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  Of the three, the morning shots were always the worst. Foletta would administer the dose himself, monitoring his patient as he cooed softly in Mick's ear, taunting him. Once the drug took effect, he'd place Mick in a wheelchair and push him around from pod to pod on his morning rounds, sending a warning to the other residents that dissidence of any kind would not be tolerated.

  The nightly exercises after the third shot of the day were a worthwhile struggle. By increasing his metabolism, Mick found he was able to burn off the effects of the drug faster, gradually giving him a toehold on sanity. By the fourth morning, he had regained enough of his mental equilibrium to focus on a plan.

  From that moment forward he had acted the part of a mindless bag of bones. The seventh-floor orderlies would arrive each morning to find him lying on the floor of his cell in a deep stupor, totally incoherent. This angered the attendants, who were now forced to feed their incapacitated patient, and, to their utter disgust, even change his soiled clothing. After a week of this routine, Foletta was forced to cut Mick's dosage from three times a day to just an afternoon and an evening injection.

  Over the last few weeks, Foletta's schedule had become inundated with other matters. He stopped checking in on Mick, trusting his care to the orderlies.

  For the first time in his eleven years of captivity, the security surrounding Michael Gabriel had become lax.

  NASA: Goddard Space Flight Center Greenbelt, Maryland

  NASA Director Brian Dodds stares in disbelief at the immense computer printout scrolled out across his desk. Explain it to me again, Swicky.

  Dodds's assistant, Gary Swickle, points a thick index finger to the checkerboard pattern, consisting of thirteen square boxes across, running continuously over thousands of sheets of paper. The radio signal is made up of thirteen different harmonics, represented here by these thirteen columns. Each harmonic can be played out over any one of twenty distinct, consecutive frequencies. This allows for a possible combination of 260 different sound bytes, or commands.

  But you say there's no repeating pattern?

  Only at the very beginning. Swickle locates the first page of the printout. When the signal first appears, the harmonics are kept very simple, several notes played out over just one frequency, yet repeated over and over again. Now look here. At the seventeen-minute mark, everything changes, all thirteen harmonics and twenty frequencies suddenly coming into play at once. From that point on, the signal never repeats itself. The remaining 185 minutes use all 260 combinations of sound bytes, indicating a highly structured communiqué.

  You're absolutely certain that no primer exists within the first seventeen minutes? No mathematical equations? Nothing that indicates translation instructions of any kind?

  Nothing.

  Damn. Dodds rubs his blood shot eyes.

  What are you thinking, boss?

  Do you remember back in the summer of '98 when we lost contact with SOHO? Before Arecibo relocated the satellite, we kept transmitting the same simple radio signal over and over again, attempting to reestablish contact with the satellite's main computer. That's what the first seventeen minutes of this signal reminds me of. No primer, no instructions or codex, just a deep-space carrier signal repeating itself like a ringing telephone, waiting for the other party to pick up so the information can be downloaded.

  I agree, but it makes no sense. The extraterrestrials that transmitted this signal couldn't possibly have expected our species to be able to translate all this information without a primer.

  Swickle notices that his director's face looks pale. What?

  Just a crazy thought. Ignore me, I'm wiped out.

  Come on, boss.

  Well, I was thinking about SOHO. Our transmission obviously didn't require a primer because SOHO's computer was already programmed under our command. Maybe this signal contains no primer because it's not necessary.

  You mean, this radio signal wasn't intended to be translated?

  No, Swick. Dodds shoots his assistant a worried look. I mean, what if the signal wasn't intended for us?

  November 5, 2012 Sanibel Island, Florida

  The chant of four more years--four more years stirs Edith Axler awake. She sits up and checks the time, then switches off the television and heads downstairs to the lab.

  Isadore is still hunched over at the SOSUS station, listening.

  Iz, for God's sake, it's eleven-thirty-

  Shhh. He removes his headphones and switches on the exterior speaker. Listen.

  She hears a deep humming sound. Sounds like a generator.

  That's nothing. Wait.

