The Mayan Apocalypse by Mark Hitchcock Read Free Book Online Page B

again.”
    He didn’t move. “Seem what? Intelligent? I am. I have an MS degree in geology from Reynolds University. Had my father not died, I might have pursued a PhD. As it was, I inherited a business. The boardroom is a very different place than a barren field.”
    â€œYou prefer the outdoors, don’t you?”
    â€œMore of your research?”
    â€œI saw the online photos of you in far-off places.” She reached for her phone. “Want to see?”
    â€œNo thanks. I was there.”
    â€œSo why believe this stuff about the Mayans and 2012?”
    He waited a few moments before answering. “Because, Lisa, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
    â€œOkay, I’m working hard to not cross the line again, Mr. Morgan—”
    â€œJust Andrew is fine. I’m a casual man. Most people just call me Morgan.”
    â€œOkay, Andrew, how is it that the Mayan prophecies make so much sense to you?”
    He turned his head to face her. A smirk rose on his lips. “Call it faith.”

DECEMBER 30, 2010
    T he pastor was a chunk of a man, pear-shaped, who waddled more than walked. Morgan didn’t trust men who refused to take care of themselves. He spent a significant portion of his day working out and taking enough vitamins and health enhancements to constitute a small meal. Why every man didn’t do the same puzzled Morgan. Although the reverend wore an expensive suit, Morgan could tell that there was more fat than muscle beneath the finely stitched black material.
    Pastor Johansson sat in a red oak chair behind and to the side of the mortuary pulpit. Quincy Doolittle, the portly pastor who stood behind the lectern, was Berkley Street Baptist Church’s minister in charge of pastoral care. It had been explained to Morgan that Berkley Street Baptist was a megachurch and therefore need many staff members. It wasn’t news. The South was filled with such churches. He had assumed that the senior pastor would be the one doing the funeral and felt cheated because the duty had been passed off to another man.
    As the CEO of a major corporation, Morgan knew the importance of delegation. Still, it didn’t seem right. His wife and son deserved the best in life and even more in death.
    In his heart, he knew it didn’t matter. Dead was dead, and even if he buried his family in caskets of gold and hired the world’s most famous preachers to conduct the service, he would still go home alone to an empty house.
    Quincy Doolittle took care of the weddings, hospital visits, and funerals. Johansson was there for support. Johansson had been the first to visit Morgan after the crash. He deserved credit for that. After that one visit, Doolittle made all future contact. Why that bothered him, Morgan didn’t know. Of course, everything bothered him. Stop lights were too long, birds sang off key, grass was too green, and sugar too sweet. It didn’t matter what it was—it was wrong.
    Morgan took a deep breath and noticed it came in a shuddering flow. He promised himself he would not cry. He had done little else since the cops showed up at his door with the small words that ground his world to dust.
    A few moments ago, the room was filled with subdued action. Soft conversation bounced off the walls of the Benjamin Atwood Memorial Chapel in Oklahoma City’s most prestigious mortuary and cemetery: Eternal Trails. Morgan had been here twice before: once to bury his mother; once to bury his father. Now…
    He had no brothers or sisters, so an elderly uncle and even older aunt sat with him on the family pew. Marybeth had also been an only child. The pew seemed under-filled and for reasons he couldn’t explain, it bothered him.
    Behind him sat the twelve members of his board of directors. Each had shaken his hand as professional men do, said how sorry they were, and offered to help in any way they could. Morgan shook each hand and said thank you.
    Young