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  Raymond holds the gate open for her. Dominique exits the security station and waits for the staff elevator, grimacing. Way to go, Sunshine. You should have seen that one coming a mile away.

  Marvis Jones watches her exit the elevator from his security monitor. Morning, Intern. If you're here to see resident Gabriel, he's confined to his room.

  Can I see him?

  The guard looks up from his paperwork. Maybe you should wait until the director returns.

  No. I want to speak with him now. And not in the seclusion room.

  Marvis appears annoyed. I highly advise against that. This man has a history of violence and-

  I'm not sure I'd label one instance in eleven years a history.

  They make eye contact. Marvis sees that Dominique will not back down. Okay, miss, have it your way. Jason, escort Intern Vazquez to room 714. Give her your security transponder, then lock her in.

  Dominique follows the guard through a short hall, entering the middle pod of three located in the northern wing. The lounge area is empty.

  The guard stops at room 714 and speaks into the hall intercom. Resident, remain on your bed where I can see you. He unlocks the door, then hands her what appears to be a thick pen. If you need me, just double-click this pen. He demonstrates, causing the beeper on his belt to vibrate. Just be careful. Don't allow him to get too close.

  Thank you. She enters the room.

  The cell is ten by twelve feet long. Daylight streams in from a three-inch sliver of plastic running vertically along one wall. There are no windows. The bed is iron, fastened to the floor. A desk and set of cubbies are fastened next to it. A sink and steel toilet are anchored by the wall to her right, angled to give its occupant some privacy from the hall.

  The bed is made, the room immaculate. Michael Gabriel is sitting on the edge of a magazine-thin mattress. He stands, greeting her with a warm smile. Good morning, Dominique. I see Dr. Foletta hasn't arrived yet. How fortunate.

  How do you know?

  Because we're speaking in my cell instead of the interview room. Please, sit on the bed, I'll take the floor. Unless you prefer the toilet?

  She returns his smile, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

  Mick leans back against the wall to her left. His black eyes twinkle beneath the fluorescent light.

  He wastes no time interrogating her. So, how was your weekend? Did you read my father's journal?

  I'm sorry. I only managed to make it through the first ten pages. I did manage to finish Rosenhan's study.

  On being sane in an insane place. Your thoughts, please?

  I found it interesting, maybe even a bit surprising. His staff had quite the time sorting subjects from patients. Why did you have me read it?

  Why do you think? The ebony eyes glitter at her, exuding their animal-like intelligence.

  Obviously you want me to consider the possibility that you're not insane.

  Obviously. He sits up, pulling his heels into a lotus position. Let's play a game, shall we? Let's imagine it's eleven years ago and you're me, Michael Gabriel, son of the soon-to-be-infamous and quite dead archaeologist, Julius Gabriel. You're standing backstage at Harvard University before a capacity crowd, listening to your father share a lifetime of information with some of the greatest minds in the scientific community. Your heart is pounding with adrenaline because you've worked side by side with your father from the day you were born, and you know how important this lecture is, not just to him but to the future of mankind. Ten minutes into his lecture, you see Julius's longtime nemesis stroll across the stage to another podium. Pierre Borgia, the prodigal son of a political family dynasty, decides he's going to challenge my father's research right there, onstage. Turns out the whole lecture was just one big setup, arranged personally by Borgia to engage my father in a Verbal assault designed to destroy his credibility. At least a dozen members of the audience were in on the joke. After ten minutes, Julius couldn't even be heard over his colleagues' laughter.

  Mick pauses, momentarily lost in the memory. My father was a selfless, brilliant man who dedicated his life to the pursuit of truth. Halfway through the most important speaking engagement of his life, he had his entire existence pulled out from under him, his pride destroyed, his life's work-thirty-two years of sacrifice-desecrated in the blink of an eye. Can you imagine the humiliation he must have felt?

  What happened next?

  He staggered backstage and fell into my arms, clutching his chest. Julius had a bad heart. With his last ounce of strength, he whispered some instructions to me, then died in my arms.

