Five minutes later, after getting the bad news, Seneca dropped the receiver in the cradle. She was usually good with hunches, and her best intuition was that her bags weren't delayed, they were lost for good. Was this the way the rest of the day would go?

She felt as if she were slightly hung over, sluggish, depressed, and she anticipated the onset of a bad headache. Maybe taking a combo of the medications had been bad judgment. In the bathroom, she cupped her hand under the faucet and took a drink. After an English muffin washed down with Diet Coke, she dressed, donning a baseball cap to hide the scalp wound, and headed out. Might as well get the most painful task of the day over with first.

"How's my mother doing?" Seneca spoke to the short, pudgy nurse whom she had come to know since her mother's admission to the facility six months prior.

"Some days are better than others."

"And today?"

The nurse shrugged.

Seneca gave her an "I understand" nod and continued down the hall of the Park View Nursing Home to her mother's room. God, she hated these kinds of places and had detested having to put her mother in one. But inevitably it came to the point that for her mother's safety and well-being, it had to be done.

Brenda sat in a chair by the window, staring out, a stuffed toy dog in her lap, clear tubing just under her nostrils delivering oxygen. She was frail, and her skin papery, blotched with deep purple bruises; a result of the prednisone medication. A tray sat on the stand beside the bed, food untouched. The room smelled of stale perspiration.

"Mom?" Her mother turned, and Seneca's heart sank. She could read the disconnect in her mother's eyes. Residing in those gray eyes that had once been a sky blue was a haze that probably mimicked the fog in her head.

"Belle, did you bring the cards?" Her voice sounded hoarse and weaker than normal.

Seneca's body responded with a demand for a large intake of breath. She took the breath and spoke on the outflow. "Mom, it's me, Seneca." She drew close and stooped beside her mother.

Brenda tilted her head. "The cards? We can't play without the cards."

Seneca had often listened to her mother reminisce of Belle, another free spirit in a passel of Brenda's college friends who had, among many other adventures like sit-ins and protest marches, headed to Woodstock back in 1969 for three days of peace, love, music-and of course drugs. Breakfast in bed for 400,000, her mother liked to say. That was a quote from somebody, but she could never remember who said it at the festival. The other favorite cliche was that if you remembered the sixties, you weren't really there.

It was hard to look at her mother now-hair completely gray and unkempt, arthritic knobs on her finger joints, sagging flesh along the jaw line, the raspy voice of an ex-smoker, and those vacant eyes. Her lips were dry and cracking. Long gone was any trace of the vibrant, passionate woman's activist with a taste for the wild side.

"No, Mom, it's me." She gently held her mother's chin with her hand to keep her attention. "It's Seneca. Your daughter. Why aren't you eating? We talked about this last time I was here. Remember?"

She knew her mother was somewhat of a drama queen and not eating might be a ploy for attention. For an instant a mix of anger and frustration flared inside. "You know the emphysema isn't going to kill you, you're going to let yourself get so damn weak-"

Seneca hadn't come to fuss with or chide her mother. It just made her so angry that she was losing the only person left on the planet who loved her or gave a shit about her-at least Brenda had at one time when her Her mother stared blankly, and Seneca couldn't help but ask, "How did you stay so tough all your life? What is it that kept you so confident and independent? Until you got sick I never saw a flicker of doubt in yourself, or a moment of indecision. Always so damn strong. Why didn't I get those genes? Sometimes I think I'm going to cave in." She turned away from Brenda. "Shit, who am I kidding? I'm a train wreck." She stifled her tears. "Mom, Daniel-"

"I think Belle cheats. But I let her win. It's important to her that she wins." Just those few words left Brenda sounding winded.

After several more seconds Seneca released her mother's chin and took her boney hand. "Are they taking care of you, Momma? Are you having a good day?"

"Yes, but I was hoping to play cards."

Seneca moved to the edge of the bed and sat. "I hope you're having a good day." She patted her mother's hand. "I think you'd be proud of me. I had one helluva couple of weeks, but I'm still vertical." That was a dumb saying, she thought, but true.

It was so odd trying to engage Brenda in conversation when the woman didn't even recognize her. Her mother had become a stranger. There were days she had unpredicted moments of clarity. At first there had been stretches of lucidity, but those dwindled over the years to what were now infrequent sparks that the disease quickly extinguished.

Seneca had no idea how to hook a tiny part of her mother's mind and pull it into reality. After a brief pause, she started again. "I just got back from Mexico. Do you remember I told you Dan and I were going to get married down there? Do you remember that?"

