‘Quenton never loved me. Jacob loved me, but his mother and that old woman refused to allow us to be together.’
‘Old woman? Tell me about this old woman.’
Longboat Key, Florida 3:12 p.m.
The Boeing Canard Dragonfly, with its sleek hull, rotor wing, and fixed forward and aft stabilizers, is a cross between an airplane and helicopter. While in ‘helicopter mode’ the aircraft is capable of vertical takeoffs, hovering, and landing. In ‘airplane mode’ the rotor wing locks into a stationary position and its jet engines kick in, propelling the craft at cruising speeds.
Dominique greets Ennis Chaney as he steps down from the airship, his dour expression speaking volumes.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Inside.’ The former president leads her inside the main house. ‘Sorry. Too many listening devices buzzing around these days.’
‘You look exhausted.’
‘I’m getting old, and there are still too many windmills to fight before I die. Where are the boys?’
‘Manny’s in the weight room, Jake’s meditating. Now talk to me.’
‘GOLDEN FLEECE has lost patience. They want access to the twins, or they’ll close down your compound.’
‘Bastards. Can they do that?’
‘Unfortunately, they do whatever they want. Today, GOLDEN FLEECE is asking. Tomorrow they’ll be telling. These guys don’t take no for an answer.’
‘To hell with them. We’ll leave.’
‘Where will you go? No matter where, eventually they’ll find you.’
‘Shit.’ She sits on the edge of the stone coffee table, pinching tension from her brows. ‘Manny will run. Jake might be into all this MAJESTIC mumbo jumbo, but Manny hates it.’
‘I know.’
‘Did you know Dr. Stechman’s treating him for depression?’
‘He’ll have to deal with it as best he can.’
‘Screw you, Ennis! This is my son’s life we’re talking about.’
‘I’m not happy about this either.’
She grabs her car keys and sandals.
‘Dominique, wait, where are you going?’
‘For a drive. Want to arrest me?’ She exits through the garage, slamming the door behind her.
Chaney hears the SUV hydrogen fuel cell whine to life, its wheels squealing in protest as Dominique accelerates down the driveway.
Let her go, she needs to blow off some steam.
The former president hobbles over to the refrigerator and grabs a bottled water. Changes his mind. Searches the liquor cabinet. Pours himself a shot of whiskey.
‘My mother’s right. Manny can’t take much more of this isolation.’
Chaney looks up as Jacob enters the kitchen. ‘I’m not the one calling the shots, kid. Not anymore.’
Jacob nods. ‘I think it’s time I started calling the shots.’
St. Augustine, Florida
It is dark by the time Dominique parks her car in front of Evelyn Strongin’s home. The drive has done little to ease her frayed nerves. What she needs now is advice.
Dominique walks up the old redbrick path to the entrance. Holds her palm to the security keypad.
Surgically implanted in Dominique’s palm is a microchip identification device, no larger than a grain of rice. Recognizing her ‘key,’ the electronic bolt unlocks.
Dominique enters the home. Sees the turned-over palm plant and magazine rack. Feels her skin tingling. ‘Evelyn?’
Evelyn’s library door is closed. Dominique creeps closer and listens. Hears the gurgling sound. Flexes her right biceps, activating the pain-cannon’s neurological trigger.
Dominique kicks the door open. ‘Evelyn! Oh my God-’
The dead woman’s face is purple, her limp, broken figure swaying from a makeshift noose tied to the overhead ceiling fan.
19
November 2, 2027
Miami, FL. (AP Internet Wire)
Former Secretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia was released today from a federal penitentiary in Miami after serving nearly fifteen years. Once considered a strong Republican candidate for president, Borgia was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder when he ordered the death of Michael Gabriel, the incarcerated mental patient who mysteriously died after helping prevent a nuclear holocaust back in December of 2012. ‘I’m an innocent man who served his country and was wrongly accused,’ Borgia told reporters moments after his release. ‘All I want now is to live out what few days I have in peace.’
NOVEMBER 4, 2027: MABUS MANSION, MANALAPAN, FLORIDA
4:17 p.m.
Pierre Borgia stares at his reflection in the bathroom smart glass. Prison life has trimmed forty pounds from his once stocky physique. His face is noticeably leaner, almost gaunt, his head cleanly shaven to hide the gray. The bandage over his right eye socket is new, the result of a recent inmate attack during his last month in the federal penitentiary.
‘We should get that eye looked at,’ says Lucien Mabus, the teen entering from the bedroom. ‘Once the swelling’s down, we’ll fit you with one of those new prosthetics.’
‘Waste of time and money. My life’s over.’ Borgia turns on the faucet. Washes his face.
‘Don’t say that. My father always said the party needs you.’
‘Where the hell was the party when Chaney had me carted off like a goddam animal? That nigger’s got the UN marching to the beat of his goddam drum. He’s also the one who killed your father.’
The nineteen-year-old nods. ‘Yeah. What’re we gonna do about that?’
‘I have a few ideas. Get dressed, kid, I’ll meet you downstairs.’
Borgia reaches for a sensory toothbrush. Brushes his teeth. On cue, a medical chart appears on the smart-glass mirror directly in front of him.
TEMPERATURE: 98.6
HEART RATE: 118
BLOOD PRESSURE 158/94
CHOLESTEROL 343
ELECTROLYTES NORMAL
2 CAVITIES PRESENT
GINGIVITIS IN STAGE 2
BLOOD PRESSURE AND CHOLESTEROL ARE HIGH.
ANALYSIS OF SALIVA INDICATES A BLEEDING ULCER. SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY. HAVE A NICE
DAY.
‘Damn know-it-all computers.’ Borgia dries his face, then reexamines the eye patch in the bathroom mirror.
Longboat Key, Florida 4:17 p.m.
Jacob stares wide-eyed into the bathroom’s smart-glass mirror, his reflection dissipating as his mind hitches a ride aboard another person’s wavelength.
Gaunt face.
Shaved head.
Eye patch… covering a wound created twenty-six years ago by his own father.
It’s Borgia… I’m remote-viewing Pierre Borgia!
The session ends as abruptly as it had begun.
Jacob blinks hard at the reflection of his own tan face and snow-white hair.
You’re up to something, Borgia. I can taste your anger… the restlessness of your soul.
Belle Glade, Florida 6:40 p.m.
The Orion Suburban convertible rolls to a stop in front of Quenton’s home, its batteries nearly depleted. Lilith nods good-bye to her uncle, then heads for the front door.
The reverend is waiting for her inside. He is wearing a bathrobe, boxer shorts, and black socks. ‘Why did you steal my car?’
‘A friend needed it. Besides, technically it’s my car now. Did you take care of everything at the bank?’
Quenton holds up the manila envelope. ‘Everything’s here, all signed and sealed, but you don’t get nuthin’, least not until I die.’
‘Give me the papers.’
‘No. The papers go back to my attorney’s office tomorrow morning. As long as you please me, the Last Will and Testament stays unchanged.’ Quenton’s eyes gleam. ‘I want it every night. From now on, you’re my private whore.’
A twinge of panic. The Succubus is not a whore. The Succubus is powerful. The Succubus controls ‘Take off your clothes, whore.’