  And that's when you went after Borgia?

  The bastard was still onstage, spewing hatred. Despite what I'm sure you've been told, I'm not a violent man -the dark eyes widen- but at that moment, I wanted to shove that microphone down his throat. I remember stalking the podium, the world around me moving in slow motion. All I could hear was my own breathing, all I could see was Borgia, but it seemed like I was looking at him through a tunnel. The next thing I know, he's lying on the floor, and I'm bashing his skull in with the mike.

  Dominique crosses her legs, disguising the shudder.

  My father's body ended up in the county morgue, cremated without a ceremony. Borgia spent the next three weeks in a private hospital room where his family ran his senatorial campaign, engineering what the press referred to as 'an unprecedented come-from-behind victory.' I sat rotting in a jail cell, no friends or family to bail me out, waiting to face what I assumed were assault charges. Borgia had other ideas. Using his family's political influence, he manipulated the system, striking a deal with the DA and my state-appointed attorney. The next thing I know, I'm being proclaimed a nutcase, the judge shipping me off to some run-down asylum in Massachusetts, a place where Borgia could keep an eye on me, no pun intended.

  You say Borgia manipulated the legal system. How?

  The same way he manipulates Foletta, my state-appointed keeper. Pierre Borgia rewards loyalty, but God help you if you make his shit list. The judge who sentenced me was promoted to the state supreme court within three months of finding me criminally insane. A short time later our good doctor was made facility director, somehow managing to hopscotch over a dozen more qualified applicants.

  The black eyes read her thoughts. Say what you're really dunking, Dominique. You think I'm a delusional, paranoid schizophrenic.

  I didn't say that. What about the other incident? Are you denying that you brutally attacked a guard?

  Mick stares up at her, the look in his eyes unnerving. Robert Griggs was more sadist than homosexual, a guard whose acts you'd probably diagnose as being anger-excitation rape. Foletta purposely assigned him to the night shift in my ward a month before my first evaluation was scheduled. Ol' Griggsy used to make his rounds about two in the morning. Dominique feels her heart pounding.

  Thirty residents per ward, all of us sleeping with one wrist and one ankle shackled to the center posts of our beds. One night Griggs came in drunk, looking for me. I guess he decided I'd make a nice addition to his harem. First thing he did was lubricate me up a bit by shoving a broomstick-

  Stop! Where were the other guards?

  Griggs was it. Since there was nothing I could do to stop him, I sweet-talked him, trying to convince him that he'd enjoy things a bit more if both my legs were free. Dumb son of a bitch unlocked my leg shackle. I won't bore you with the details about what happened next-

  I heard. You scrambled his eggs, so to speak.

  I could have killed him, but I didn't. I'm not a murderer.

  And for that you spent the rest of your days in solitary? Mick nods. Eleven years in the concrete mother. Cold and hard, but she's always there. Now you tell. How old were you when your cousin sodomized you?

  You'll excuse me, I don't feel comfortable discussing it with you.

  Because you're the psychotherapist and I'm the psycho?

  No, I mean yes-because I'm the doctor and you're my patient.

  Arc we really s
o different, you and I? Do you think Rosenhan's staff could determine which one of us belongs in this cell? He leans back against the wall. May I call you Dom?

  Yes.

  Dom, solitary confinement can wear on a man. I'm probably suffering from sensory deprivation, and I might even scare you a bit, but I'm just as sane as you or Foletta or that guard posted by the door. What can I do to convince you of that?

  It's not me you have to convince, it's Dr. Foletta.

  I told you, Foletta works for Borgia, and Borgia will never allow me out.

  I can talk to him. Push him into giving you the same rights and privileges as the other residents. In time, I could-

  Christ, I can already hear Foletta now. 'Wake up, Intern Vazquez. You're falling for Gabriel's famous conspiracy theory.' He's probably got you convinced that I'm another Ted Bundy.

