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  He hears the orderly approach. Hey, Marvis, is it true? Is this the vegetable's last night?

  Mick takes a breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. The presence of the seventh-floor security guard complicates things. You only have one shot. Take them both out if you have to.

  Marvis turns off the television in the pod and finishes wiping down the grape-juice stains on the coffee table. Yeah. Foletta's taking him to Tampa tomorrow.

  The door swings open. In his peripheral vision, Mick sees the sadist approach, the shadow of another man waiting by the door.

  Not yet. Marvis will slam the door closed if you jump. Wait until it's clear. Let the animal stick you.

  The orderly grabs Mick's left wrist, then jabs the syringe into the swollen vein, nearly breaking the tip of the needle off as he injects the Thorazine into the abused blood vessel.

  Mick tightens his abdominal muscles in agony, forcing his upper body not to flinch.

  Hey, Barnes, go easy on him, or I'll write you up again.

  Fuck you, Marvis.

  Marvis shakes his head, then walks away.

  Mick's eyes roll up in his head. His body turns to Jell-O and he falls onto his left side, staring straight ahead on the bed like a zombie.

  Barnes verifies that Marvis has left, then unzips his fly. Hey, girlfriend, you wanna taste something? He bends down and leans closer to Mick's face. How about we open that pretty little mouth of yours and-

  The orderly never sees the fist, only the explosion of purple light as Mick's second and third knuckles slam into his exposed temple.

  Barnes collapses to the floor, shaken but still conscious.

  Mick pulls him up by the hair and looks into his eyes. Trick or treat, motherfucker. He drives his knee into Barnes's face, careful not to get any blood on the orderly's uniform.

  10:18 p.m.

  Dominique enters her numerical password, then waits while the infrared camera scans her face. The red light flashes green, allowing her to enter the central security station.

  Raymond turns to face her. Well, look who it is? Come to pay your last respects to your psycho boyfriend?

  You're not my boyfriend.

  Raymond slams his fist against the steel cage. We both know who I'm talking about. Little bit later, I'm gonna be paying him a nice visit. He flashes a yellow smile. Yeah, Sunshine, me and your boy are gonna have a real good time.

  Do whatever you want. She heads for the elevator.

  What's that supposed to mean?

  I'm through. Dominique pulls an envelope from her purse. See this? This is a letter of resignation. I'm dropping out of the internship program and quitting school. Is Foletta in his office?

  You know he's not.

  Fine, then I'll leave this with Marvis. Buzz me up to the seventh floor, if you think you can handle it.

  Raymond eyes her suspiciously. He activates the elevator, pressing the button on his console for the seventh floor, then watches her on the security-camera monitor.

  Marvis is about to leave his desk to find Barnes when the elevator door opens. Dominique? What are you doing here?

  She leads Marvis by the arm and walks him around the desk, turning him away from the elevator and the hallway leading to Mick's pod. I wanted to talk to you, but I don't want that orderly Barnes to hear.

  Hear what?

  Dominique shows him the envelope. I'm resigning.

  Why? Your semester's almost over.

  Her eyes well with tears. My-my father died in a boating accident.

  Damn. Hey, I'm sorry.

  She gives a sob, then allows Marvis to comfort her. She lays her head on his shoulder, her eyes focused on the corridor leading to pod 7-C.

  Mick staggers out of his room, dressed in Barnes's uniform and baseball cap. He slams the door shut and heads for the elevator.

  Dominique places her hand on Marvis's neck as if hugging him, making sure he doesn't turn around. Would you do me a favor and make sure Dr. Foletta gets this letter?

  Yeah, sure. Hey, you wanna hang out, you know, talk or something?

  The elevator doors open. Mick staggers inside.

  She pulls away. No, I'm already late. I have to get on the road. The funeral ceremony's tomorrow morning. Barnes, hold the elevator, please-

  A white sleeve prevents the doors from closing.

  Dominique kisses Marvis on the cheek. Take care of yourself.

  Yeah, you too.

  Dominique hustles for the elevator, stepping inside just as the doors close. Instead of looking at Mick, she stares directly up at the camera situated in the far corner of the elevator's ceiling.

