by Steve Alten
NORTH LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
As the late Julius Gabriel often said, there are basically two ways to boil a frog. The hard way was to toss him in a pot of boiling water and battle him until he croaked. The easier way was to leave him in a pot of cool water and gradually increase the temperature until he comfortably cooked to death.
It had taken Project Blue Eyes for Dr. Dave Mohr to realize that Majestic-12 had slowly cooked his morality in their crock pot of cynicism and greed. And though he was program director, he had also been around long enough to know titles at the S-66 facility were window dressing—that the real power came from an unseen board of directors whose objectives were based on profit, not science.
Mohr’s assistant, Marvin Teperman, had finally forced the rocket scientist to “cowboy up” when the Canadian exobiologist and his staff flatly refused to subject Laura Agler and her daughter to any more medical procedures. Mohr’s subsequent meeting with Joseph Randolph resolved the matter when the scientist convinced the MJ-12 supervisor that Laura’s Hunahpu DNA had not yet “evolved.” As such it was better to wait until after she had acquired her powers before beginning any invasive procedures.
For years the results from Laura Agler’s bloodwork had remained stable. Then, six months ago, the thirty-nine-year-old’s white cell count began rising steadily, driving her bone marrow to release higher numbers of stem cells into her blood vessels. At first Mohr suspected an infection, but further testing indicated the stem cells were targeting the woman’s brain, causing the number of her neural synapses to increase.
Within weeks, Laura’s sudden “evolution” progressed to her muscles and tendons, the fibers increasing in density, making her stronger, faster, and more flexible—all of which were very discreetly noted, lest MJ-12 be alerted. Easier to disguise were the magnification and acuity of Laura’s senses—especially her olfactory cells.
Laura Rosen Agler was evolving into a post-human, forcing Dave Mohr and Marvin Teperman into a decision: report the test results and condemn their subject to death, or risk their lives by altering the data and pray no one noticed.
For the two scientists, there was no debating the choice. Both had watched the Gray’s life signs flatline on August 24, 2001—the E.T.’s death coinciding precisely with Julius Gabriel’s own final breath. The experience had been devastating, compounded by sixteen months of postmortem work, after which the two men were debriefed on Project Blue Eyes.
By then, Laura and Sophia had been properly “indoctrinated” to their new existence in their Bio-2 habitat. Mohr and Teperman were incensed: to keep a mother and daughter locked up because they were suspected of possessing extraterrestrial DNA was barbaric, reminding Marvin of the Nazi reels he had seen of Joseph Mengele completing his gruesome experiments on Jewish children during the Holocaust. In the end the two scientists had agreed to run Blue Eyes for one reason—had they not, Joseph Randolph would have appointed two hardened military commanders to do the job, condemning the Agler women to quick lobotomies.
December 21, 2003—the day Dr. Dave Mohr had effectively climbed into his own pot of cold water.
Laura Agler’s blood is simmering, her sweat-soaked body trembling as she stalks the common area of her “habitat.” Eleven years have passed since Borgia’s men stole her and Sophie from the real world—eleven years of mental anguish, of not knowing whether her husband, Sam, is alive or dead … or worse. Like a caged tigress she fought her captors and guarded her cub until she was finally felled by exhaustion—only her daughter’s wry wit has kept her sane over the years. Having given in, her brainwaves gradually shifted from her aroused low-amplitude, faster Beta phase into the higher-frequency, far slower Delta waves.
And that’s when she discovered the Nexus.
She had slipped inside the corridor one night just before dozing off, the sensation similar to an out-of-body experience. Entering this alternate realm of existence soothed her frayed nerves and brought a sense of warmth and calm, and with practice and patience she eventually learned to control the sessions. So as not to arouse her keepers, who kept her under round-the-clock observation, she requested a yoga DVD and used it as an excuse to meditate for hours at a time, pushing her mind deeper within her new cerebral domain.
Two days ago, she had heard the voice.
