Seneca laughed and Al chuckled right along. Seneca said, "We're just friends. He's old enough to be my father."

Seneca tossed her keys on the kitchen counter and put her purse there as well. This was the first time she had visited with her mother and come away with a smile. Even though Brenda had no idea who she or Al were, Seneca hadn't come away depressed. She was certain that somehow, the joy that Al had brought to her mother in their younger years had today found some neurological pathway, maybe old and frayed but still intact, to make a tiny connection again. All those years Brenda denied loving her father was bull. It was clear that her mother loved Al so deeply that even Alzheimer's couldn't erase it. What a waste of two lives, she thought. Her mother threw away her chance at happiness. So stubborn.

Bra-burning Brenda.

Flopping on the couch, Seneca dragged the box of Daniel's belongings toward her and parked it at her feet-the one she'd opened earlier. She took out the book that was on top: Mortuary Practices of the Windover Bog People. She flipped through it, stopping on the pictures and their captions. One in particular she found interesting enough to read more about. A backhoe operator had discovered human bones in a peat bog. The remains were burials from more than seven thousand years ago. The preservation was so complete that the archaeologists found brain tissue and sometimes complete brains, though shrunken to about a third of their normal size, inside the skulls. Still the brain hemispheres and convolutions were clear. Amazing, she thought.

Seneca continued sifting through the box. From the larger box she lifted an open shoebox filled with letters and envelopes.

The first letter was written in an extravagant hand and in Spanish. She translated words now and again and kind of got the gist of the letter. It was a friendly letter describing some new and exciting find, but she wasn't sure of what. But then she came to the signature, and it stopped her cold. Of course, this might be someone who could help. If there were some connection between Montezuma's tomb and all the others, he just might have the answers or lead them in a direction. Daniel certainly had faith in him. She looked at the return address on the letter.

Roberto Flores.

And then she stared again at the elaborately scrawled signature.

El Jaguar.

THE ELEVEN 2012, BAHAMAS.

THE 120-FOOT Phoenix Explorer slowed as the captain brought the bow around to face the white beaches of Andros Island three miles away. Scarrow stood on the stern deck watching the dawn build on the horizon over a flat ocean. He wore his highest order of ceremonial robes and a gold crown crested with long, green quetzal feathers. He recited an ancient Aztec chant in his native Nahuatl tongue. Only he understood the words, but the cadence and the tone were clear, and the essence of the chant absorbed all those who listened.

With Coyotl beside him, Scarrow turned to address his eleven Phoenix apostles, each dressed in the traditional robe of an Aztec priest. He marveled at each face that had been sculpted by the plastic and reconstructive surgeons.

Through months of indoctrination, they had studied their own previous lives, and he often saw them staring in the mirror as if searching for a hint of memory. How odd a feeling that must be, he thought-being told you were a great leader or person who wielded tremendous power and yet having no recollection of it. To reinforce their former personas, Scarrow called them by their given names, the names he now spoke, his voice strong and deep.

"Maximilien, Ivan, Josef, Elizabeth, Mary, Timur, Slobodan, Khan, Herod, Idi Amin, and Ilse. You are about to witness not only the beginning of a new day, but a new dawn for mankind, for our world and the universe. Through the human sacrifices you will soon carry out, the precious life blood will flow from the bodies of the xochimiqui and into the mouth of Tonatuih.

Scarrow turned his back and swept his arm in a great arc across the horizon while gazing at the rising sun. It glowed like the reflection of a gold ingot in the bright light.

He turned slowly, a move orchestrated to enhance and build anticipation. He knew how to enthrall and how to stir the ardor in men and women. As Montezuma II, he had perfected such performances, and today he recaptured that godlike feeling, mesmerizing his apostles as he faced them again.

"Grave sacrifices were made so that man could live in a world endowed with lush forests and vegetation that burst forth with sweet nectar to taste, exquisite color for our visual pleasure, and the delightful miracle of fruit to take the hunger from our bellies. We are blessed with the rain that sweetens the waters of our lakes, rivers, and streams, and the splendid bounty harvested from the sea. Every stone, every animal, every grain of sand, every blade of grass vibrates in harmony so that we may live an abundant life."

