Brothers stick together… The words seem to echo in his brain.
‘Are you gonna be there for us, Mule?’
They crowd around, creating a pine-green wall of flesh.
*
Lauren surveys the banquet table of food and drugs in the dining hall. The sushi and Chinese ribs look tantalizing, but she passes. The last time she ate at one of K. C.’s parties, she ended up playing naked volleyball on the dean’s lawn.
She hears cheers. Bored, she follows the sound to the entertainment suite.
A dozen football players are lying on body cushions, drinking beer and watching a 3-D holographic replay of the Miami-FSU game. Lauren grabs a juice pouch off the cooler tree and takes a seat on the floor.
The projection is playing Miami’s opening drive. A hovering spherical-video end zone cam zooms in on K. C. Renner as he mouths incomprehensible signals, the action set at ultraslow motion. The quarterback takes the snap and pitches the ball to Sam, who heads to his right, where several Seminole players are waiting.
Wild cheers of ‘Mule… Mule… Mule’ as Sam executes an eye-popping pirouette, races back toward the line of scrimmage, then stiff-arms his way through a wall of defenders like a mad bull, opening up his own hole.
Lauren feels goose bumps. She allows herself a smile. Maybe I won’t be tired tonight…
The camera zooms in tight on Sam’s face.
She stops smiling.
Lauren Beckmeyer has known Samuel Agler since they were in ninth grade. In all that time, she has never seen anything like the expression now etched on her boyfriend’s face.
Fear.
23
Sunday Afternoon
The palatial south Florida mansion of billionaire Lucien J. Mabus and his wife Lilith, stretches eight hundred feet along a private pristine coastline in Manalapan, a small island town just north of Boynton Beach. The thirty- one-room, three-storey home, originally built for $21.3 million back in 1997, features a seaside swimming pool complete with waterfall and swim-up bar, two tennis courts, a fitness center, a twelve-hundred-square-foot grand salon illuminated by a six-thousand-pound crystal chandelier imported from a nineteenth-century French chateau, an observatory dome, and an eight-car garage, its floors paved in Saturnia marble. Each of the six bedroom suites has its own balcony facing the Atlantic. All of the home’s windows are self-cleaning, made with a thin metal oxide coating electrified to help rainwater to wash away loose particles.
The mansion’s staff includes two housekeepers, a chef, a licensed pilot who doubles as a chauffeur, six heavily armed security guards, and a mechanic. Robotic mowers and trimmers perpetually manicure the lawns and shrubs to incessant perfection. Every computer and control station in the home is wired to a backup fuel-cell power station located on the northern side of the property. There are three satellite dishes on the roof.
All this-for only two adults and the occasional visiting business associate.
Twenty-six-year-old Lucien Mabus, son of the late Peter Mabus, opens his mouse brown, red-rimmed eyes and gazes at himself in the ceiling mirror. His face is ashen gray, his lips-alabaster white. His eyes are sunken, surrounded by dark circles.
‘It’s just the flu,’ his personal physician has assured him. ‘You’re far too young and rich to leave us now, Lucien.’
That was sixteen days and thirty pounds ago. His personal physician had wanted him to undergo tests in a hospital, but Lilith refused. ‘Those hospitals will kill you, darling. I’m sure it’s just a bad case of food poisoning. I keep warning you about eating so much shellfish. I’ve sent the cooks home. From now on, I’ll personally be bringing you your meals, at least until you feel better.’
Lucien glances to the nightstand on his right. Prescription medicines, tissues, and a plastic beach bucket, in case he has to vomit again. A half-eaten bowl of chicken soup sits on a tray. The sight of it makes him queasy. Chicken soup… can’t she cook anything but chicken soup?
The billionaire rolls over, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. What’s all the money in the world if I’m too sick to enjoy it?
Chills fade into a hot flash, bringing with it the dreaded queasiness.
Lucien grabs the bucket and retches.
His pulse throbs in his head. His throat burns, his stomach convulsing in spasms. Flopping onto the floor, he holds his head in his hands, praying for the pain to stop.
God… what is it you want from me? Charity work? Another wing at some third-world hospital? Just tell me and end this misery.
Gathering his strength, he drags himself to his feet, the vertigo causing the bedroom to spin. Staggering forward, he heads to the bathroom-then stops, staring at his bare feet.
His toes are numb.
‘Oh, God… what’s happening to me? Lilith? Lilith!’
He stumbles out of the master bedroom and into the hallway.
‘Lilith?’
No wife. No servants. Where the hell is everyone?
He fumbles his way down the hall, the numbness spreading to his feet and ankles. He pauses at the open door to one of the guest suites, hearing voices. ‘Lilith? Lilith… you in here?’
Lucien staggers into the bedroom.
Stretched out across the king-size water bed, staring at her reflection in the ceiling mirror, is his young bride.
‘Lilith, help-’ Lucien falls to his knees, the sharp pain in his gut overwhelming. Numbness rises past his ankles to his hips. ‘Call Gill. Get me to a hospital, I think it’s my heart!’
‘No need to worry, sweetie, it’s not your heart.’
‘How… how do you know?’
‘Darling, it’s just the poison I’ve been feeding you.’
Lucien’s blood runs cold.
‘Now die like a good little rich boy, and don’t stain the carpet.’
Lucien collapses facefirst onto the plush beige rug, the numbness rising past his chest, the ringing in his ears insufficient to mute the cackle of laughter coming from his murderous wife’s voluptuous lips.
University of Miami
The Jerome Brown Memorial Athletic Center is located on the north side of the University of Miami campus, adjacent to the MTI basketball arena. In addition to its indoor track, pool, weight room, and conditioning equipment, the JBC is equipped with a press room and media center, complete with global uplink capabilities. At the heart of the facility is a circular broadcast chamber, its tinted smart-glass walls designed to conceal a myriad of cameras and lights, microphones, special effects boards, and technicians.
Diane Tanner enters the interview chamber, wearing her standard skintight designer ESPN body leotard. The voluptuous blonde takes her place opposite Samuel in an identical crushed velvet chair and adjusts her cleavage. ‘Nervous?’
‘Should I be?’
‘This is a live interview.’
‘Won’t be my first.’
‘I make you nervous, don’t I?’
‘Do you always come on to the athletes you interview?’
She smiles. ‘Only the cute ones.’
‘Stand by, Diane.’ The voice, coming from a hidden microphone. ‘Five… four… three-’
