifications if you fail to act. Jacob could easily hurt himself, or worse, he could hurt his brother.’