‘You’re falling behind, Manny. You’re supposed to be my equal, but you’re not-’
‘Get off me, freak!’
‘-you’re nothing but a lightweight.’
‘Ma! Ma, he’s doing it again!’
The bodyguards arrive first, still in their bathrobes. ‘Again?’ Salt shakes his head. Holsters his weapon.
‘C’mon, Jake,’ Pepper coaxes, ‘put your brother down.’
Dominique pushes her way past the two bodyguards. ‘Jacob Gabriel, you put your brother down this instant!’
Manny drops to the floor, his face meeting carpet with a thud. The dark-haired twin sits up, tears in his eyes, his nose bleeding.
Dominique’s face reddens. ‘Dammit, Jacob, look what you-’
‘His fault. Should have rolled with the fall. Sensei taught him that months ago.’
‘It’s 6:00 A.M.!’
‘When the Death God comes for us, it won’t care what time it is. We have to be ready.’
‘I hate you,’ Immanuel yells. ‘You’re a sick freak!’
‘I’m Superman. You’re only Clark Kent, a big fat wussie.’
Dominique reaches for Jacob, but the fair-haired twin is too quick, leaping over the bed. ‘Foolish mortal. You can’t catch Superman!’
Salt cuts him off, and the game is on.
Jacob feints left, then bounds across the chest of drawers, slipping beneath the older bodyguard’s grasp.
Refusing to play, Pepper backs his considerable bulk in front of the open doorway. ‘Game over, Jake.’
Without pause, the boy takes a running leap, his legs churning air like a triple-jumper until his right foot connects with the African-American’s massive bare chest. The blow knocks the bodyguard backward through the doorway.
Jacob completes a forward somersault dismount and lands running, sprinting down the hallway into the kitchen and out the back door. ‘Superman… da-da-tada-’
Pepper sits up, massaging his bruised sternum. ‘Damn. How’d he do that?’
Dominique is livid. ‘I swear to Christ, that child will be the death of me. Come on, Manny, let’s get some ice for your nose.’ She helps him to his feet, leading him out of the bedroom.
Mitchell Kurtz looks down at his larger comrade. ‘Now you know why Karla and I never had kids.’
Belle Glade, Florida 6:17 a.m.
Dawn’s rays reflect off the surface waters of Lake Okeechobee, planting a fiery orange kiss against the glistening white hulls of the gambling ferries and yachts, docked in rows of newly dredged slips. Hotels and casinos, restaurants and shops remain silent after another extended night of tourism, the pelicans and sandpipers picking at a bounty of refuse.
Follow the golden-lit streets south, past the renovated Town Hall and new Civic Center, to the west end of the resort town. A road sign at the canal bridge warns that you are leaving the tourist area, the ensuing sign across the bridge welcoming you to Belle Glade proper.
The bars on homes and storefront windows send another kind of warning.
Gambling dollars have not had much impact on this enclave of the poor, unless you consider the expanded police force and new wing of the local jail to be civic improvements. The elementary school is still grimy, the windows of its overloaded portables still supporting air-conditioning units that purge waves of lukewarm air reeking of mildew. Travel two more blocks, and you’ll reach the Reverend Morehead’s church, still in desperate need of a coat of paint. Cross the dirt parking lot where the rats feast at night, and you’ll find a four-room stucco home, its fading yellowed walls trimmed in peeling black paint.
Seven-year-old Lilith Eve Robinson awakens on her birthday with a start. Stares at the ceiling fan. Concentrates.
‘Six-seventeen.’
She rolls over and glances at the alarm clock-6:17.
Lilith climbs out of the sofa bed. Folds the sheet and quilt. Replaces the cushions and enters the kitchen. Removes two eggs from the refrigerator. Scrambles them in a bowl, then pours the contents into a pan and lights the burner.
She heads for the powder room. Urinates. Washes her hands and face. Forces the last bit of toothpaste onto the worn bristles of her toothbrush, knowing the container must last at least another week. Rinses her mouth. Slips on the dress hanging behind the door, then stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Cocoa skin. High cheekbones. Startling azure-blue eyes framed by ebony hair, long and wavy. The daughter of the late Madelina Aurelia-Robinson is a beauty in the making, even if her classmates despise her.
‘Lilith Eve!’ The door is yanked open, the girl dragged out by her arm. ‘You see this?’ Quenton Morehead shoves the frying pan of burned eggs under his foster granddaughter’s nose. ‘That’s the third time this week. What on God’s green earth is wrong with you, child?’
Lilith says nothing. To say something would invite the Baptist minister’s physical wrath.
‘I’m talkin’ to you, you little heathen. Answer me!’
Silence.
‘Damn you, child. Just like your mama. You got six lashes comin’, and I don’t wanna hear no whimperin’ outta you this time.’ She sees the knotted electrical cord in his right hand as he braces her with his left. ‘Why (whip) the good Lord (whip) stuck me (whip) with the likes of you (whip) is beyond me.’
She looks up at him through teary eyes, his breath painful to breathe. ‘Sorry, Grandpa.’
‘Sorry my ass. Now go on and get to school. Breakfast is over.’
She limps past him, grabs her school bag, and heads out the front door.
Brandy Townson is waiting for her outside. They walk together in silence.
‘You hate him, don’t you?’
‘It was my fault,’ Lilith says.
‘He doesn’t love you, Lilith. Nobody loves you.’
‘Do you love me, Brandy?’
‘Who you talking to, freak?’
Lilith looks up. Sees Daunte and his fourth grade pals. Feels the warm urine dribbling down her panties.
‘Run,’ whispers Brandy.
Lilith takes off, sprinting across two front lawns toward the church parking lot.
The boys chase her for a block, then give up.
Lilith Eve Robinson is a freak, but she is a fast freak. No one in school can catch her.
Gabriel Compound, Longboat Key, Florida
The Sikorsky Surveillance-3000 UAV (Unmanned Aero Vehicle) slows to hover twenty feet above the beach, its shadow dancing along the wet sand. Three feet in diameter, the donut-shaped flying saucer houses a series of short blades in its center hole that rotate horizontally like a helicopter’s rotors. Designed for low-speed surveillance, the SS-3000 is powered by fuel cells and can fly up to seventeen hours on a single charge.
Sealed within the UAV’s aluminum frame are three cameras, providing the viewer 360 degrees of video coverage.
Its aft camera focuses on two subjects jogging along the shoreline.
Jacob Gabriel steals a quick glance at the drone as his legs plow through the relentless surf. Jogging in ankle to knee-deep water is exhausting work, especially when breathing through a scuba mouthpiece, part of his combat swimmer’s training. The cadence of the incoming waves is erratic today, forcing the boy out of his pace. Lactic acid burns in his muscles, weighing his lithe form down.
It is the lactic acid that Jacob seeks. Tolerance of the oxygen-depriving chemical must be raised if he has any hope of survival on Xibalba. He looks up again at the drone, focusing his eyes upon its digital timer.
19:07… 19:08… 19:09…
Another eleven minutes. Push it…
The white-haired twin turns to his left. Manny is jogging in the wet sand, exhausted and red-faced but still keeping pace. Jacob bears down, increasing his speed.
Immanuel sees his brother pull ahead. His feet are aching, his calves in knots, but pride, long wounded by his brother’s accomplishments, refuses to allow him to quit.
Wheezing the salty air into the back of his parched throat, he digs deeper, matching Jacob’s pace.
The UAV images are beamed a half mile away to a closed-circuit flat-screen digital television monitor in Dominique’s oak-paneled family room. Seated on an olive green wraparound leather sofa, watching the scene, are Rabbi Steinberg and his wife, Mindy.