  Casually, she reaches into her purse. What floor, Mr. Barnes?

  Three.

  She can hear the fatigue in his voice. She holds up three fingers to the camera, then one finger, continuing to stare at the lens as Mick takes the heavy pair of wire cutters from her other hand and pockets them.

  The elevator stops at the third floor. The doors open.

  Mick stumbles out, nearly falling on his face.

  The doors close.

  Mick finds himself alone in the corridor. He staggers forward, the green-tiled hallway spinning in his head. The heavy dose of Thorazine is pulling him under, and there is nothing he can do now to fight back. He falls twice, then leans against the drywall and wills himself to the courtyard.

  The night air momentarily revives him. He manages to reach the concrete steps and hugs the steel rail. Swirling in his vision are three steep flights of stairs. He blinks hard, unable to clear the fog from his vision. Okay, you can do this. Step. . . now, push your foot down. He stumbles down the first three steps, then catches himself. Concentrate! One at a time. Don't lean....

  He falls the last ten feet, landing painfully on his back.

  For a dangerous moment, he allows his eyes to close, giving sleep an opportunity to gain a foothold. No! He rolls over, pushes himself to his feet, then staggers painfully toward the concrete monster spinning ahead of him.

  Dominique unbuttons the cashmere sweater, takes a deep breath, and steps off the elevator. As she approaches the security station, she trains her eyes on the dozen security monitors at Raymond's back which continuously provide alternating images of the facility.

  She spots the view of the courtyard. A uniform-clad figure is struggling to pull his way up the stark concrete wall.

  Raymond looks up and stares at her cleavage.

  Mick's arms are like rubber. Try as he may, he cannot seem to get his muscles to obey his commands.

  He feels the nylon knot slip through his fingers and falls eight feet, nearly breaking both ankles on the hard sod.

  Dominique sees Mick fall and stifles a cry. Before Raymond can react, she removes her sweater, revealing her cleavage. God, why do you keep it so hot in here?

  Raymond's eyes are bulging. He is out of his chair, standing by the gate. You like fucking with me, don't you?

  In her peripheral vision, she sees Mick stand. He begins climbing again. The image changes.

  Ray, let's face it, with all the steroids pumping through that body of yours, you couldn't keep it up long enough to please me.

  Raymond opens the gate. Pretty nasty talk for a girl who nearly crushed my windpipe three weeks ago.

  You don't get it, do you? No girl enjoys it when it's forced on her.

  You fucking tease-you're trying to get me to violate my probation, aren't you?

  Maybe I'm just trying to apologize. Come on, Mick, move your ass...

  The pain is keeping him conscious.

  Mick grits his teeth harder, groaning as he pulls himself higher, walking the wall like a mountain climber. Three more steps, just three more, asshole, come on. Now two-two more, work your arms, squeeze your fists tighter. Good, good. Stop, catch your breath. Okay, last one, come on-

  He reaches the top of the wall. Holding on for dear life, he quickly winds the rope a half dozen times around his left arm to keep from falling. The coil of barbed wire is inches from
his forehead. Mick takes the wire cutters from his back pocket and lines the open blades along a section of coil just to the right of the rope.

  He squeezes the clippers shut with all his might until the steel snaps in half. Repositioning the cutters, he struggles to focus on the next section of wire through the Thorazine haze, now closing fast on his peripheral vision.

  Raymond leans against the wall and stares at the two perfect swells bulging beneath Dominique's top. So here's the deal, Sunshine. You and me do the wild thing, and I promise I'll leave your boy alone.

  She feigns an itch, catching a quick glimpse of the monitor through the security cage. Mick is still cutting through the barbed wire.

  Stall the pig. You want to do it here?

  His hand reaches higher along her arm. You won't be the first. A wave of nausea washes over her as he rubs the outline of her nipple with the tip of his index finger.

  Mick frees the section of barbed wire, then pulls himself on top of the wall, balancing precariously on his chest. He inches closer to the edge and looks down the other side at the twenty-foot drop. Whoa...

