The Mayan Resurrection (38 page)

‘Yes, sir.’ A final image appears—a schematic of what appears to be a UAV robot.

‘One way to potentially cool the magma flow and stave off a major eruption is to flood the caldera just prior to its blast with the waters of Yellowstone Lake. My father, Mark Beckmeyer, is an engineer at Broward Robotics. The two of us designed GOPHER, an acronym for Geothermal Observatory for Pyrolysis and Heat Exchange Release. Pyrolysis is a chemical change caused by the action of heat. Using GOPHER, we intend to create a series of canals running from Yellowstone Lake to key sections of the Yellowstone caldera, creating an early-warning ventilation system. I’ve already met with park officials, who agree the system could significantly reduce magma temperatures, potentially preventing or lessening the effects of a major eruption.’

The history professor is making rapid calculations on his pocket computer. ‘Seven hundred thousand dollars is a sizable grant, Ms Beckmeyer.’

‘Yes, sir, but a small price to pay to save civilization. And the university would share all proprietary rights.’

‘Time’s up,’ Professor Laubin announces.

The Asian professor looks anxious. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer, perhaps you could wait outside, please.’

Lauren grabs her belongings and exits the chamber. She finds an empty bench in the corridor.
Seven hundred thousand dollars … they spend that much on resurfacing their damn faculty parking lots. Maybe I can convince Sam to turn pro. His bonus check alone could buy a hundred GOPHERs
…

Professor Laubin joins her in the corridor. ‘Ms. Beckmeyer, did you really think those scare tactics would work?’

‘I can’t help it if the facts are scary.’

‘Yes, well you certainly have a flair for the dramatic.’ He grins, extending his hand. ‘You also have yourself a research grant. Congratulations.’

Lauren leaps off the bench and hugs him around the neck.

‘Okay, okay. Now go save the world.’

Virgil Robinson tucks his new white dress shirt into his new khaki pants and slips his bare feet into the secondhand brown suede loafers.

‘Ready, Virge?’

‘Been ready for twenty damn years.’

Virgil follows the armed guard past the seemingly endless corridor of cells. He nods to a few well-wishers, avoids eye contact with others.

His heart beats faster as they exit the cellblock.

‘You are required to contact your probation officer within twenty-four hours.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Open up.’

The cellblock door rolls open, and a second guard joins them on their walk.

‘You may not leave Florida while on probation, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You will be required to submit and pass a random urine test every month while on probation.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They approach a solid steel door. ‘Open up.’

Virgil squints at the afternoon sun as it peeks between the razor wire and perimeter fencing. A supervisor hands him two envelopes, one containing a three-hundred-dollar credit, the other a plastic bag holding his personal belongings.

Virgil follows the two guards and supervisor outside, the men leading him down fifty yards of fenced-in sidewalk, dead-ending at another gate.

‘One for release. Open the gate.’

The steel door slides open.

‘Prisoner F-344278-B, you have been granted parole by the State of Florida Correctional Systems. Will there be someone meeting you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Stay on the straight and narrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’
Asshole
… Virgil walks out of the shadow of the penitentiary and into the light.

The white limousine is parked along the side of the road. The back door opens.

Out steps a paunchy Caucasian man in rose-colored glasses, dressed in a tropical silk shirt and cream-colored slacks. ‘Virgil Robinson?’ The man’s voice—a heavy Louisiana drawl.

‘Yeah?’

‘The name’s Ben Merchant. I work for your daughter. You did receive her letter?’

‘Got it right here.’ Virgil pats his pocket, his shirt already spotting with perspiration.

‘Come on, partner, let’s get you out of the heat.’

*

The limousine turns south on Smart Highway 95.

‘So, uh—’

‘Call me Ben.’

‘Right. So Ben, you say this Mabus fella died yesterday?’

‘And so young. Doctor says it was a heart attack.’

‘And my Lilith—’

‘—inherited everything. Exciting, huh? Just think—your little girl, the child you abandoned as a baby, is a billionaire.’ Ben offers his Cheshire cat smile. ‘Like hittin’ the lottery without even playing.’

Virgil looks out the tinted window and stifles a grin.

The limo turns south on scenic A-1-A, driving through a wooded area heavy in pine. On the right are million-dollar neighborhoods, on the left—incredible estates featuring private twenty-million-dollar views of the Atlantic.

They pass a
WELCOME TO MANALAPAN
sign. Moments later, the limo turns into a gated driveway leading up to the Mabus mansion.

Virgil steps out of the car. ‘All this one house?’

‘Yes, sir. Let’s go ’round back and meet your daughter.’

Ben Merchant leads him along a stone path beneath a canopy of palm trees until the aqua-blue hues of the ocean come into view.

The rear of the Mabus property is a private resort. Tennis courts, wet bar, sauna, whirlpool, cabana, a covered patio overlooking an undisturbed stretch of pristine beach … even a helipad.

Virgil’s jaw drops.
My little girl got money to burn
…

A winding stone stairwell leads up to the main deck. Stretched out before them is a pond-shaped pool, each end adorned with waterfalls and tropical foliage.

Lying in a lounge chair, sunbathing completely in the nude, is Lilith Robinson-Mabus.

For a long moment, Virgil simply stares, his emotions teetering between lust and greed.

‘Lilith, darlin’, this is Virgil Robinson … your biological father.’

Lilith stands and hugs him, smearing baby oil all over his clean white shirt. ‘Well, I’ve only waited my entire life to meet you. Should I call you Virgil or Daddy?’

‘Uh, Daddy’s good. Damn, girl … ya’ll always prance around wit’ no clothes on?’

‘I wanted our first meeting to be memorable. I know you haven’t seen a woman in twenty years.’