He paused, sweeping his gaze from apostle to apostle with eyes that burned beneath hooded lids. He lowered the volume of his voice to make them strain to hear his message, to force them to listen intently.

"Before our time, the bones of the ancestors were brought back and were bled over by the gods-by whatever name you call them, Buddha, Allah, Yahweh-and the new humanity was created. The birth of the Fifth Sun. Yet we give no true thanks for the shedding of their blood, their grand sacrifice. We say it in empty words and prayers, but not in our deeds, not in acts of proof. It has been a long time since man was genuine with his praise and appreciation, and the universe tires of serving an ungrateful people. You are special ones chosen because you have experienced dedication to a goal or ideal so powerful that you allowed your passion to consume you. That is why you are here. That is why you live again.

"There remains only one left to join us, one whom I especially savor to bring into this ministry as my final apostle. When your number is twelve, we will be complete. And upon the coming day of glory when I prove to all the world that we are its only hope and salvation, you will commence your work. Draw on those talents you used in your previous lives to bring mankind to an understanding and acceptance of its responsibility so that life will go on. You will have the power to choose those most worthy. Let their blood flow through your hands. Feel the warmth of their spirit. Take life so others may live."

Scarrow stopped and surveyed his apostles, letting the flame inside him smolder in his eyes.

"Who stands with me at this moment without prejudice or doubt? Who amongst you will be the first to go into the world to prove your loyalty even before I reveal your final reward?"

Instantly, before another apostle's foot could move, a black man stepped out of the ranks. "It is I," he said. "His Excellency, President for Life, Idi Amin Dada Oumee."

Scarrow smiled. "And so it will be, Your Excellency."

EL JAGUAR.

2012, WEST COAST OF PANAMA.

"ISLA DE SANGRE MEANS Island of Blood, right?" Seneca asked.

Captain Mali Mali nodded. He was a tall, skinny, dark-skinned man with a shaved head. He stood at the helm of the twenty-eightfoot sport boat as he steered it across the Gulf of Chirique to the island thirty miles from the mainland.

"And does it get its name because of the penal colony?" She held on to the railing next to him.

"No, probably from the Spanish in the 1500s. The prison was built in 1919. But many los desaparecidos shed their blood there. So it is a good name for a bad place."

"Los desaparecidos?" Matt asked.

"The disappeared ones." The captain crossed himself. "They were the thousands who vanished under the dictators Omar Torrijos and Manuel Noriega. Many are buried in the unmarked graves near the old prison while others were dismembered and fed to the sharks." He smiled at Matt. "There are many sharks."

Seneca gave Matt a concerned glance. She hoped they knew what they were getting themselves into. After finding Daniel's letter among the contents of the box of his belongings, she had contacted Universidad de Las Americas in Mexico City to find out where Professor Flores had retired. All Daniel had said was that the professor moved to some jungle island. She'd finally spoken to someone at the university who knew exactly where Flores was. He lived on an island off the west coast of Panama.

Seneca was determined to follow-up on the mysterious phone call suggesting she find El Jaguar. It only took one call to Matt for him to jump at the chance to continue the quest of the tomb robbers. The following day, the two flew to Panama City and drove to the coastal town of Santa Catalina where they sought transportation out to the island to find Flores.

They had been on the water for just over ninety minutes when Isla de Sangre appeared on the mid-afternoon horizon and stretched across the bow of the boat. They were about to dock at the wharf once used for receiving prisoners and supplies. Once a Panamanian penal colony, Seneca had been told its fearsome reputation helped to discourage visitors and preserve the island's pristine condition, which remained almost completely undeveloped outside the bounds of the prison camp.

"I got the impression from the lack of boats available for hire that no one likes coming out here," Matt said.

"The people have superstitions about the old prison," Mali Mali said. "So having two charters within a week pay me to take them to the island is very unusual. Two days ago, I brought another man across."

"Maybe it's going to become a hotspot for tourists," Matt said.

"That would be good for my business, but it's doubtful that will happen. There are only a handful of people living on the island-a few former prisoners and a couple of fishermen. They choose to live there because it is so isolated. They don't like visitors."

"Do you know Professor Roberto Flores?" Seneca asked. "He's retired and lives on the island."

The captain hesitated.

"Some call him El Jaguar," Matt added.

"Oh, yes, of course, El Jaguar. He is a very smart man. He stays in a small cottage near the old prison."