  Grunting, he pulls the free end of the nylon rope toward him, then loops it several times around the remaining coils of wire, the barbs tearing holes in his flesh. Wrapping the free end of the rope around his wrists, he eases himself over the wall-and falls.

  Mick drops twelve feet before the rope catches along the barbed wire, stopping his descent. Dangling by his wrists, he feels his weight pull the coils of wire away from the top of the cement wall as he drops onto the sidewalk below.

  Seconds later, he is up on all fours, staring into the oncoming headlights like a disoriented deer.

  Wait, Ray, I said stop! Dominique pushes his hand from her breast and pulls a small container of Mace from her purse.

  You fucking whore-you are fucking with me!

  She backs away. No, I just decided that Mick's life isn't worth the price you're asking.

  You little bitch-

  She turns and presses her face to the thermal scan. Come on- She waits for the buzz, then wrenches the door open and slips out.

  All right, Sunshine, you made your choice. Now your boy's gonna have to live with it. Raymond opens his desk drawer. He removes a half-inch-thick length of rubber hose, then heads for the elevator.

  Dominique reaches the parking lot, relieved to see the Dodge minivan pull out onto Route 441. She pops open the hood of her car, then dials the preset emergency roadside-service telephone number.

  The elevator stops at the seventh floor. Raymond keys the power OFF and steps out.

  Marvis looks up. Something wrong?

  Just watch your television, Marvis. Raymond walks through pod 7-C, stopping at room 714. He keys in.

  The room is dimly lit. The rancid scent of disinfectant and soured clothing fills the air.

  The resident is lying on the mattress, his back to Raymond, a sheet pulled up to his ear.

  Evening, asshole. Here's a little gift from your girlfriend.

  Raymond swings the rubber hose down hard across the sleeping man's face. An agonized cry. The man attempts to get up. The hulking redhead kicks him back down, then beats him again and again across his back and shoulders until the testosterone rage is vented.

  Raymond stands over the body, heaving from the effort. Was that good for you, shithead? Hope so, cause it sure was good for me.

  He pulls back the sheet. Oh, fuck...

  Rabbi Steinberg pulls the Dodge minivan over to the side of the road, parking next to the trash bin behind the convenience store. He slides opens the side door, removes the length of nylon rope, and quickly tosses it into the garbage. Then he climbs in back and helps Mick off the floor and onto the seat. Are you all right?

  Mick looks up through vacant eyes. Thorazine.

  I know. The rabbi lifts his head and gives him a sip of bottled water, cringing at the bruises along the man's arms. You're going to be all right. Just rest, we have a long ride.

  Mick is unconscious before his head hits the car seat.

  The tow truck is already pulling the Pronto Spyder onto its flatbed by the time the first Dade County police cars arrive.

  Raymond runs out of the entrance to greet them, then spots Dominique. It's her! Arrest her!

  Dominique feigns surprise. What are you talking about?

  Fuck you, you know what I'm talking about, Gabriel's escaped.

  Mick escaped! Oh my God, how? She looks at the police officers. You don't think I had anything to do with it. I've been stuck out here for twenty minutes.

  The tow-truck driver nods. It's true, Officer, I can vouch for that. And we haven't seen a damn thing.

  A brown Lincoln Continental screeches to a halt in front of the main entrance. Anthony Foletta climbs out, dressed in a pale yellow jogging suit. Raymond, what's ... Dominique, what the hell are you doing here?

  I stopped by to drop off my letter of resignation. My father was killed in a boating accident. I'm leaving the program. She glances over at Raymond. Looks like your goon here screwed up pretty good.

  Foletta looks at her, then pulls one of the officers aside. Officer, my name's Dr. Foletta. I'm the director of this facility. This woman used to work with the resident that escaped. If they planned this together and she was his ride, then there's a good chance he's still inside.

  The police officer instructs his men to enter the facility with the canine patrol, then he turns his attention to Dominique. Young lady, get your things, you're coming with me.