  Moments pass, and then a high-pitched whine of what sounds like a hydraulic drill whistles at them through the speakers, followed immediately by a metallic clanking that continues for several minutes.

  Iz smiles at his wife. Is that incredible?

  It sounds as if something's being pieced together. Probably an oil rig preparing to drill.

  Either that, or another one of those geological expeditions investigating the crater. Whatever it is, the degree of activity has intensified over the last thirty hours. I sent an e-mail to the NOAA to check on both possibilities but haven't heard a word. Who won the election?

  President Mailer.

  Good. Now that that's over with, maybe someone at the State Department will get back to me.

  And what if they don't?

  Iz looks up at his wife and shrugs. No big deal. Like you said, it's probably just an oil rig. Carl and I are planning our annual fishing trip within the next two weeks. Maybe we'll take a quick detour out to the area and take a closer look, just to be sure.

  Miami, Florida

  Dominique watches in disgust as the big redhead shovels another forkful of eggplant into his mouth. Maybe he'll choke.

  So, Sunshine, you proud of me or what?

  A spittle of tomato sauce strikes her cheek. God, Ray, didn't your mother teach you to swallow your food before talking?

  He smiles, revealing a piece of eggplant caught between his yellowed teeth. Sorry. I've been dieting for six months. Feels good to eat again. So what do you think?

  I told you, I think sixth place is terrific, especially for your first contest.

  What can I say? You inspired me.

  Now tell me about Foletta. What we first met, you said something about the board and medical staff being upset when he arrived from Massachusetts. What did you mean by that?

  This stays between us, right?

  Right.

  Raymond washes another mouthful of food down with a swig of beer. I have a good friend whose father sits on the state board. In fact, he was the one who helped me get the job at the treatment center. Anyway, the word is that Dr. Reinike, Foletta's predecessor, will be back sometime next month to run things again.

  Really? But I thought she retired. Foletta told me her husband had terminal cancer.

  Ray shakes his head, inhaling another bite. It was all bullshit. My buddy told me Reinike's been on paid leave since September. Turns out there's a brand-new asylum opening up in Tampa in three weeks, and Foletta's been promised the directorship.

  Wait, if Foletta's leaving in three weeks, then he must have known he was getting the Tampa job before corning to Miami. Why push Dr. Reinike out, just to take the Miami job for three months?

  Ray points his fork at her. Because of your former patient. The asylum in Massachusetts was closing, and Tampa wasn't ready yet. Reinike's a stickler for detail. Apparently, somebody with a lot of pull wanted Foletta in charge so there'd be no risk of your boy Gabriel getting reshuffled in the system.

  Or receiving a proper evaluation. God damn you, Foletta.

  What's the matter, Sunshine?

  I made a deal with Foletta. He promised me that Mick would be placed in the care of one of our rehab teams no later than January.

  The yellowed teeth smile at her. Guess you got lied to, girl. In three weeks, Michael Gabriel will be long gone.

  The sleek, cherry red Dodge Intrepid
ESX2's electric motor whines as it kicks in, assisting the 1.5-liter three-cylinder diesel engine as it accelerates up the steep southbound ramp to I-95.

  Dominique stares out the passenger window as Raymond whips the car in and out of traffic. She grits her teeth, angry at Foletta for deceiving her. I should have known better. I should have trusted my heart.

  She closes her eyes, recalling one of her first conversations with Mick. Pierre Borgia manipulated the legal system. The DA made a deal with my state-appointed attorney and shipped me off to an asylum in Massachusetts. Foletta became my state-appointed keeper. Pierre Borgia rewards loyalty, but God help you if you make his shit list.

  She had been manipulated, and once more, Michael Gabriel was left to suffer the consequences.

  Ray, I'm really not up for dancing tonight. Would you mind taking me home?

  Home? We're halfway to South Beach.

  Please.

  Raymond eyes the tan, sculpted legs protruding beneath the black skirt, imagining them wrapped around his thrusting, muscular torso. Okay, Sunshine, home it is.

  The Intrepid pulls into the parking lot of her high-rise twenty minutes later.