"So you've met him?" Matt asked.

"I have drunk with El Jaguar many times. He is a dangerous man to bet against if you think you can out drink him." As he spoke, Captain Mali Mali made a motion as if chugging from an invisible glass. "You will find that he does not like strangers. El Jaguar can disappear into the rainforest as quick as the cat for which he is named."

"Well, we hope he won't disappear on us," Seneca said. "We're going there to visit him."

The captain reached down and opened a cabinet door beneath the helm. He removed a liter bottle of seco. "You will make friends with El Jaguar if you give him this."

"What is it?" Matt asked.

"This is his favorite drink. Made from distilled sugarcane. He likes it with a bit of goat's milk. Seco con lecher"

"Thank you." Seneca took the bottle, holding it up to the sun to look through the clear liquid. "How much do we owe you for this?"

"Nothing. It is a gift for my friend. Tell him it is from Captain Mali Mali, and depending on his mood he will quickly invite you into his cottage or aim his pistol and shoot you. Either way, the seco will help to ease the pain."

Seneca glanced at Matt. "Good to know."

The captain finessed the boat up against the dock and secured it with the bowline. He helped Seneca step onto the wooden planks, then steadied the vessel while Matt climbed off.

"If you're going to see El Jaguar, take the road that runs up from the beach." Mali Mali pointed to a dirt road running among the coconut palms. "Follow it for a few miles until you come to the old prison. His cottage is a half mile or so beyond."

"You'll be back early tomorrow morning?" Matt asked, confirming that the captain understood their agreement.

Captain Mali Mali jabbed his index finger toward the sky. "Weather permitting. Good luck with El Jaguar." He cast off the line and backed the boat away from the wharf. With a quick wave, he swung it around and headed out of the protected horseshoe-shaped cove toward the open ocean.

They watched for a moment before walking along the uneven planks of the pier toward the beach. When they arrived at the road, they turned north in the direction Mali Mali had indicated and entered the jungle along what must have once been a heavily traveled route. Now it was nothing more than two parallel ruts with knee-high weeds down the middle. Dense jungle bordered both sides. The call of a macaw and the shrieks of howler monkeys echoed through the foliage around them, and a rather large iguana wandered across the road a hundred feet in front.

"I have a sound machine at home I use to sleep to," Seneca said. "This is so much better, and it's in stereo."

Thirty minutes later, the first of the prison buildings came into view-bulky concrete structures that appeared to grow out of the red dirt and thick underbrush.

"Looks like the jungle is wasting no time reclaiming this place," Seneca said.

Vines and branches twisted and intertwined with rusting iron bars covering the windows. Perched atop the building, an egret gave them a wary eye, then took flight, disappearing over the jungle in the direction of the ocean.

They approached what looked like it was once the main building; a large sign over the doorway read Penitenciaria.

Moving past the building, two more crumbling block buildings came into view, each made up of three stories with rows of abandoned cells. The roof had long since rotted away and collapsed. Small lizards scurried across the hot concrete floors and scrambled up the sides of the graffiti-covered walls; messages from former prisoners that included a giant red heart and a drawing of Christ on the Cross with the words nuestro Salvador-Jesus is our Savior.

"Doesn't look so menacing now," Matt said, "but I can imagine what must have taken place here over the years."

"Especially with that. Take a look." She pointed across the road to an area appearing to cover about an acre. It was enclosed with a waist-high concrete wall. Even with the overgrowth of weeds and brush, she could see hundreds of mounds.

"Looks like graves-unmarked graves. Captain Mali Mali wasn't exaggerating. A lot of men died here."

"It's the catacombs on a much smaller scale." Seneca squinted her eyes in the bright sun. "That's interesting. This place was closed down ten years ago and yet one of those graves looks fresh."

"Plus, there are two newly dug open graves," Matt said as they moved past the cemetery. "The undertaker business must be booming."

Ten minutes later, they came to an expanse of bright green, recently cut grass dotted with coconut palms, avocado and mango trees, and banana plants. Seneca saw a few goats and chickens wandering around a brightly painted yellow house. A woodplanked walkway extended from the road to the front porch. As she watched, a scarlet macaw flew over her head and landed in one of the avocado trees.