It happened on the vernal equinox, and instinctively she knew the nonsensical rants were coming from Sam. Was he dead? Or was he like her, able to enter the higher corridor of consciousness? She called out to him in the void, and the reply made her shudder.
“I am not Sam! Now leave me alone, witch. Disturb me again and I shall cast your Sam into the depths of Xibalba where the Underlords shall feast upon his eyes.”
“If you are not my husband, then who are you?”
“Deceiver! Is it not enough that you have vanquished me to darkness and endless suffering? Must you toss your excrement at me? Shine a spotlight on my nakedness? Why has my existence attracted your wrath? No, witch, I shall perform for you no further. I am satiated with pain, your threats of torture are laughable. Go ahead! Bleed me until my wretched vessel drains, I don’t care anymore. I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!”
The schizophrenic response, such overwhelming evidence of her husband’s agonized existence, was too much for Laura to handle. Feeling utterly helpless, she had stormed into the exercise room, grabbed a ninetypound dumbbell from a rack, and flung the weight into the hurricane glass, shattering the barrier into a million-piece jigsaw puzzle—
—the Herculean effort recorded on videotape, which would soon be watched by a dozen Majestic-12 eyes.
27
No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it.
—ATTRIBUTED TO ALBERT EINSTEIN
SEPTEMBER 8, 2012
MIAMI, FLORIDA
8:47 A.M.
The South Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center is a seven-story white concrete building with evergreen trim, located in a run-down ethnic neighborhood just west of the city of Miami. Like most businesses in the area, the rooftops are rimmed in coils of barbed-wire fencing. Unlike other establishments, the barbed wire is not meant to keep the public out, but its residents in.
Dominique Vazquez weaves through morning rush hour traffic, cursing aloud as she races south on Route 441. The first day of her internship and she is already late. Swerving around a teenager riding the wrong way on motorized skates, she pulls into the visitors parking lot, squeezes into the first open space, and exits the car, jogging toward the entrance.
She is greeted by an air-conditioned lobby and a Hispanic woman seated behind the information desk, the receptionist absorbed in reading the morning news from her iPad. Without looking up, she asks, “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I have an appointment with Margaret Reinke.”
“Not today you don’t. Dr. Reinke no longer works here.” The woman fingers the page-down button, advancing the news monitor to another article.
“I don’t understand. I spoke with Dr. Reinke two weeks ago.”
“And you are?”
“Dominique Vazquez. I’m here on a postgraduate internship from Florida State. Dr. Reinke’s supposed to be my advisor.”
She watches the woman pick up the phone and press an extension. “Dr. Foletta, a young woman by the name of Domino Vass—”
“Vazquez. Dominique Vazquez.”
“Sorry. Dominique Vazquez … . No, sir, she’s down here in the lobby. She says she’s Dr. Reinke’s intern … . Yes, sir.” The receptionist hangs up. “You can have a seat over there. Dr. Foletta will be with you in a few minutes.” Her job requirement fulfilled, the receptionist returns to her iPad.
Dominique sits, her mind racing. Mick was right: Borgia replaced Reinke with Foletta.
Ten minutes pass before a large man in his late fifties makes his way down a corridor.
Dr. Anthony Foletta looks like he belongs on a football field coaching defensive linemen, not walking the halls of a facility
housing the criminally insane. A mane of thick gray hair rolls back over an enormous head, which appears to be attached directly to the shoulders. Blue-gray eyes twinkle between sleepy lids and puffy cheeks. Though overweight, the upper body is firm, the stomach protruding slightly from the open white lab coat.
A forced smile, and a thick hand is extended. “Anthony Foletta, chief of psychology.” The voice is deep and grainy, like an old lawn mower.
“What happened to Dr. Reinke?”
“Personal situation. Rumor has it her husband was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Guess she decided to take an early retirement. Reinke told me to expect you. Unless you have any objections, I’ll be supervising your internship.”
“No objections.”
“Good.” He turns and heads back down the hall, Dominique hustling to keep pace.
They approach a security checkpoint. “Give the guard your driver’s license.”
