Deftly, he drew his obsidian tecpatl blade over the inside of his forearm, a blade sharper than a surgeon's scalpel. Tiny beads of deep red blood percolated to the brim of the paper-cut-thin slice in his flesh. He lifted his head, eyes closed. He had consecrated this room making everything in it sacred. It was a sanctuary, a makeshift temple, dedicated to worship.

"I come again, yet another day, to beg for your forgiveness." His eyes had flickered open, and he wished it were the stars in the night sky he saw rather than the plaster ceiling. "Hear my pleas, Quetzalcoatl, oh mighty one. I give you my reverence and honor, and am grateful for your eternal presence and the constant bounty you have given me. I praise your infinite wisdom, power, and beauty." He lowered his head, eyes cast down. "I am wretched and unworthy."

Scarrow had reached for a small earthenware bowl and held his forearm over it at an angle so that a few drops of blood trickled into the hollow of the vessel. "I give to you that which is right-my blood."

As happened each time he brought himself to this altar, his eyes stung with tears, and his throat painfully constricted as he wept. "It was I who offended you by allowing the downfall of our people. I was the one who misread the prophecy. It was I who mistook the arrival of the barbarian, thinking it was your glorious and foretold return."

The sobs came unrestrained, and he found himself stuttering. "I understand that this curse of immortality, this blessing of agelessness you have given me, is my atonement. I beg of you to give me guidance as to what I must do. Every day I see the universe convulsing with your wrath. Fires, earthquakes, floods, famines, disease-all because of me. If I am to right it, then I need your blessed intervention. Let me once again walk in the light so that I might see."

He drew the knife across his other forearm, crisscrossing a net of fine, thread-like scars. Holding both bleeding arms above his head, he said, "I give to you what is right." He dropped his arms and bent over his thighs with deep, bellowing sobs.

Scarrow knew that the universal balance was askew and would lead to disaster. If he could just find a way to return the harmony. He understood that was his task and that it called for suffering, and he wanted the gods to know that he accepted that responsibility. He had a purpose and needed the help of the gods. The doomsday predicted by so many ancient calendars and legends was coming, the day Einstein suggested would come, the day science theorized that the magnetic poles of the earth would shift and the dire effects would destroy the world as we know it. It had happened before, 200 times over the last 178 million years. And it was going to happen again.

Unless he could stop it.

Scarrow sat up, drew the fingers of each hand across his bloodied arms and used them to paint scarlet lines down his chest as he whispered the ancient prayers.

When the ritual was complete and his body spent, he shivered-the deep meditation had expended much of his core heat. He extinguished the incense with the sand, and smothered the bowl of glowing wood embers with a clay lid. Exhausted, he left the room, locking it behind him.

Scarrow trudged to the apartment's kitchen to make some hot tea. He glanced at the newspaper he had tossed on the table earlier and caught a glimpse of a picture that made him more than curious-a face he was sure he recognized. He picked up the paper and skimmed the obituary of the deceased in the photograph.

Bracing himself against the table, he uttered a prayer. "Oh, most giving and resourceful Quetzalcoatl, I offer my gratitude and Scarrow opened his eyes as he lay in the Brazilian hotel room. Those memories from so many years before were as clear as if they had just happened. It had been a day that changed his life. For after seeing the face in the paper, he knew the gods had finally answered his prayers.

THE MESSAGE 2012, MIAMI.

SENECA SPED UP AS she headed north on Dixie with the mystery car steadily stalking a block or so behind. As a series of bright streetlights temporarily illuminated the car behind her, she caught a quick glimpse of the three-pointed star in the circle on the front grill, that and the high profile of the vehicle told her it was an older model Mercedes SUV with orange fog lamps.

"Ready for another test?" She watched the reflection. There was little traffic for her to be concerned with, so as she kept an eye on the fog lamps in the mirror, she took her foot off the accelerator and let her car start to coast. It seemed like it took a few seconds for the mystery car's driver to realize what was happening. The Mercedes closed the gap quickly but then slowed as well.

"Okay, asshole." She slammed on her brakes and came to a halt in the outside lane of Dixie Highway. The Mercedes immediately veered right onto a side street and disappeared. As soon as it was out of sight, she stomped on the accelerator and sped off, moving into the center lane and taking the first left onto 17th Avenue. At Coral Way, she doubled back and headed south into Coconut Grove, monitoring her rearview mirror the whole way. This time there were no orange fog lamps staring back.

Seneca pulled the Volvo into the parking garage on the ground floor of her South Bayshore Drive apartment building. Daniel had moved in with her six months earlier. It wasn't the most deluxe apartment, but it was comfortable and all they had needed. The lease was up at the end of the month, and as a wedding gift to each other, she and Daniel had put a deposit on a place in a more upscale section of Bayshore Drive. It wasn't something she could have afforded alone, even though she had a staff position with one of the premier magazines, Planet Discovery. Nor could Dan have made the payments on his own. Together it was more than doable.