  Dominique smiles. Thank you for dinner. I'm sorry to put a damper on the evening, but I really don't feel well. Next time, I'll treat, okay?

  He shuts off the engine. I'll walk you up.

  That's okay, I'll be fine. I'll see you at work. She opens the door and heads for the elevator.

  Ray scurries after her.

  Dammit. Ray, I told you, it's really not necessary.

  Hey, it's no trouble, besides; I'd love to see your place. He waits for her to key-in to use the elevator.

  Ray, not tonight.

  That wasn't our deal. He slips a thick arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

  Don't-

  Before she can stop him, he has pushed her against the concrete wall, burying his tongue in her mouth, his right paw groping her breasts.

  A wave of white-hot panic rushes over her as a dozen childhood memories race through her mind at once.

  Fight back! She gags at the taste in her mouth, then bites down on the intruding tongue, drawing blood.

  Oww. God dammit- Raymond slaps her across the face, then pins her against the wall with one hand as he tears at her skirt with the other.

  Let her go!

  Dominique looks up to see Rabbi Steinberg and his wife approaching.

  Raymond maintains a grip on her arm. Beat it, this ain't your concern.

  Let her go, or we'll alert the police. Mindy Steinberg holds up the portable alarm.

  Raymond takes a threatening step toward the couple, dragging Dominique with him.

  Don't be foolish, Steinberg says, pointing to the security cameras.

  Hey, Ray-

  Raymond turns.

  The point of Dominique's high heel slams hard on Raymond's big toe. He yelps in agony, releasing his grip. In one motion, the blade of her wrist strikes the bodybuilder square on the Adam's apple, silencing his scream.

  Raymond clutches his windpipe, wheezing for air. As he drops to his knees, Dominique wheels around, preparing to drive the heel of her foot down upon the back of his exposed neck.

  Dominique, no- Steinberg grabs her arm before she can execute the crescent kick. Let the police handle it.

  Mindy keys open the elevator and the three duck inside.

  Raymond struggles to his feet. He turns to face Dominique, his eyes crazed, his mouth gasping to form sounds. As the elevator doors begin to close, he mouths the word, Gabriel, and slides a finger across the base of his throat.

  Chapter 11

  NOVEMBER 18, 2012

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  The group-therapy rooms at the South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center are located on the third floor, situated opposite the gymnasium, between the movie hall and computer room.

  Dominique is seated in the back of room 3-B, half-listening to Dr. Blackwell's afternoon group-therapy session when she notices an orderly wheel a semiconscious Michael Gabriel into the movie hall. She waits until the orderly leaves, then slips out of the classroom.

  The movie area is dark, the only light coming from the large-screen television. Eight residents, spread out over the three dozen folding chairs, are watching the latest Star Trek movie.

  The wheelchair is in the last row. Dominique takes a seat, sliding her chair close to Mick. He is leaning to one side, slumped forward. A single belt strapped across his chest is all that prevents him from falling on his face. The dark eyes, once intense beacons, are now lifeless black pools reflecting the television screen. Mick's long brown hair is pulled back. Dominique catches a whiff of scalp oil, then a vulgar scent coming from his rancid clothes. A heavy five o'clock shadow is thickening to a beard, covering all but the jagged scar along his jawline.

  Damn you, Foletta. She removes a Kleenex from her coat and dabs at the spittle drooling from his lower lip. Mick, I don't know if you can understand me, but I miss you, I really do. I hate what Foletta's done to you. You were absolutely right about him, and I feel terrible for not believing you. She places her hand over his. I wish you could understand me.

  To her surprise, Mick's left hand turns over, his fingers entwining in hers.

  Oh my God, she whispers.

  Mick winks.

  She can barely contain her excitement. Mick, there's so much I have to tell you-

  Shhh. The eyes remain vacant.

