"Speaking of luck," Matt said, "Al's been a godsend. He's opened doors we couldn't even knock on-not to mention the fact that he saved our lives.

"I know you're right, but his sudden appearance in my life hasn't been so easy for me. I suppose I haven't been very receptive to him. It all looks great from your point of view, but my perspective is a tad skewed."

"Maybe you should make a concentrated effort to let your resentment go. All those negative feelings have negative impacts."

Seneca rolled her head in the other direction.

"Sorry," Matt said. "You're right. My point of view doesn't have baggage tethered to it. I apologize for going where I have no business.

She turned back. "It's complicated." Then she smiled. "But I'm working on it. That's more than I can say for the Paris police. For God's sake, we were kidnapped and left to die under their city. You'd think they'd at least make an effort."

"I bet they have tourists lost down there every other day. Even though so much of the catacombs are off limits, people break the rules all the time. They're probably sick of us. And then the French do have a reputation for not liking anyone, especially Americans. I wonder if they could work up any appreciation if all Frenchmen watched the first thirty minutes of Saving Private Ryan."

Seneca laughed at the recollection that sprang into her head. "Fuck the French. That was one of my mother's colorful quotes. Whenever she had a disagreement with someone and decided to go ahead and do things her way, that was always her response. Probably something she heard her father say after coming back from the war."

"Are you going to feel safe in Miami?"

"Safe as anywhere I guess. At least the new apartment has better security. It's gated and staffed with a real person. The security folks buzz around on golf carts day and night. But I suspect that if whoever these guys are that want to get to me, they'll find a way."

"Do you have a gun?"

"Dan bought me a handgun about a year or so ago. He made me go for firearms lessons, but other than that, I've never used it. Guns scare me."

"You might want to brush up and take a few more classes. I hate to recommend carrying a weapon, but I think your father's instincts are right, especially after what's happened here."

"In order to figure out who it is, first we've got to figure out why. I keep going back to the beginning-Mexico City and Montezuma's tomb. But the one little bump I keep stumbling over is that there was no evidence that Montezuma's tomb had been broken into, at least that we could see, unless it was way back in the historical record. The other tomb robberies you and Al came up with are recent-within the last two years. That one fact breaks the pattern. So what's the connection? I can't get a handle on it."

"Maybe you just didn't see where the breach was in the tomb. It's just too much of a coincidence-Montezuma's tomb is where all this started."

"The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that someone wanted everybody involved at that dig site killed. Somehow I survived, so I'm still a target. What could make someone want everyone at Montezuma's tomb dead?"

"Maybe they considered disturbing the tomb to be the ultimate desecration, and they wanted to make a point. An excessive way of doing it maybe, but still getting the point across."

"But if the intent was to drive home a message, wouldn't someone have spoken up and claimed responsibility by now? Their message is no good if they don't reveal the reason for the bombing in the first place. Nobody has come forward. And why continue to hunt me down? That just doesn't fly."

"Nope. You're right."

Seneca's cell chimed. The caller ID displayed unknown caller. She tapped the green answer button on the display.

"Hello."

A gravelly voice that sounded as if a hand was intentionally muffling it came from the phone. "I know who you are. They want you dead."

"Who is this?" She put the phone on speaker.

"Just do what I tell you," the voice whispered.

Seneca strained to hear over the road noise. "Speak up, I can't hear."

"Find El Jaguar."

"I don't understand."

The voice changed to song-a familiar tune with the words slightly changed. "In the jungle, the Jaguar sleeps tonight." The voice returned to the muffled tone. "Sleep well tonight."

"No, wait. Who are you? Talk to me."

The end-of-call beep sounded.

"Damn."

"What the hell was that all about?"

"I have no idea."

As the classic view of the Eiffel Tower shooting up from the Paris skyline came into view, the chorus of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" played over and over in her mind.

Scarrow sat beside William Groves's bed in the penthouse suite of Azteca, his hands clasped, wondering what was going on in the eccentric cowboy's head.

Moments earlier Scarrow had received a call from his director of security informing him that a suspicious call had been made by someone in the complex. That call urged him to pay a visit to the small surveillance center where he listened to a phone tap recording. Scarrow didn't trust anyone, not even those close to him. So all phone conversations were monitored.