Dominique searches her purse, then hands the man the laminated card, swapping it for the visitor’s pass. “Use this for now,” Foletta says. “Turn it in when you leave at the end of the day. We’ll get you an encoded intern’s badge before the week’s out.”
She clips the pass to her blouse, then follows him into the awaiting elevator.
Foletta holds three fingers up to a camera mounted above his head. The doors close. “Have you been here before? Are you familiar with the layout?”
“No. Dr. Reinke and I only spoke by phone.”
“There are seven floors. Administration and central security’s on the first floor. The main station we just passed through controls both the staff and resident elevators. Level 2 houses a small medical unit for the elderly and terminally ill. Level 3 is where you’ll find our administrative offices, as well as our dining area and the mezzanine to access the yard. Levels 4, 5, 6, and 7 house residents.” Foletta chuckles. “Dr. Blackwell refers to them as ‘customers.’ An interesting euphemism, don’t you think, considering we haul them in here wearing handcuffs.” They exit the elevator. A guard buzzes open the security gate, allowing them to enter the third floor and a short corridor to Dr. Foletta’s office. Cardboard boxes are piled everywhere, stuffed with files, framed diplomas, and personal items.
“Excuse the mess, I’m still getting situated.” Foletta removes a computer printer from a chair, motioning for Dominique to sit. Squeezing uncomfortably behind his own desk, he leans back in his leather chair to afford his belly ample room.
He opens Dominique’s folder. “Good test scores, some nice references. There are several other mental facilities closer to FSU than ours. What brings you down here?”
Dominique clears her throat. “My parents live over in Sanibel. It’s only a two-hour ride from Miami. They’re getting up there in age and I don’t get home very often.”
Foletta guides a thick index finger across her bio. “Says here you’re originally from Guatemala.”
“Yes.”
“How’d you end up in Florida?”
“My parents—my real parents died when I was six. I was sent to live with a cousin in Tampa.”
“But that didn’t last?”
“Is this important?”
Foletta looks up. The eyes are no longer sleepy. “I’m not much for surprises, Intern Vazquez. Before assigning a patient, I like to know a staff member’s psyche. Most residents don’t give us much of a problem, but it’s important to remember that we’re still dealing with some violent individuals. Safety’s a priority with me. What happened in Tampa? Says here you ended up in a foster home.”
“Suffice it to say that things didn’t exactly work out with my cousin.”
“Did he rape you?”
Dominique is taken back by his directness. “If you must know—yes. I was only ten … the first time.”
“You were under the care of a psychiatrist?”
“Eventually.” She returns his stare. Stay cool, he’s testing you.
“Does it bother you to talk about it?”
“It happened. It’s over. I’m sure it influenced my choice of career, if that’s where this is leading.”
“Your interests too. Says here you have a second-degree black belt in tae kwon do. Ever use it?”
“Only in tournaments.” She smiles. “Recently in the Yucatan. I was on vacation. This guy, he pissed me off.”
The cherub face breaks into a smile. “Nice.” Foletta closes the file. “I have you in mind for a special assignment, but I need to be absolutely certain that you’re up to the task.”
Here it comes. “Sir, I can handle him.”
“Him?” The blue-gray eyes become alert.
“Or her. It. Try me. I mean, I’m here to work, sir.”
Foletta removes a thick brown file from his top desk drawer. “As you know, this facility believes in a multidisciplinary team approach. Each resident is assigned a psychiatrist, a clinical psychologist, social worker, psychiatric nurse, and a rehab therapist. My initial reaction when I first got here was that it’s a bit overkill, but I can’t argue with the results, especially when dealing with substance-abuse patients and preparing individuals to participate in their forthcoming trials.”
“But not in this case?”
“No. The resident I want you to oversee is a patient of mine, an inmate from the asylum in Massachusetts where I served as managing director.”
“I don’t understand. You brought him with you?”
“Our facility was shut down for budgetary reasons. This particular patient is certainly not fit for society, and he had to be transferred somewhere. Since I’m more familiar with his case history than anyone else, I thought it would be less traumatic for all concerned if he remained under my care.”