  Not at all. Mick, I became a psychiatrist to help people like-

  People like me. Lunatics?

  Let me finish. You're not a lunatic, but I think you need help. The first step is to convince Foletta to assign an evaluation team to you-

  No. Foletta won't allow it, and even if he did, there's no time.

  Why isn't there time?

  My annual evaluation and hearing is coming up in six days. Haven't you figured out why Foletta assigned you to me? You're a student, easily manipulated. 'The patient shows some encouraging signs of improvement, Intern Vazquez, but he's still unfit to rejoin society.' You'll concur with his diagnosis, which is all the evaluation board needs to hear.

  Foletta's right, he's good. Maybe he's not as good when he isn't controlling the conversation. Mick, let's talk a moment about your father's work? On Friday, you mentioned four Ahau, three Kankin-

  Humanity's day of doom. I knew you recognized the date.

  It's just a Mayan legend.

  There's truth in many legends.

  Then you do believe we're all going to the in less than four months?

  Mick stares at the floor, shaking his head.

  A simple yes or no will suffice.

  Don't play head games, Dominique.

  How am I playing head games?

  You know damn well the question as stated reeks of paranoid schizophrenia and delusions of-

  Mick, it's a simple question. He's getting upset. Good.

  You're engaging me in a battle of wits to find weaknesses. Don't. It's not very effective, and you'll lose, which means we'll all lose.

  You're asking me to evaluate your ability to reenter society. How can I do that without asking questions?

  Ask your questions, but don't set me up for failure. I'll be glad to discuss my father's theories with you, but only if you're really interested. If your goal is to see how far you can push me, then just give me the goddam Rorschach or Thematic Apperception Test and be done with it.

  How am I setting you up for failure?

  Mick is on his feet, moving toward her. Dominique's heart races. She reaches for the pen.

  The very nature of your question condemns me. It's like asking a reverend if his wife knows he masturbates. Either way, he looks bad. If I answer no about the doomsday prediction, then I'll have to justify why I suddenly changed my opinion after eleven years. Foletta will interpret that as a ruse designed to fool the evaluation committee. If I say yes, then you'll concur that I'm just another psycho who believes the sky is falling.

  Then how do you propose I evaluate your sanity? I can't just skirt the issue.

  No, but you can at least examine the evidence with an open mind before you rush to judgment. Some of the greatest minds in history were labeled mad, until the truth came out.

  Mick sits down on the opposite end of the bed. Dominique's skin tingles. She is unsure if she is excited or frightened, or perhaps both. She shifts her weight, uncrossing her legs, the pen held nonchalantly in her hand. He's close enough to strangle me, but if we were in a bar, I'd probably be flirting....

  Dominique, it's very important, very very important that we trust each other. I need your help, and you need mine, you just don't know it yet. On the soul of my mother I swear I'll never lie to you, but you have to promise to listen with an open mind.

  All right, I'll listen objectively. But the question still stands. Do you believe mankind will end on December 21?

  Mick leans forward, elbows on knees. He stares at the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose between both index fingers. I assume you're Catholic?

  I was born Catholic, but raised in a Jewish household since I was thirteen. What about you?

  My own mother was Jewish, my father, Episcopalian. Do you consider yourself a religious person?

  Not really.

  Do you believe in God?

  Yes.

  Do you believe in evil?

  Evil? The question startles her. That's a bit broad. Can you clarify that for me?

  I'm not talking about men committing heinous acts of murder. I'm referring to evil as an entity unto itself, part of the very fabric of existence. Mick looks up, his eyes focusing on her. For instance, Judeo-Christian belief is that evil first personified itself by entering the Garden of Eden disguised as a serpent, tempting Eve to bite the apple.

  As a psychiatrist, I don't believe any of us are born evil, or good, for that matter. I believe we have the capacity for both. Free will allows us to choose.

  And what if... what if something was influencing your free will without you knowing it?

  What do you mean?

  Some people believe there's a malevolent force out there, part of Nature. An intelligence unto itself that has existed on this planet throughout man's history.