Inside her second-story apartment, Seneca spotted the mail stacked on the coffee table. A retired neighbor watched out for the place whenever they were both away. He collected the mail and made sure to feed their two clown fish, a mutual Valentine's Day gift she and Dan had purchased. They bought the salt water aquarium and fish together. As she passed the small aquarium, she switched on its hood light.

Seneca wandered into the kitchen, dropped her purse beside the sink, and took a glass from the cabinet shelf. She filled the tumbler with water, then dug in her purse and withdrew the plastic bag, dumping three amber vials onto the countertop. She lined them up neatly against the backsplash, stared at each for a moment considering which she would take. She chose the sleeping pills since she was planning on going straight to bed and just sleeping just being oblivious to the world-just finding a black hole to slip into for some peace and relief from the physical and mental pain. She took one tablet in her hand, then washed it down with a gulp of water.

Refilling the glass, she returned to the living room and sprawled on the couch, not ready to face the bed, yet.

Their bed.

Seneca stared at the aquarium as the fish swam serenely and silently working their tranquility on her. But tired as she had been earlier, the ride home from the airport with the suspicious car had given her a second wind. After awhile she began to doubt the medication's potency.

Leaning back on the couch cushion, she set the glass of water on the coffee table and rolled her head to the side. The sudden shooting pain brought her hands to the wound in her scalp. The blinking light on the answer machine caught her attention. She'd considered giving up her landline at one point, but it was difficult to part with tradition.

Seneca inched toward the end of the sofa to see the answering machine better. One message. She pushed the button. After hearing the first several words her body stiffened as if flash frozen. When the message finished, she sat up, doubled over her knees, and put her head in her hands.

She remained in that position, breathing in and out in her palms, rocking, thoughts rising up from the shadows of her heart. Finally, she went to her bedroom closet and looked up at a small box. It was a little larger than a shoebox and made out of some light wood that her mother had decoupaged back in the early seventies.

Seneca pulled the box from the shelf and placed it on the bed. She opened it and studied the collection of envelopes, all addressed to her. Letters, birthday cards, photographs, postcards. She probably should have thrown them out long ago.

Over the years he had only written.

Now he was calling.

TEN-EIGHTY 2012, SAO PAULO, BRAZIL.

THE DIRECTOR OF THE Sao Paulo Institute of Forensic Medicine sipped his coffee as he read the morning edition of A Tribuna. Always first to arrive at work, he took advantage of the quiet time to mentally prepare for his day while he caught up on the news.

A front-page story on the recent Phoenix Ministry's Great Awakening event intrigued him. Held at Morumbi Stadium, the event had ended the previous day. Tens of thousands came to hear the words of one man.

Someone named Javier Scarrow was responsible-a man the media described as a charismatic spiritual prophet and believed by many to be the new messiah. His devout followers spanned the social, economic, and political spectrum-even embracing those of all faiths. His crusades drew huge crowds around the world as did his online and television ministries. And all he preached was to be in balance with the universe.

Rather simplistic, the director thought. Why would so many people want to hear something as basic as that? But then, getting back to basics might be just what this world needed. Or was it too late-too far beyond basics with all the threats society faced daily? It made him think of the cliche: you can never go home again.

He took the next twenty minutes to finish his coffee and the paper before checking his calendar. His first appointment was with his granddaughter. She had graduated with a journalism degree and managed to get a job with a medical journal doing research on cutting-edge forensic procedures. He would be one of her first interviews.

"Doctor," his granddaughter remained formal and businesslike, "my last question is about something called brain fingerprinting. Can you tell me what it means, is it accurate, and is it admissible as evidence in court?" She typed her question into her notebook resting on her lap as she smiled across the desk at her grandfather.

He returned her expression of affection but also remained on a professional level. "The basic difference between someone who is guilty of a crime and someone who is innocent is that the guilty party has a record of the crime stored in his or her brain. The innocent person doesn't. Until brain fingerprinting was developed, there was no real scientific method of detecting this fundamental difference."

"Does brain fingerprinting determine guilt or innocence?"

"No. That task always resides with the judge and jury. What brain fingerprinting does do is give the courts compelling evidence based on science to help them arrive at a verdict."

"Will you explain exactly what it is?"

"It's a scientific technique to determine whether or not specific information is stored in an individual's memory. The procedure measures brainwave responses to words, phrases, sounds, and pictures. While conducting the interview, we use details that the subject would have encountered in the course of committing a crime, but that an innocent person wouldn't know. We can tell by the brain wave response if the subject recognizes the stimulus or not. If the suspect recognizes the details of the crime, this indicates that he has a record of the crime stored in his brain."

"How accurate is it, and does it obstruct our rights to mental sovereignty and cognitive liberty?"