After reviewing the recording for the third time, Scarrow launched the Internet browser on one of the computers and started a search for information on psychoactive drugs-commonly called truth serums-drugs that made recipients lose inhibitions and become communicative, freely sharing their thoughts and then forgetting they had even had the conversation.

Once he found what he sought, he picked up the phone and called Coyotl's office. When his chief of staff answered, Scarrow said, "Find out which one of the doctors has the most experience with anesthesia and tell him to meet me in the penthouse. And tell him to bring sodium thiopental."

"Is there a problem?"

"Not if I can help it."

There was a moment of silence. "Of course, Javier."

Within thirty minutes the physician arrived and administered the sodium thiopental as per Scarrow's order. "And I want you to up the dosage of his regular meds from now on," Scarrow ordered.

"But ..."

Scarrow shot the doctor a fierce glance.

The doctor shrugged. "Whatever you say."

Scarrow leaned close to Groves's ear. "Are you awake, William? I only need you to answer one question. Tell me, who is El Jaguar?"

LADY SMITH 2012, MIAMI.

SENECA LEFT HER NEW apartment and drove along Old Cutler Road, heading to Park View Nursing Home. Huge banyan trees lined the road; fashioning a lush green canopy overhead and a forest maze of aerial roots hanging from branches to the ground. Every time she drove this route, she was always in awe of the beauty of the seemingly ever-expanding branches. No wonder banyan trees were supposed to represent eternal life.

The words eternal life cued unnerving dark images and thoughts. Seneca took one hand at a time off the steering wheel and wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. Why couldn't death be swifter and less terrorizing? She supposed that even someone guillotined had final perceptions. The brain didn't die instantly, did it? There had to be a second of realization. She'd never really thought about death before Daniel.

Now it haunted her like a shadow.

Seneca forced her concentration back to the traffic.

She kept watch in her rearview mirror, having become overly suspicious. She'd already decided that if she thought she was being followed or threatened, she would call 911 and drive straight to the closest police station. She was uneasy about being out and about, but no one except Al and Matt knew of her new apartment location. She'd make a quick visit to her mother, then head back home.

To make good use of her time, she fumbled for her cell phone in her purse to call her editor. She removed the Lady Smith and placed it on the passenger seat, then grabbed the phone and glanced at it long enough to bring up the menu display and her contacts list. A few moments later she listened to an out-of-office answer phone message asking if she would like his voicemail. She snapped the phone closed, intending to call back later.

Al had taken care of the move, just as he promised. But everything was still in boxes except for the gun Dan had bought her. Al must have found it and thought that under the circumstances she might want to start carrying it right away. The small Lady Smith and ammunition had been on the kitchen counter when she arrived from the airport.

Shortly after getting home the previous evening, Seneca had opened several of the cardboard containers brought over by the movers Al had hired. He did a great job of labeling the boxes, and she had no trouble locating those that contained most of her necessities. Then she opened one that was filled with Daniel's things-text and reference books, his notebooks, and correspondence with other academics. Seeing his possessions had taken the wind out of her as surely as a blow to her gut, slamming home the devastation of losing him.

After the encounter with his possessions, she hadn't felt like unpacking anything else. So she changed into a tank top and shorts, stayed barefoot and pulled her hair back in a pony tail. Then she'd poured a glass of merlot and sat on the balcony staring out at the blue water of Biscayne Bay.

She and Dan had fallen in love with the apartment because of the view. She sipped the wine and watched the sailboats and power racers move like carnival targets across the horizon until the darkness reduced them to nondescript running lights. With eyes clouded in a blur of tears, she left the balcony, climbed onto the bare mattress in her bedroom and slept.

Feeling somewhat refreshed the next morning, Seneca showered, dressed, and stopped at a McDonalds for breakfast before heading along Old Cutler. The ride was surprisingly enjoyable, not counting the brief gloomy thoughts. She finally pulled into the parking lot of the nursing home. With the gun clutched in her hand, she sat for a few minutes surveying her surroundings. When she felt certain that no one had followed or threatened her, she packed the handgun in her purse, got out of the car and went inside.

Her footsteps echoed down the hallway as she approached her mother's room. The empty sound of her footfalls created a thought. There was no such thing as a nursing home. They were nursing institutions. Homes were warm and cozy, didn't smell sterile and, in a home, footsteps didn't echo. Homes had walls filled with photographs and art, and the sound-absorbing comforts of furniture, rugs, and curtains.

