The Mayan Apocalypse Read Free Page A

place smelled like popcorn.
    The woman fast-stepped to the doors. Morgan followed a few feet behind. Soft New Age music wafted from the theater.
    Just over the threshold stood a teenage blonde holding a thin stack of folded paper. He saw her hand one to the impatient woman. Then, spying him, she held one out for Morgan to take. He took the program.
    â€œYou’re just in time.” The blonde sounded as if she’d been taking in helium. “These are the last two seats.” She motioned to movie-style chairs in the last row and next to the aisle. “No one is allowed in once the program starts.”
    The woman slipped into the first chair, saw Morgan sanding there, and moved over one spot. He smiled and lowered himself into a seat a thousand other fannies had used over the years. The cushion had lost the ability to cushion long ago. A chunk of plywood would have been more comfortable.
    He glanced at the woman and saw a lovely face with bright, blueeyes and a serious expression. He knew better than to ask, so he guessed: mid-thirties. Her face, her body, and her confidence were everything necessary to attract a man. The ring finger of her left hand was naked. So why didn’t that matter to him? His marriage had been a happy one, and he had been a faithful husband: no dalliances, no flirtations, no liaisons, no affairs. Other women didn’t tempt him. In those moments, when he was especially honest with himself, he’d admit to allowing his gaze to linger on the form and faces of other women, but he likened it to admiring art.
    That was then. He was a widower now. He had the right to pursue romantic interest. And yet he never did. He felt no inclination to start.
    He watched as the woman rifled through her purse until she found what she had been searching for: an identification badge hanging on the end of a neck strap. She slipped it over her head. First, Morgan noticed P RESS /M EDIA emblazoned in large red letters across the top of the plastic card. Just below that, he saw a photo of the woman and the name L ISA C AMPBELL .
    â€œIt looks like we just made it, Lisa.” Morgan paused a half second. “May I call you Lisa?”
    â€œHow do you know my…” She pursed her lips. “My press pass. Of course.”
    â€œI’m Andrew Morgan.” He held out his hand, which she shook.
    â€œAs you’ve already surmised, I’m Lisa Campbell. I’m with—”
    â€œThe media.” The words came out harsher than Morgan intended.
    â€œI take it you don’t like the press.” She turned her eyes forward.
    â€œSorry. I didn’t mean to…” He sighed, then smiled. “I’ve had a couple of bad experiences.”
    â€œWith reporters? So you’ve been in the news.” She returned her gaze to study his face. “Your name is familiar. Why?”
    It was his turn to look away. “So you’re covering the UFO festival?”
    â€œAn evasive change of subject. You have dealt with reporters before. To answer your question, yes and no.”
    Morgan chuckled. “Now who’s being evasive?”
    â€œI’m not trying to be. I’m not covering the UFO junk. I’m here to cover this meeting.” A second later, she added, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called it UFO junk.”
    â€œDoesn’t bother me. It is junk. At least most of it. Like you, I’m here to hear what Robert Quetzal has to say.”
    She nodded and started to speak, but then the lights lowered. Morgan looked over the heads of several hundred people to the front of the theater. The movie screen had been raised so the area behind it could be used as a stage. Another screen—the rear projection, Morgan assumed—hung at the back of the platform. A pair of high-backed, red-leather chairs faced each other and had been angled so people in the theater would be able to see the faces of those who sat in the chairs. Next to the