"In cases where a determination of information present or information absent was made, one hundred percent of-"

The director looked up at his office door. "Yes, what is it?"

"Sorry, Doctor," his assistant said, "but can I see you a moment."

"I'm right in the middle of an interview. Can it wait?"

The woman grimaced. "I'm afraid we've had a break-in." She stood unmoving in the doorway.

The director came to his feet. "When?"

"Apparently over the weekend. The blue safe was broken into."

He came around his desk, eyebrows arched in disbelief. "And the contents?"

"Ten-eighty is gone."

"My God!"

"Is everything all right, grandfather?" The girl closed her computer.

"Wait here."

"May I go with you?"

His mind was focused on the break-in, and it took him a moment to respond. "Stay by my side."

The three marched down a long hall lined with glass panesoffices on one side and a series of medical examination rooms on the other.

Arriving at a heavily fortified set of double doors, the director swiped his ID card before entering. Continuing along another corridor, this one lined with doors but no windows, they finally entered a large room marked Evidence at the end of the hall.

Endless shelving held thousands of legal-size boxes. At the back of the room, the director and his assistant stopped where a handful of other lab technicians dressed in white medical coats had already gathered.

Sitting on the floor against the wall was a blue safe about the size of a kitchen dishwasher-its door agape. It contained only one shelf, which was empty.

The director glared at the safe while he pulled nervously at his mustache. "It would have to be ten-eighty."

"What is it?" His granddaughter touched his arm. "What was stolen?"

The assistant turned to her. "The human remains of teneighty."

"Was ten-eighty someone famous?"

The director hesitated, then stared into the eyes of his granddaughter. "Infamous."

AMBUSH 1876, NEAR THE ARIZONA.

TERRITORY-MEXICAN BORDER.

GROVES CLIMBED TO THE top of a rocky outcrop and cupped his hands around his eyes. The glare from the morning sun blazing over the mountain peaks made it painful to keep them open. He had left Calabazas before dawn with his newly purchased wagon, mules, and supplies. Ten miles from town, as he entered the foothills of the mountains, he pulled up in a ravine and climbed to the top of the outcrop. Squinting, he saw a faint trace of rising dust on the horizon, dancing in the morning light. Two riders.

He knew it would be slow going, and he couldn't outrun them. The wagon could only follow passable trails and roads. He could wait here and make a stand. But they wouldn't try anything until they were sure he had led them to the source of the Spanish gold. Instead, he would let them follow him deep into the mountains, perhaps even to the lost valley. He needed to get them to a place where their bodies would never be found.

After three days, Groves entered a mountain pass that he remembered was a few miles north of the lost valley. Mercifully, he had seen no sign of the Apaches. Back in Calabazas he'd heard that troops from the Sixth Cavalry out of nearby Fort Huachuca had captured or killed a large war party. He hoped it was what was left of the Indians who had ambushed the Federales. Only a handful of them had returned to the cave that day and died in the earthquake. If the Apaches were out of the way, things could be a lot easier and safer. But Groves was sure that if any of the Indians were still around, the last thing they would do would be abandon their treasure.

Then again, it occurred to him that they may not want the treasure for its value as much as to simply steal it from the white man, depriving their enemy of having it. If the Indians meant to trade or sell any of it, they would have done so long ago. And who would they sell to? Still, he planned to keep a sharp eye out for any signs of those murdering savages.

As for the two riders, they kept their distance, lagging back until they became no more than shadowy forms among the mountain trails and forests.

Groves backed his wagon into a well-concealed gap between two rock walls. He unhitched his mules and removed the tools and supplies. Strapping the equipment onto the backs of the two animals, he filled his backpack with enough food for three or four days. He had his Colt Schofield .45 and had bought a Sharps "Big Fifty" buffalo rifle with a scope from the blacksmith in Calabazas-a guaranteed kill at one-thousand yards. With everything ready, he and his mules began the hike up the winding trail over the last few miles to the lost valley and the Apache gold.

Groves entered the valley mid-morning. It was as he remembered. He saw the thick stand of trees at the base of the cliff hiding the narrow gap and entrance to the cave. Many of the trees were leaning at odd angles or toppled over. Debris from the earthquake cluttered the valley floor. The river had reestablished its course and seemed to be flowing unhindered.

Groves led his pack mules into the trees and tied them up. Even from a distance, he smelled the stench of decomposing fleshthe banditos and Apaches along with their horses. By the time he worked his way to the clearing at the base of the cliff, he found the source of the stench. Although wild animals and buzzards had feasted on the bodies, there were still plenty of remains left to cause bile to rise in his throat. It was all he could do to keep from puking.