  You lost me. What does any of this have to do with the doomsday prophesy?

  As a rational person, you ask me if I believe humanity is about to end. As a rational person, I ask you to explain to me why every successful ancient civilization predicted the end of humanity. As a rational person, I ask you to tell me why every major religion foretells of an apocalypse and waits for a Messiah to return to rid our world of evil.

  I can't answer that. Like most people, I just don't know.

  Neither did my father. But being a rational man of science, he wanted to find out. And so he dedicated his life and sacrificed his family's happiness in pursuit of the truth. He spent decades investigating ancient ruins in search of clues. And in the end, what he found was so unfathomable that it literally pushed him to the brink of madness.

  What did he find?

  Mick closes his eyes, his voice inflection softening. Evidence. Evidence deliberately and painstakingly left for us. Evidence that points to the existence of a presence, a presence so malevolent that its ascension will signal the end of humanity.

  Again, I don't understand.

  I can't explain it, all I know is that-somehow-I can feel its presence growing stronger.

  He's struggling to remain rational. Keep him talking. You say this presence is malevolent. How do you know?

  I just know.

  You're not giving me a whole lot to go on. And the Mayan calendar's not what I'd call evidence-

  The calendar's only the tip of the iceberg. There are extraordinary, unexplainable landmarks scattered across the face of this planet, astronomically aligned wonders, yet all pieces of a single, giant puzzle. Even the world's greatest skeptics can't refute their existence. The pyramids of Giza and Chichen Itza. The temples of Angkor Wat and Teotihuacan, Stonehenge, the Piri Re'is maps, and the drawings along the Nazca desert. It took decades of intense labor to erect these ancient marvels, the methodology of which is still a mystery to us. My father discovered a united intelligence behind all of this, the same intelligence responsible for the creation of the Mayan calendar. Of greater importance is the fact that each of these landmarks is linked to a common purpose, the meaning of which has been lost over the millennium.

  And their purpose is?

  The salvation of humanity.

  Foletta's right. He really believes this. Let me get this straight. Your father be
lieved that each of these ancient sites was designed to save mankind. How can a pyramid or a bunch of desert drawings save us? And save us from what? This malevolent presence?

  The dark eyes stare into her soul. Yes, but something infinitely worse- something that will arrive to destroy humanity on the December solstice. My father and I were close to resolving the mystery before he died, but there are still vital pieces of the puzzle remaining. If only the Mayan codices hadn't been destroyed.

  Who destroyed them?

  Mick shakes his head as if disappointed. Don't you even know the history of your own ancestors? The creator of the doomsday calendar, the great teacher, Kukulcan, left behind critical information in the ancient Mayan codices. Four hundred years after his departure, Spain invaded the Yucatan. Cortez was a bearded white man. The Maya mistook him for Kukulcan, the Aztecs for Quetzalcoatl. Both civilizations basically lay down and allowed themselves to be conquered, thinking their Caucasian Messiah had returned to save humanity. The Catholic priests took possession of the codices. They must have been pretty frightened by what they read because the fools burned everything, essentially condemning us to death.

  He's getting worked up. I don't know, Mick. The instructions for the salvation of mankind seem way too important to leave to a bunch of Central American Indians. If Kukulcan was so wise, why didn't he leave the information somewhere else?

  Thank you.

  For what?

  For thinking, For using the logical hemisphere of your brain. The information was too important to leave to a vulnerable culture like the Maya, or any other ancient culture, for that matter. On the Nazca desert in Peru lies a visual, symbolic message, carved into the pampa in precise, four-hundred-foot glyphs. My father and I were close to interpreting the meaning of the message when he died.

  She glances innocently at her watch.

  Mick jumps to his feet like a cat, startling her as he grips her shoulders. Stop treating this as part of your graduation requirements and listen to what I'm saying. Time is a commodity we don't have-

  She stares into his eyes as he rambles, their faces only inches apart. Mick, let me go- She fingers the pen.