"This must be the place," Matt said and led the way along the wooden walkway.

As they approached the porch, Seneca called out, "iHola! zEsta alguien en la casa?" She waited a moment then called in English, "Hello, anyone home?"

Only the sound of the) answered. There was no response from inside the house.

"Maybe he's not home," she said, watching the front door for any movement.

quiere usted?"

Seneca and Matt turned at the sound of the voice to see a man standing beside one of the thick-trunked palms. He was a tall and bulky black man wearing a straw cowboy hat, a T-shirt that bore the Coca-Cola logo, cut-off denim shorts, and black flip-flops. He had a closely cropped black beard and his eyes were hidden behind what appeared to be a pair of women's gold sunglasses. In his right hand was a pistol aimed at them both.

WHITE AND BLACK 2012, ISLA DE SANGRE.

",Es USTED EL JAGUAR?" Seneca said, raising her hands.

"LAmericanos?" The man took a step forward.

"Yes," Matt said, also raising his hands. "Do you speak English?"

He nodded.

"Professor Roberto Flores?" Seneca asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Seneca Hunt from Planet Discovery Magazine and this is my friend and fellow writer, Matt Everhart. We need to speak to "I am Flores." He motioned to the bottle in her right hand. "What is that?"

"A gift from Captain Mali Mali. He said it's your favorite. Seco."

A fleeting look of uncertainty slid over Flores's face. "Seco," he repeated, the word seeming to stumble as it came off his tongue. "Right. Of course." Flores lowered the gun and shoved it in his waistband. "I get few visitors so I must be cautious."

"We understand," Matt said. "Captain Mali Mali mentioned the two of you are good friends."

Flores moved past them. "Inside, out of this heat."

Following the man into the cottage, Seneca gave Matt a questioning glance. Flores was not what she had expected.

"There are some cups over there." Flores motioned to a cupboard above an old porcelain sink.

Seneca glanced around the sparse cottage interior as she retrieved the cups, each one a different design and color. The house appeared to consist of two rooms; the one they were in and, from what she could see through a partially opened door, a bedroom. The floor was constructed of wood planks worn dark with age. Near the sink was a metal-legged table with a Formica top in a yellow daisies pattern. There were four folding metal chairs, all dented and rusting. The walls were covered with a tightly woven thatch similar to grasscloth and were decorated with dozens of paintings of tropical birds and flowers. In the middle of the room facing the large window overlooking the lawn and distant jungle was a vinyl recliner. On a table beside it rested a seashell ashtray with a miniature Matterhorn of cigarette butts. A plastic, batterypowered radio also occupied a portion of the tabletop.

Seneca set the cups on the Formica table. When she was seated, Flores opened the bottle of liquor and poured an inch into each cup. He raised his drink. "To a successful visit. I hope I can give you whatever information you need."

They clinked their cups. The alcohol burned Seneca's mouth and caught in her throat. She stifled a cough, then swallowed. "Wow, not for the meek of heart." She wiped her lips on the back of her hand.

Flores drained his cup before placing it with a thump onto the tabletop. The strength of the seco seemed to get to the professor as well. He cleared his throat and snorted. "What do you want?"

"Do you remember a student of yours-Daniel Bernal?"

Flores seemed to ponder the question for a moment. "Of course. Daniel was one of my most promising golden nuggets. Much natural talent. How is he?"

Seneca thought she could answer the question without choking up. She almost made it. "He ... he's dead, Professor Flores."

"Really? I'm sorry to hear that. His death will be a great loss to the field of archaeology, no doubt." Flores pushed his cup to the side, done with the liquor, but offered Matt and Seneca another drink. They declined. "What happened to him?"

She thought his response somewhat stiff and on the edge of being cold and apathetic. Daniel had given her the impression that he and Flores had been close, and there was evidence of that friendship in the letters she came across in Dan's belongings. "He and I were engaged to be married. He was on a dig in Mexico City, and I was there covering his discovery of Montezuma's tomb. There was an explosion-possibly a terrorist's attack. Daniel and his team were killed."

"Terrorists?" He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling. "Murdering an archaeologist? That's disturbing." He looked back at Seneca. "I'm sorry for your loss. How long ago was this?"

Flores still seemed distant and uncaring. Where was the emotional response to losing a friend?