“Wait, let me talk to her,” Foletta says. “Give us five minutes.”

Borgia looks at his watch. “Five minutes.” He exits the cabin.

Dominique lays her head on the table, her insides quivering, her tears pooling on the steel tabletop. “Why is all this happening?”

“Shh.” Foletta strokes her hair, his voice a soothing whisper. “Dominique, Borgia doesn’t want to lock you and your mother up. He’s just scared.”

She lifts her head. “Scared of what?”

“Of Mick. He knows Mick wants revenge, that he’ll stop at nothing to kill him.”

“Mick’s not like that—”

“You’re wrong. Borgia knows him a lot better than you or I. Their history goes back a long way. Did you know Borgia was engaged to Mick’s mother? Julius Gabriel stole the bride-to-be on the eve of their wedding ceremony. There’s a lot of bad blood between the families.”

“Mick doesn’t care about revenge. He’s more concerned about this Mayan doomsday thing.”

“Mick’s clever. He’s not going to tell you or anyone else about his true motive. My guess is that he’s hiding out in the Yucatan. His family had a lot of friends there who could help him. He’ll lie low for a while, then go after Borgia, probably during a public appearance. Think about it, Dominique, do you really believe the Secretary of State of the United States would travel all the way out here to see you if he wasn’t frightened? In a few years he’ll be running for president. The last thing he needs to worry about is some paranoid schizophrenic with a 160 IQ plotting his assassination.”

Dominique wipes her eyes. Is it true? Did Mick really use his family’s apocalyptic research to set me up? “Let’s say I believe you. What do you think I should do?”

Foletta’s eyes twinkle back at her. “Let me help you strike a deal with Borgia. Full immunity for you and your mother if you lead the authorities to Mick.”

“The last time I struck a deal with you, you lied to me. You never had any intention of reevaluating Mick or getting him the treatment he needs. Why should I believe you now?”

“I didn’t lie!” He stands, barking the words. “I hadn’t been officially awarded the Tampa job, and anyone who says otherwise is a goddam liar!” He wipes the sweat from his forehead, then back through his mane of gray hair, his cherub face bright red. “Dominique, I’m here to help you. If you don’t want my help, then I suggest you get yourself a good lawyer.”

“I want your help, Doctor, I just don’t know if I can trust you.”

“The immunity would be arranged by Borgia, not me. What I’m offering is your old life back.”

“What are you saying?”