Dominique, and even if you did, what would you do? Murder an innocent child?’
‘What am I supposed to do, Evelyn? Sit back and allow some freak of nature to stalk my sons?’
‘Unlike your sons, who will be prepared, the Hunahpu child born on the twins’ birthday has no idea what it is or what lies ahead. Like all newborns, it is an innocent being-God’s clay, ready to be molded. It is the influences throughout the child’s journey that will lead it to become the Abomination my sister warned us about. Your mission, First-Mother, is to prepare your sons for battle, not to play God.’
PART 4
The Earth is the cradle of mankind, but one cannot stay in the cradle forever.
And Jacob called to his sons, and said,
‘Gather yourselves together that I may tell you that which shall befall you in the End of Days.’
8
Dawn backlights seven-year-old Immanuel Gabriel’s bedroom in bronze shades of gray. The dark-haired, ebony-eyed boy snores softly.
Jacob stands over him, grinning mischievously. ‘Get up, you lazy sonuva bitch!’
Manny sits up with a start, his heart pounding. ‘Huh!’
‘You shut your alarm off. Now get up, we have to train.’
‘Go away!’ Immanuel pulls the sheet over his head.
Jacob reaches beneath the blanket and shoulder presses his twin up and over his head.
‘Help! Ma-’
‘You’re falling behind, Manny. You’re supposed to be my equal, but you’re not-’
‘Get off me, freak!’
‘-you’re nothing but a lightweight.’
‘Ma! Ma, he’s doing it again!’
The bodyguards arrive first, still in their bathrobes. ‘Again?’ Salt shakes his head. Holsters his weapon.
‘C’mon, Jake,’ Pepper coaxes, ‘put your brother down.’
Dominique pushes her way past the two bodyguards. ‘Jacob Gabriel, you put your brother down this instant!’
Manny drops to the floor, his face meeting carpet with a thud. The dark-haired twin sits up, tears in his eyes, his nose bleeding.
Dominique’s face reddens. ‘Dammit, Jacob, look what you-’
‘His fault. Should have rolled with the fall. Sensei taught him that months ago.’
‘It’s 6:00 A.M.!’
‘When the Death God comes for us, it won’t care what time it is. We have to be ready.’
‘I hate you,’ Immanuel yells. ‘You’re a sick freak!’
‘I’m Superman. You’re only Clark Kent, a big fat wussie.’
Dominique reaches for Jacob, but the fair-haired twin is too quick, leaping over the bed. ‘Foolish mortal. You can’t catch Superman!’
Salt cuts him off, and the game is on.
Jacob feints left, then bounds across the chest of drawers, slipping beneath the older bodyguard’s grasp.
Refusing to play, Pepper backs his considerable bulk in front of the open doorway. ‘Game over, Jake.’
Without pause, the boy takes a running leap, his legs churning air like a triple-jumper until his right foot connects with the African-American’s massive bare chest. The blow knocks the bodyguard backward through the doorway.
Jacob completes a forward somersault dismount and lands running, sprinting down the hallway into the kitchen and out the back door. ‘Superman… da-da-tada-’
Pepper sits up, massaging his bruised sternum. ‘Damn. How’d he do that?’
Dominique is livid. ‘I swear to Christ, that child will be the death of me. Come on, Manny, let’s get some ice for your nose.’ She helps him to his feet, leading him out of the bedroom.
Mitchell Kurtz looks down at his larger comrade. ‘Now you know why Karla and I never had kids.’
Belle Glade, Florida 6:17 a.m.
Dawn’s rays reflect off the surface waters of Lake Okeechobee, planting a fiery orange kiss against the glistening white hulls of the gambling ferries and yachts, docked in rows of newly dredged slips. Hotels and casinos, restaurants and shops remain silent after another extended night of tourism, the pelicans and sandpipers picking at a bounty of refuse.
Follow the golden-lit streets south, past the renovated Town Hall and new Civic Center, to the west end of the resort town. A road sign at the canal bridge warns that you are leaving the tourist area, the ensuing sign across the bridge welcoming you to Belle Glade proper.
The bars on homes and storefront windows send another kind of warning.
Gambling dollars have not had much impact on this enclave of the poor, unless you consider the expanded police force and new wing of the local jail to be civic improvements. The elementary school is still grimy, the windows of its overloaded portables still supporting air-conditioning units that purge waves of lukewarm air reeking of mildew. Travel two more blocks, and you’ll reach the Reverend Morehead’s church, still in desperate need of a coat of paint. Cross the dirt parking lot where the rats feast at night, and you’ll find a four-room stucco home, its fading yellowed walls trimmed in peeling black paint.
Seven-year-old Lilith Eve Robinson awakens on her birthday with a start. Stares at the ceiling fan. Concentrates.
‘Six-seventeen.’
She rolls over and glances at the alarm clock-6:17.
Lilith climbs out of the sofa bed. Folds the sheet and quilt. Replaces the cushions and enters the kitchen. Removes two eggs from the refrigerator. Scrambles them in a bowl, then pours the contents into a pan and lights the burner.
She heads for the powder room. Urinates. Washes her hands and face. Forces the last bit of toothpaste onto the worn bristles of her toothbrush, knowing the container must last at least another week. Rinses her mouth. Slips on the dress hanging behind the door, then stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Cocoa skin. High cheekbones. Startling azure-blue eyes framed by ebony hair, long and wavy. The daughter of the late Madelina Aurelia-Robinson is a beauty in the making, even if her classmates despise her.