Virgil bites his lip. ‘Uh, yeah. Hey, uh, sorry to hear about your husband.’

Lilith giggles as she returns to her lounge chair. ‘Sit, Daddy. Come and sit in front of me where I can see you.’

Merchant positions a lounge chair. ‘Tell you what, how ’bout I get ya’ll something cold to drink? I think Lucille just made some of her famous fresh lemonade. Virgil?’

‘Yeah … sure.’ Virgil sits on the hot vinyl, not sure where to look.

‘So tell me, Daddy, did anyone rape you while you were in prison?’

‘Say what?’

‘You know, hide their sausage in your asshole?’

‘Hell, no. I’d kill any muthafucker try messin’ wit’ me.’

‘Sort of like you killed my mother, huh?’

‘Now girl, I know that was wrong, and I done my time. But see, I’m a changed man. I found Jesus.’

‘Really? Does Jesus spend much time in prison?’

‘Don’t sass your daddy, now. I’m here ’cause I wanna make up for lost time.’

‘How very noble of you. I’m so sorry, I misjudged you completely.’

‘S’all right.’

‘Hey, Daddy, do you prefer your women shaved?’

‘Huh?’

Lilith spreads her legs. ‘My late husband used to insist I shave my pubes. He’d say, “Lilith, I hate that nappy nigger hair.” What do you think?’

‘Lemonade time,’ sings Merchant, shattering the tension. He hands a glass of ice-cold lemonade to Virgil, the heavy condensation dripping.

Virgil drains it in one continuous gulp.

‘So, Daddy, now that you’ve paid your debt to society, where will you live?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘You can’t go back to Belle Glade, I torched that place to the ground.’

‘He could stay here,’ Ben suggests. ‘We’ve got plenty of room.’

Virgil rubs sweat from his eyes, feeling a bit light-headed. ‘I’d love to stay, you know, but only if ya’ll wanted me.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Lilith says, toying with him. ‘What
could you do around here? Could you garden?’

‘Uh, I suppose.’

‘We have a gardener,’ reminds Ben.

‘Ben’s right. And we have a cook and a chauffeur, even a helojet pilot. But you know what we don’t have? We don’t have a man.’

‘A man?’

‘You know, someone who I can use for sex when I get bored with my vibrator. Think you could satisfy me, Daddy?’

Virgil’s heart pounds in his ears.

Ben nods. ‘Whenever possible, your daughter always prefers to keep things in the family.’

‘So what do you say, Daddy? Are you, excuse the pun, up for the job?’

A guttural reply squeezes out his throat. ‘Yes.’

‘Hear that, Ben? My father just got out of prison for killing my mother, but he’s ready to step up and bang his little girl for free room and board. And you said this wouldn’t work out.’

Merchant bellows a laugh, the sound echoing strangely in Virgil’s head.

The deck spins sideways. A dull pain fills Virgil’s left eye. The empty lemonade glass falls from his hand, shattering on impact.

Virgil Robinson falls sideways over the lounge chair, unconscious.

‘Wake up, Daddy
…’

Virgil opens his eyes … and pukes.

He is on a boat—no, not exactly
on
the boat, he is dangling over the transom of a boat, his arms and legs tightly bound to a cross-shaped object pressing into his spine and shoulders.

Looking up, he sees a heavy nylon rope attached to the cross, part of a large winch used to raise and lower the yacht’s skiff.

He moans, the nausea rising again.

Three-foot seas lap at his ankles. His bare feet, now underwater, feel numb, as if they’ve been submerged for quite some time.

Lilith, dressed in a black bikini, leans out over the rail and licks the back of his neck. ‘Mmm … I taste fear. Don’t be afraid, Daddy.’

‘What … what are you—’

‘Putting you out of my misery.’

‘Huh? You insane, girl!’

‘A passion I inherited from my mother. Remember her? Pretty Mesoamerican thing, with bright blue eyes. I believe you cut them out of her head the night I was born.’

Virgil struggles to move, the damp rope cutting into his forearms. A six-foot swell washes over his chest, and he swallows seawater. ‘I … I can’t swim.’ He gags.

‘Don’t worry, Daddy, I would never let you drown.’

‘My feet hurt. What’s wrong wit’ my feet?’

Ben lights a joint, then leans out over the rail. ‘Your feet are fine, partner, it’s your toes that are the problem.’

Virgil looks down. As the boat rises above another swell, his bare feet are drawn out of the water—exposing bleeding stumps where his toes had been.

‘Oh, Jesus—help me!’

‘Now why would Jesus waste His time helping a murdering sonuva bitch like you?’

‘I paid my price … I did my time—’

‘And I suppose that makes everything hunky-dory, huh? Read a Bible verse, call yourself saved …
poof,
you’re born again, a clean slate.’

Desperate, Virgil searches the horizon for another boat. ‘I … I have to report to my probation officer.’

Lilith and Ben laugh.

‘Oh look, Daddy, is this him?’

Virgil’s eyes widen as a half dozen lead gray fins circle below his ankles. ‘Oh, God, please—’

‘God is dead to you, Daddy.’

The boat dips. The sea froths crimson.

‘God is dead to both of us.’

Virgil screams like a banshee.

The boat rises, revealing a seven-foot mako shark tearing at the remains of Virgil’s gushing left knee.

‘Fu … bitch! Hope you … burn in Hell!’

‘I’ve been to Hell, Daddy. You sent me there the night I was born.’

A large brown fin cuts the surface, a second dorsal trailing along the creature’s broad back. ‘Uh-oh. See that shark, Daddy? Now that bad boy’s a bull shark. Once they bite, they don’t like to let go.’