  She leans forward casually, feigning interest in the video. Raymond, the guard who attacked you, tried to rape me. He's been suspended, but I hear he may be back to work as early as next week. Be careful, he's threatened to hurt you to get back at me. She returns his squeeze. You remember me telling you about SOSUS? I convinced Iz to use the system to check out the Gulf coordinates you gave me. Mick, you were right. It turns out something is definitely down there, buried about a mile beneath the seafloor. Iz promises he'll investigate.

  Mick squeezes her hand tighter. Without moving his lips, he whispers, Too dangerous.

  Too dangerous? Why? What do you think is down there? She releases his hand as Dr. Blackwell's therapy session ends. Mick, Foletta lied about everything. I found out he's going to Tampa to be the director of a new maximum-security facility. You're being transferred next week.

  Help me escape.

  I can't-

  She stands as Dr. Blackwell approaches. Intern, I didn't realize you were such a Star Trek fan. I take it this movie is more important than my therapy session?

  No, sir. I was just-I was just checking on this patient. He nearly fell out of his wheelchair.

  That's why we have orderlies. Here, take these. He hands her a thick stack of patient files, then leads her away from Mick. I want every chart updated and sent to billing within the hour. Be sure to note today's therapy session. When you're finished, you can join our team meeting in the conference room on the second floor.

  Yes, Doctor.

  And Intern, stay away from Dr. Foletta's resident.

  Gulf of Mexico

  The forty-eight-foot fishing craft, Manatee, plows its way southwest through two-to-three-foot seas, its bow bathed in golden light as the setting sun kisses the horizon.

  Below deck, Iz Axler pours himself a mug of coffee while his best friend, Carl Reuben, cooks dinner in the small galley.

  The retired dentist rubs a hand towel over his balding scalp, then wipes the steam from his thick bifocals. God, it's hot down here. How close are we to this mysterious location of yours?

  Three more miles. What's for dinner?

  I already told you, grilled dolphin.

  We had that for lunch.

  Catch lobster, and you'll eat lobster. Tell me about this spot. You say it has no fish?

  That's right. We call it a dead zone.

  Why's it dead?

  Don't know. That's why I want to take a look.

  And how long are you planning to keep us in this dead zone?

  How long until dinner?


  Twenty minutes.

  Well, if there's an oil rig sitting over the area like I suspect there is, we'll be in and out of there by dessert.

  Iz leaves the galley and heads up on deck, savoring the smell of the salt air seasoned by the scent of grilled fish. For him, Carl, and Rex Simpson, the annual five-day fishing trip is the highlight of their year. After a long hurricane season, the Gulf waters have calmed and the weather cooled, offering ideal conditions for boating. Two days have yielded a dozen dolphin fish, eight yellowtail, and one grouper. Facing the fading sun, Iz closes his eyes and inhales, allowing the warm gusts of wind to soothe his sunburned face.

  A dull thud causes him to turn. Rex repositions the air tank, then finishes strapping it to the back of a buoyancy-control vest.

  You planning on doing some diving, Rex?

  The fifty-two-year-old owner of the Sanibel Treasure Hunters Club glances back over his shoulder. Why not? Since we can't do any fishing in this secret spot of yours, I thought I'd get in some night diving.

  I'm not sure there'll be much to see. Iz resumes his place at the captain's chair. He grabs the binoculars and scans the empty horizon, then verifies their location on the Global Positioning System. That's strange.

  What's strange?

  Iz deactivates the autopilot and cuts the Manatee's engines. We're here. This is it, the location I was telling you about. '

  Nothing here but water. Rex twists his long gray hair into a ponytail. I thought you said there'd be an oil rig.

  I guess I was wrong. Iz activates the ship-to-shore radio. Manatee calling Alpha-Zulu-three-nine-six. Alpha-Zulu, come in. Ead, you there?

  Go ahead, Manatee. How's the fishing?

  Not bad. Mostly yellowtail and dolphin. Rex caught a grouper this morning. Ead, we just arrived at the site above the Chicxulub crater. There's nothing here.

  No oil rig?

  Nothing. But the weather's perfect, and the seas are calm. I think we'll stay here for the night while I complete some tests.

  Just be careful.

  I will. Call you later.