“Who is he?”
“Officially, his name is Samuel Agler, though he hasn’t responded to this name in eleven years. Unofficially, he’s a complete mystery. No birth certificate, no past, at least none that we can find. But he’s psychotic, and he’s violent.”
Dominique swallows hard. “What did he do?”
“He assaulted Secretary of State Pierre Borgia during a 2001 Harvard lecture. Claims his wife and daughter were stolen by ‘men in black’ and that a government conspiracy has kept him locked up all these years. In the Mule’s mind—that’s his nickname, the Mule, as in stubborn-as-a-mule. Samuel—he’s the ultimate victim, an innocent man attempting to save the world, caught up in the immoral ambitions of a self-centered politician.”
“I’m sorry, you lost me on that last bit. How is he trying to save the world?”
“Actually, the answer to that question is right up your family tree. Agler is a Mayan calendar fanatic. Our mystery man claims he was sent here to save humanity from destruction on December 21.”
The top four floors of the asylum each house forty-eight residents in units divided into north and south wings, each wing containing three pods. A pod consisted of a small rec room with sofas and a television, centered around eight private dorm rooms. The center’s most dangerous patients were housed on the seventh floor—the only floor that maintained its own security station.
Fifty-seven-year-old Paul Jones ran security on Level 7 the way he ran his prison block in Pulaski County, Arkansas. Dr. Foletta calls the guard over. “Paul Jones, this is my new intern, Dominique Vazquez. Is Mr. Agler ready for his interview?”
Jones looks uncomfortable. “He’s in the seclusion room, as you requested, but frankly, sir, I wasn’t expecting an unseasoned intern. If you ask me, there are far more stable candidates on Level 4—”
“No, I have my reasons. Take her in, I’ll watch from behind the glass.”
Jones mumbles something beneath his breath, then leads Dominique past the security gate and to a steel door marked “Seclusion room.”
“Listen carefully: this guy may seem quiet, but he’s a live wire, so no sudden movements.” Jones holds up a cigar-shaped metal device, his thumb over a red button. “Remote transponder. All Level 7 patients are rigged with an ankle cuff, so if he
tries anything I’ll put him down fast. He may attempt to grab you first, so be leery or you’ll wake up on the floor next to him with a new hairdo.”
Dominique says nothing, her heart pounding too hard in her throat to speak.
Jones retracts a steel plate from the door, peering inside the holding cell. “Looks okay. Ready?”
“It’s my first time.”
“Congrats. Remember, no sudden movements. He’s a tiger, but I have the whip.”
“Why don’t you give me the whip? And a chair.”
“Trust me, you’re safer with me holding it. Try to get him to speak, he hasn’t done that since he arrived from Cambridge. Okay, in you go.” Jones opens the steel door, allowing her to enter.
Samuel Agler is seated on the floor, leaning back against the far wall. He is wearing a white T-shirt and matching slacks, his physique lean and very muscular. He is tall—nearly six feet, six inches. His black hair is oily and long, running down his back. If not for his pale complexion, Dominique would have assumed he was part American Indian.
He’s a big one. Knees, throat, and testicles. She winces as the door is bolted closed.
The seclusion room is ten by twelve feet long. No furniture. A smoked panel of glass on the wall to her right is the undisguised viewing window. The room smells of antiseptic.
Samuel Agler remains motionless, his head slightly bowed so she cannot see his eyes.
“I’m Dominique Vazquez. I’m just a grad student, so go easy.”
Sam looks up, revealing animal eyes so intensely black that it is impossible to determine where the pupils end and the irises begin. But it is not his gaze that causes Dominique to shudder, it is the reality that he is sniffing the air—smelling her.
In one slowly uncoiled motion he is on his feet, leaning forward, inhaling her scent.
She backs away, her heart pounding furiously. “It’s a new perfume, do you like it?”
“Blood.” The word is rasped, forced up his esophagus like a dying gasp. He moves closer.