"Did you order the ear candles?"

Seneca scored her bottom lip. Before the diagnosis of Alzheimer's, her mother had owned a New Age and alternative medicine shop. Ear candles were a part of the inventory.

"Yes. They've been shipped."A white lie. The shop was sold over a year ago. It had never been lucrative, but it paid the bills. She looked at her mother and felt that now-familiar uneasy churning inside. "But I'll double-check on it to be sure. Wouldn't want to be without ear candles."

Seneca stood, bent, and kissed the top of her mother's head. "I love you, Momma," she whispered. "And miss you."

"And don't forget the Echinacea. Flu season is coming."

"Right." Seneca paused. "I'll take care of everything."

"I'm so thirsty."

Seneca reached for the plastic water pitcher on the nightstand. It was empty. Not only empty, but desert dry. When was the last time it had been filled? She lifted the plastic cup and found it in the same condition. "Son-of-a bitch."

She grabbed both the pitcher and cup. "I'll go get you some water."

Brenda Hunt smiled at someone, but Seneca knew it wasn't at her.

Down the hall, Seneca parked herself in front of the nurses' station. "Excuse me." She glared at a young nurse who was on her cell phone, head coyly cocked to the side and giggling. "Excuse me." This time in a louder tone.

The nurse flipped her phone closed.

"My mother doesn't have any water." Her voice was low and calculated sounding.

"Someone will be around shortly."

"No." Her pitch and volume rose. "Not shortly. She hasn't had any water since God knows when, and she's very thirsty."

"We make our rounds. You realize she's not the only patient here. We do the best we can."

Seneca slammed the pitcher and cup on the station desk. "The goddamn pitcher hasn't had water in it for hours, maybe days for all I know. What else does she do without? She doesn't eat. Doesn't anybody care? I can't stay here all day, every day, to ensure she gets the care she needs-that's what I pay you for."

"Ms. Hunt, just calm down."

Seneca spun around to find that the voice came from the older nurse she'd encountered when she'd arrived.

"All I want is some peace of mind. I want to know that when I leave here someone takes care of my mother. Someone has some kind of compassion for her. Did she eat today? Did you change her diaper?"

"We all-"

Seneca made her voice slide down into a calmer zone. "Just get her a pitcher of water, all right? If that's not too much trouble?"

"I'll see to it right now." The nurse took the cup and pitcher from her.

Seneca turned and marched down the hall. Before she headed out to her car she entered the Park View accounting office and wrote a check for the fee to keep her mother's crappy care going another month. In the parking lot, she put the key in the ignition, but didn't turn it. Instead, she braced her arms on the steering wheel and rested her forehead on them. She needed to get her mother into a better facility. But that was going to be expensive. Although her salary at the magazine was good, it wasn't great. The lease was up on her apartment; she couldn't afford the new place that she and Dan were to share, and didn't think she could get the deposit back. And what if she couldn't renew her lease?

One thing for sure, sitting here mulling over every little thing wasn't helping. "Blow the stink off, Seneca." She sat upright and turned the key. "Take the world head on, one task at a time, one day at a time."

The things she still had on her checklist to deal with that morning were finding out about the apartment lease, and making a decision on what to do about that message on her answer phone.

Ten minutes later, Seneca turned her C70 into the parking garage of her apartment complex. Suddenly, she jammed on the brakes.

"I don't believe it!" Backed into her parking spot was a darkcolored Mercedes SUV with orange fog lamps.

LUCKY MAN.

GROVES OPENED HIS EYES. The full moon was directly overhead. Something had awakened him. But he couldn't remember- Growling! The sound came from close by. Two, maybe three animals.

He sat up. In the gunmetal-gray light of the moon, a pair of coyotes stood over the corpse of the cowboy he had shot, their eyes catching the light, bared canines glistening.

He moved his hand to his .45. Gripping it firmly, he was about to aim at the animals when a fierce cry broke the midnight air. The coyotes lifted their heads and sniffed-their threatening postures melting. It was a mountain lion, and it was close.

A second shriek, this time only yards away. The coyotes bolted for the trail leading down from the ridge to the wash below.

Groves got to his feet, ready to fire if the big cat approached. He knew it had come for the body of the- "What the hell!" He looked down and grabbed his abdomen. Dried blood caked his shirt. The cowboy had shot him, he remembered. The pain had been enormous, the impact sending him to the ground. There was no way he could have survived his guts being ripped apart. And yet ...