  JOURNAL OF

  JULIUS GABRIEL

  It was in the late fall of 1974 that my two colleagues and I arrived back in England, all of us quite happy to return to civilization. I knew Pierre had lost his appetite for the work and wanted to return to the States, the pressure from his politically oriented family finally persuading him to run for office. What I feared most was that he'd insist on Maria joining him.

  Yes, feared. Truth be known, I had fallen in love with my best friend's fiancée.

  How does one allow such an act to occur? I pondered the question a thousand times. Affairs of the heart are difficult to justify, though, at first, I certainly tried. It was lust, I convinced myself brought on by the very nature of our work Archaeology tends to be a profession of isolation. Teams are often forced to live and labor, often in primitive conditions, forgoing the simplest pleasures of privacy and hygiene in order to complete the task at hand Modesty takes a backseat to practicality. The evening bath in a freshwater stream, the daily ritual of dressing and undressing-the very act of cohabitation can become a feast for the senses. A seemingly innocent act can stir the loins and prime the heart's pump, easily deceiving the weakened mind.

  In my heart, I knew these were all excuses, for Maria's dark beauty had intoxicated me from the moment Pierre had introduced us during our first year together at Cambridge. Those high cheekbones, the long black hair, those ebony eyes radiating an almost animal intelligence-Maria was a vision that had captured my soul, a thunderbolt that struck my being yet forbade me to act, lest I destroy my friendship with Borgia.

  But I did not give in. Convincing myself that Maria must remain an exquisite bottle of wine I longed to taste but could never open, I locked up my emotions and threw away the devil's key-or so I thought.

  As we journeyed from London to Salisbury on that fall day, I sensed that a fork in the road loomed ahead for our trio, and that one of us, most likely me, would be venturing down a path of isolation.

  Stonehenge is undoubtedly one of the most mysterious places on Earth, a bizarre temple of upright megalithic stones, arranged in a perfect circle as if by giants. Because we had spent time at the ancient site as part of our degree requirements, none of us truly expected to find any new revelations awaiting us on those rotting green plains of southern England.

  We were wrong. Another piece of the puzzle was there, staring us straight in the face.

  Although not nearly as old as Tiahuanaco, Stonehenge incorporates the same seemingly imp
ossible feats of engineering and astronomy we had seen earlier. The site itself is believed to have been a spiritual magnet for fanners who first appeared on the plains following the end of the last ice age. The hillside must certainly have been deemed holy, for within a two-mile circumference of the monument are no less than 300 burial sites, several of which would provide us with vital clues linking the area with artifacts found earlier in Central and South America.

  Carbon dating tells us that Stonehenge was built approximately 5,000 years ago. Phase one of the construction began with a precise, circular outline of 56 wooden totemlike poles surrounded by a ditch and embankment. Small blue stones, transported from a mountain range nearly 100 miles away, would later replace these wooden markings.

  They, in turn, would be replaced by megalithic stones, the remains of which are still present today.

  The mammoth vertical rocks that make up Stonehenge are called sarsan stones. They are the hardest rocks in the region and are found in the town of Avery, some 20 miles to the north. Stonehenge's original design consisted of 30 such stones, each weighing an incredible 25 to 40 tons. Each of the great columns of rock had to be transported many miles over hilly terrain, then set upright to form a perfect circle, 100 feet across. Linking the top of these sarsans were nine-ton lintel stones, 30 in all. Each lintel had to be raised 20 feet off the ground, then set into place atop the sarsans. To ensure a proper fit, the ancient engineers carved rounded projections on

  top of every sarsan column. These plugs fit into rounded-out hollow sockets formed along the underside of each lintel, allowing the pieces to fit together like giant Lego building blocks.

  Once the monumental circle of stone was complete, the builders erected five pairs of trilithons, two upright sarsans connected by a single lintel These trilithons, composed of the largest stones at the site, stand 25 feet off the ground, with another third of their mass buried underground. Five trilithons were set into place within the circle to form a horseshoe, the open end of which faces an altar stone aligned to the summer solstice. The center and largest of the trilithons has been set to the winter solstice, December 21, the day of the Mayan prophecy, a date considered by most ancient cultures to be associated with death.