He slipped past the corpses to the base of the cliff. A portion of the rock wall had collapsed in the tremors, and the narrow gap in the cliff leading to the cave entrance was partially blocked. He climbed to the top of the rock pile and looked down at the passage-it was clear. In the shadows beyond was the entrance to the treasure cave. As long as the cave had not collapsed, all he needed was to blast away the obstructions at the base of the cliff and get on with his task.

Groves had already decided to start with the gold dust-something that was untraceable and easy to exchange for money. Once he had enough he would buy up a parcel of land near Calabazas and build a house with some sort of fortified structure to store the other treasure. And from there, he could expand into ranching, cattle, maybe even mining. Pykes could help him with that.

Judging from his memory of the treasure, he felt it could possibly take as many as a dozen trips. But that long a stretch might be too dangerous. He reconciled himself to the fact that he'd just get as much out as quickly as he could. With a smile of satisfaction, he climbed down and moved back into the trees, retrieved his two mules, and continued south out of the lost valley. By this time tomorrow, he would be ready to deal with the two riders.

Groves lay on the same ledge overlooking Renegade Pass from where he had witnessed the massacre of the Mexican soldiers. It was late afternoon and the shadows grew long and dark. His neckerchief, wrapped around his nose and mouth, filtered the nauseating stench of the rotting corpses below. Tired from the long trip, he was about to doze off when he heard the clatter of hooves. The sound preceded the rider long before he appeared around a bend in the canyon. Only one man.

Groves wondered if this was one of the two men trailing him or someone else. Had the pair decided to let one go into the pass first to see what would happen? What if they had found his tracks leading into the trees back at the lost valley?

Maybe he was about to be ambushed.

He slipped the .50 caliber shell into the single-shot Sharps and used the scope to bring the rider into the crosshairs. Groves pictured the stacks of gold in his mind, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

In the confines of the canyon walls, the Big Fifty sounded like a cannon, its echo seeming to go on forever before finally mingling with the echo of the galloping horse's hooves on the stone. The riderless animal ran south and finally disappeared around a bend. Through the scope, Groves saw the crumpled body of the rider on the ground. Even at a distance, it was obvious that the big gun had blown off most of the man's head.

"Sorry, mister," Groves whispered. "Them's the breaks."

He waited motionless, listening for sounds of the other rider. All he heard was the whistle of the wind through the pass. He wondered if he should go after the dead man's horse, but decided against it. If he showed up back in town with the man's mount, there would be too many questions. He'd have to be satisfied with his two mules for now. Soon, he could afford as many mules and horses as he wanted.

Groves stood and slung the Big Fifty over his shoulder. He was about to make his way back along the ridge to where the mules waited behind a thick grouping of trees when he heard the crunch of boots on loose rock.

"Murderin' bastard!" A man stepped from the trees.

Groves dragged in a breath at the sight of the Colt in the man's hand. "Listen, mister-"

"Where's the gold?" The cowboy's eyes burned with malice.

"What gold?"

"Don't play dumb with me." He took a step forward.

"Don't do nothin' foolish." Groves raised his hands. "We can make a deal."

The stranger took another step forward. As he did, one of the mules wandered out of the trees-it had come untied. The cowboy turned at the sound.

Groves pulled his pistol and fired, hitting the man square in the chest, a cloud of smoke belching from the barrel of his Schofield .45. He watched the cowboy collapse to his knees, eyes now filled with fear. Groves raised his gun to fire again. But as the man fell forward, he squeezed off a single shot.

Billy Groves felt the impact of the bullet slam into his gut like a white-hot sledgehammer. In disbelief, he dropped onto the rocky ledge.

THE STRANGER 2012, MIAMI.

SENECA AWOKE AT MID-MORNING instead of her usual 6:30. She'd gotten to bed late, but still it was unusual for her to sleep in. The medications must have done their job. She lay in bed staring blankly with a jumble of thoughts. Daniel, the whole scene in Mexico, the SUV with the orange fog lights, lost luggage, and that message on the machine.

Groaning, she rolled away from the window and the light that sliced through the blinds. She tried to go back to sleep, but her internal clock was set to 6:30 and she'd already blown past that. Still, she didn't want to get up. The day was just going to be shitty anyway, so why bother.

Thirty minutes later she finally lugged herself out of bed.

The shower helped wash away the uncontrolled crying, but not the heartbreak of knowing that when she got out, she would still be alone. Her mother would have ordered her to get up, go outside, and blow the stink off. Brenda Hunt had a way of going straight to the core.

As Seneca dressed, she started forming a mental checklist of the day's tasks. She had already spoken with her editor a number of times from her hospital room in Mexico. Even though she wanted to go back to work right away, he had insisted on her recuperating at home, then slowly getting back into her routine when she was mentally and physically ready. She promised him that a story would come out of all this, but his response was to let it go, "You don't have enough for a story," he told her-always his favorite line to push her harder for more material. So her first order of business was to call and check on her luggage. If the bags were found, at least she would have some of her data to use for the article.