He probed the bullet hole in his shirt, confirming that he had definitely been shot. He lifted the shirt and ran his fingers over his belly. Tender to the touch and still sore, but the wound was almost healed!

Out of the corner of his eye, Groves caught the cat on the move. It leapt silently from the ledge, landing a short distance from the dead man. The animal crouched low, poised, one front paw barely off the ground. Groves stood still, holding his breath. Then the cat slinked toward the cowboy's body. And toward Groves.

Keeping his eyes on the cat, Groves slid his hand down his side until he grasped the grip of the .45.

BOOM!.

He fired the Schofield. The blast thundered across Renegade Pass and echoed off the rock walls causing the mountain lion to retreat toward the higher ledges, disappearing into the darkness. The bullet had missed, but at least the animal was gone.

Trying to gather his thoughts, Groves slung the Big Fifty over his shoulder. He moved into the clump of trees searching for his mules. No luck. In the moonlight he made his way down the narrow path to the floor of the wash. One of his mules lay dead-probably panicked and tumbled off the cliff trying to escape the initial shootout. The other was nowhere around. It was vital that he not only find it, but now he needed another animal as well-the wagon required two to pull it. Maybe one of the cowboys' mounts was still nearby.

As Groves headed south along the rocky wash, he rubbed his stomach, trying to figure out why there was dried blood but hardly a trace of the wound. How could he still be alive? One miracle was incredible, but two ...

Maybe he was dead and didn't even know it.

At sunrise, Groves located his mule in a box canyon south of Renegade Pass. Soon afterward, he saw one of the two riders' horses. He would have to do some explaining back in town about how he came across the horse. Could say it was a stroke of luck that after his mule was snake bit and died, he found the horse wandering in a ravine.

He mounted up, and with the mule in tow, headed back north through the pass. As he slowly made his way along the wash and what was left of the dead Federales, he glanced up in the direction of the high ridge. The flutter of black wings told him vultures were already feasting on the cowboy he had shot. A short distance later, he came across the body of the first cowboy-the head wound from the Big Fifty was even more destructive than Groves had thought. After all, it could bring down buffalo with one shot. The vultures that gathered around the corpse angrily moved out of the way long enough for Groves to pass. Looking over his shoulder, he saw them flapping and hopping back to continue their feast.

Groves waited at the edge of the trees and glanced in both directions along the lost valley. The call of a single crow, the distant ripple of the creek, and the whisper of the wind were the sounds he heard. Nothing moved in either direction.

He turned and walked through the trees to the clearing at the foot of the cliff. A few moments earlier he had placed the dynamite sticks at the base of the rock pile covering the passage leading to the cave. Now he bent, struck a match on the rocks, and lit the fuse. He stood watching it burn for a few seconds before trotting back through the trees to a brush field a hundred yards away.

"Get ready, boys." He called out as he ran to where his mule and the horse were tethered to a stump. If his other mule had bolted at gunfire, no telling what these two might do with an explosion.

Thirty seconds later, a muffled boom sounded from the direction of the trees, the ground vibrated, and a cloud of dust swirled up over the treetops before the breeze swept it away.

"Let's go see our handiwork." He untied the two animals, gathered their reins, and led them toward the trees. A few moments later, he stood staring at the pile of rubble blown out by the charge. The opening to the narrow passage was almost totally free of obstructions. More good fortune.

Groves tied up the animals and headed along the narrow gap in the rocks until he came to the cave entrance. He found the torch, lit it, and entered the Apache treasure trove. Soon he stood gazing in wonder at the piles of gold, the treasure chests, and the hundreds of priceless items collected by the Indians.

As the light of the torch glittered off the precious metal surfaces, Groves took in a deep breath. He felt the hole in his shirt where the bullet had pierced the material.

"I'm one lucky man," he said as he headed toward the bags of gold dust.

AZTECA 2012, BAHAMAS.

SCARROW WATCHED ANDROS ISLAND appear out of the gray clouds as rain streaked across the window of the Learjet. The small, sixpassenger plane dropped out of the storm and banked hard on its final approach into Andros Town International Airport. Painted on the nose of the aircraft was the gleaming red phoenix bird rising from a flaming inferno.

He glanced over at the opposite seat. The white box, about the size of a microwave oven, sat secured with seatbelts. He could see Sao Paulo Institute of Forensic Medicine, specimen 1080 written across the top.