This was no home.

Seneca rapped lightly on the door to her mother's room. Even though the door was ajar, she still felt that it was the courteous thing to do. Brenda had already been deprived of a lot of her dignity and deserved the common courtesy of an announcement that someone was about to enter the room.

"Mom?" She peeked around the edge of the door. "Are you decent?"

Expecting to find her mother sitting in the chair watching television, instead she saw an empty chair and a bed neatly made. On the stand by the bed was a box of chocolate-covered cherry cordials. Seneca wondered who they had come from. She tapped on the bathroom door. "Are you in there, Mom?"

No answer.

As she headed to the nurses' station, a chilling thought formed. Had someone taken her mother? Perhaps the same people who tried to kill her?

She quickened her pace. "Excuse me," she said when she reached the u-shaped counter. The young nurse she'd had the confrontation with the last time looked up from her computer.

"Can I help you?"

"My mother. She's not in her room."

"Which room is that?"

"Brenda Hunt. I don't remember the number."

"Oh, yes. She's in the community room."

"The community room?"

"She has a visitor-a gentleman."

Seneca's breath caught as she felt the side of her handbag for the reassurance of the Lady Smith.

THE LETTER 2012, MIAMI.

SENECA SPRINTED DOWN THE hall in the direction of the community room. She pushed open one of the double glass doors and entered the nearly empty gathering room, immediately scanning for her mother. There were two old men at a table playing dominoes and a group of women at another table playing Mah Jongg. A male attendant sat on a folding chair appearing to be absorbed in watching a talk show on the television. No sign of Brenda.

Seneca's eyes panned the room again, stopping on the plateglass picture window and two people sitting outside on the lawn in the shade of a grand live oak. Though they were some distance away, she was sure the one in the wheelchair was her mother, and the other person sitting on the concrete bench beside her looked like Al.

Seneca located the exit on the far side of the room but it was locked. She supposed that was a good thing because of the number of residents with dementia who might wander off. It wouldn't be hard to slip out unnoticed right under this attendant's nose. He was so engrossed in the television show that he hadn't even realized she had come in the room.

Seneca came to stand beside the attendant, and after getting his attention asked him to open the door for her.

Grudgingly he got up, keys jangling as he made his way to the door and unlocked it. He never said a word, just put the key in, turned it, and walked away.

"Gee thanks," she said.

As she approached, Al looked up and waved. It really is him, she thought.

"Hello," Seneca said, bending and kissing her mother on the cheek. "Wow, you are enjoying the outdoors today. It's been a long Brenda smiled but there was an emptiness that lingered in her eyes as if her brain struggled to make connections. She seemed to become a little agitated, wringing her hands and cocking her head.

"It's Seneca," Al said. "Our ... your daughter."

"Well, I know who she is."

"Have a seat." Al patted the bench.

Seneca took both her mother's hands in hers. "You're having a good day, aren't you?" Then she sat beside Al. "I didn't see your car in the parking lot. I would have noticed."

"I parked in the rear. You should have checked that out. Don't be sloppy."

Feeling a little foolish, Seneca said, "And what brings you here?"

"I heard our girl was being naughty and not eating, but I know her secret." He smiled at Brenda. "Don't I?"

Brenda smiled back. "This nice man brought my favorite candy."

Seneca felt her eyes sting as she nearly teared up. Brenda didn't have a clue who Al was. And her mother had just pretended that of course she knew who Seneca was and never even really processed it.

"And what did I make you do to earn those cherry cordials? Hmmm? You remember." He pretended to hold something to his mouth and nibble.

Even with the hint, Brenda had forgotten.

"I am so proud of her," Al said. "She devoured a fresh bagel with cream cheese and a glass of orange juice. Then we decided it would be nice to take a stroll. Get some sunshine and fresh air. I promised she could have those candies when we go back. I knew they were her favorite. Always have been."

"Well, I am proud of you, too," Seneca said.

"Have we met before?" Brenda asked, quizzically staring at Seneca.

Without even a blink, Seneca answered. "Yes, we have."

"I thought you looked familiar. I'm not as good with faces as I used to Her mother's voice was as raspy as ever, and her fight for air just as desperate, but Seneca detected a lilt in her voice, a hint of happiness and appreciation of the moment.

"Is this your young man?" Brenda asked, nodding toward Al. "Isn't he too old for you, honey?"