Within minutes, Scarrow stood in the light rain and watched his men place the specimen box into the trunk of the Bentley Continental GT. Keeping Scarrow dry by holding an umbrella over his head was his chief of staff, Coyotl. Closing the trunk, Coyotl protected Scarrow from the rain while he got into the driver's side. Then he went around and slipped into the passenger's seat. Scarrow shifted the Bentley into drive and shot across the tarmac to the two-lane highway heading north.

Coyotl was on his cell phone discussing dinner arrangements with the kitchen staff. Scarrow glanced over at the handsome young Mexican who had been with the Ministry for more than five years. He oversaw Scarrow's personal affairs while handling any special projects that arose, including the recent event in Mexico City. Scarrow recruited Coyotl from a list of native Aztecs and chose him based upon several reasons, one of which was his graduate degree in Latin American history and his textbook knowledge of the ancient Aztec empire. His loyalty had proven invaluable on many occasions.

It didn't take more than ten minutes before the black steppyramid-shaped building appeared out of the rainy mist. During the 1970s, the industrial giant, Groves Lumber, had deforested much of the indigenous pine forests that grew on North Andros. Now replanted pines covered the landscape like rows of dark green soldiers. And in the distance, built deep in the pine forest was Azteca, his home-a six-story monument that reached to the heavens like the great Aztec pyramids of his native Mexico. Soon he saw the high wall surrounding Azteca with its intricately carved ancient pictographs and glyphs. He turned into the entrance gate as it swung open-his armed security guards saluting.

Coyotl finished his call while the Bentley glided along the milelong, palm-lined entrance road. "Imported Beijing duck with your favorite hot and spicy soup from Singapore. And Tiger beer."

"A wonderful homecoming meal." Scarrow reached to push a button on the console, causing one of the dozen garage doors to open along the ground floor of Azteca. He pulled the Bentley in side and shut off the 550hp engine. The garage fell silent. "How is William doing?"

"Restless and short tempered." He turned to face Scarrow. "But at least he's taking his meds."

"And our newest guest?"

"Mary is like a child on Christmas morning. Everything is one amazing discovery after another. Her eyes are filled with excitement."

"What about the rest of the apostles?"

"Growing more confident every day in their new roles."

Scarrow's voice changed and had an intimidating edge to it. "And the status of the survivor in Mexico City?"

Coyotl nodded apologetically. "I hope to have that matter cleaned up soon. It was a miscalculation on my part."

"Find her and take care of the problem." He turned the conversation. "Have the men remove the box from the trunk and secure it in the lab. Schedule a meeting with the reconstructive surgeons first thing tomorrow morning. There's much still left to do."

Scarrow opened the door to the anteroom of the penthouse suite on the top floor of Azteca. The movement of the door automatically set off the fans blowing out the intruding air that came in with Scarrow. A sanitizing chemical sprayed through misting nozzles creating a haze. Scarrow put on a pair of disposable green booties from a pop-up dispensary. He slit open a shrink-wrapped package with the accompanying small blade and extracted a green paper gown he slipped on over his clothes. Ready, he opened the stainless door and entered the suite. The heavy door closed behind him with a whoosh of compressed air.

Scarrow waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit living room-the air conditioning was set so low, he could almost see his breath. Thick blackout drapes covered the wide expanse of plate- glass windows across the far wall.

The air smelled antiseptic, not unlike a hospital. It mixed with the scent of Indian incense, strong and pungent. The smoke from the incense slightly fogged the room, almost like standing amidst clouds. A sound machine somewhere in a far corner created the constant drones of an Australian didgeridoo and bullroarer.

Scarrow moved through the rooms until he came to the bedroom, its door ajar. He pushed on it enough to enter. In the center of the room was a canopy bed with fine netting hanging down from the support frame to cover all sides. The scent of the incense caused him to cough. Hundreds of candles burned around the room on stands and tables. Their light made the room ethereal.

Scarrow walked to the side of the bed and waited.

"They're not boiling my water long enough for my tea." The voice came from behind the netting.

"They use distilled water." Scarrow heard a grunt of disapproval. "And they boil it for thirty minutes before brewing."

As his eyes grew accustomed to the low light, he saw the man sit up and maneuver toward the edge of the bed. A skeleton-like hand parted the seam in the diaphanous netting and a moment later, he stood a few feet away from Scarrow.

Billy Groves was tall and frail, clad in a white long-sleeved shirt and boxer shorts, his bare legs stuffed into cowboy boots. A week's growth of beard made his face look pasty white. Tired eyes gazed out from under bushy brows as he moved to a chair and sat.