The Girl in the Mayan Tomb

by Kevin Tumlinson

  Solving this was proving to be an impossible task. There was something missing, and Kotler wasn't at all sure what it might be. He had hints, he felt. There was something there. But for the moment, it just wasn't coming to him.

  He reached up and turned off the light above his workbench, slid the stool back to its place in the corner, and "dusted himself off," more figuratively than literally, smoothing his shirt and waving his hands as if clearing away a metaphysical miasma.

  Whatever the mystery of those artifacts, and however they might connect to Gail McCarthy, for the moment it would all have to wait.

  Kotler left the room he affectionately referred to as his "lab"—really just one of the spare bedrooms of his Manhattan apartment, remodeled to fit his needs. He went to his kitchen and eyed the espresso machine. It had been an expensive investment, nearly twenty-thousand dollars, but he'd only used it three or four times, that he could recall. It was noisy and complicated and time consuming. He had an appreciation for it as art, and as an accomplishment of engineering, as well as for the wonderfully artisanal espresso it could produce, when properly operated. But he wanted coffee now, dammit. He'd leave the artistry to the professionals.

  Besides, he needed a change in venue. He was thinking in circles, getting nowhere.

  He grabbed a coat from the rack near his front door, locked the door behind him as he left, and rode the elevator to the lobby.

  Ernest, the building's doorman, was waiting at his station, as always.

  "Good morning, Dr. Kotler," Ernest smiled, folding a good, old fashioned newspaper and placing it on top of the podium before him. "Would you like me to call a cab?”

  Kotler smiled. “How many years have I lived in this building, Ernest?"

  Ernest pursed his lips and looked up and to the left, thinking. "More than ten years, I believe," he said. “Think I'd already been here for about twenty years when you moved in.”

  Kotler grinned. "Sounds about right. You've been here every day of it, that I can tell. Don't you ever take a vacation?"

  Ernest grinned. "Dr. Kotler, you're here maybe ten days out of thirty every month. I've taken dozens of vacations over the years, you just weren't around to know it."

  Kotler laughed. "True. I don't know what this place would do without you. Unlivable, I suspect.”

  Ernest waved this off, shaking his head and smiling. “These days? The tenants barely need me. I'm a convenience bordering on a luxury,” he laughed. “But it's good to have a friendly face, to greet you as you come and go, isn't it?”

  Kotler nodded. “It is, yes. I confess, sometimes yours is the only friendly face I see in a month.”

  Ernest laughed. “With all your traveling? I imagine that might be true, Dr. Kotler!”

  Kotler smiled, but something about this exchange was hitting him in a tender spot. He thought of the unused espresso machine, the empty spare bedrooms of his apartments, the solitary travel days, ferrying to and from archeological sites by air. Kotler worked with hundreds of professionals and researchers, around the world, but the majority of their interactions was purely professional. Most were entirely virtual, as well. He had a better relationship with Facebook Support than he had with most of his colleagues in anthropology and archaeology.

  His recent blacklisting in that community had only exacerbated the problem. He was an anthropologist in exile.

  “No worries about a cab, though,” Kotler said brightly, mentally shaking off the feeling that was settling on him. “I like using Uber. The drivers are often fascinating people."

  Ernest nodded. "Are you visiting the FBI today, Dr. Kotler? I haven't seen your friend around for a while."

  "Agent Denzel," Kotler said, suddenly a bit guarded again, but still smiling. "No, he and I haven't talked much over the past few weeks."

  Kotler didn't feel like going into any details, and really couldn't have even if he'd wanted. Some of the particulars about their last case were still confidential and under further investigation. Some, such as the existence of the Devil's Interval technology, would always be confidential, for the safety of everyone.

  Detective Holden had warned Kotler not to talk to anyone, especially the press, about the murder of Ashton Mink, the rock star turned philanthropist who had inadvertently introduced a horrific new technology to the world. The case had a lot of tricky variables at play, and Holden had his hands full enough without the press discovering some of the scarier parts.

  That had proven to be a tall order, however. Kotler had a bit of notoriety himself, as a world-renowned archaeologist, and one of the most public faces of the Coelho discovery. It helped that he was wealthy, and connected. The press tended to treat him as a celebrity. Perhaps not at Ashton Mink's level, but the two had run in overlapping circles.

  After being spotted at the scene of a very public display, on the part of the man who had contracted the murder of Mink, Kotler had once again been hounded by the press, asked about his involvement with the FBI. The public was becoming intrigued by the mysterious anthropologist working as a consultant to the Feds. There had been more than one favorable comparison to Indiana Jones, which Kotler couldn't bring himself to feel too embarrassed over.

  Still, despite all the attention, it somehow made him feel more isolated than ever.

  Kotler had called for an Uber while chatting with Ernest, and stepped out now into the cool Manhattan air. Winter was coming. Or so he'd read. And today the evidence of a harsh winter was gathering. There was enough of a nip in the air to warrant a coat, and he wondered if he should have brought gloves and a scarf.

  His driver dropped him at one of his favorite cafes, where they served Greek coffee that was "hot as hell, black as sin, and sweet as the devil." He preferred it with no sugar, which the barista obliged, and he sank into a booth by the window, sipping and savoring a brew that was strong enough it might hold a spoon upright, if given the opportunity.

  The coffee hit home in just the way he'd wanted, and he smiled a bit, savoring the roasted taste, the aroma, even the atmosphere and ambience of the coffee shop, with its golden light and warmth pushing back the growing gloom and cold of the streets outside.

  He had started coming to this place because it was far from where he and Gail had shared coffee and spent time, before she had betrayed and endangered him. It was also far from where he and Evelyn Horelica, his ex-girlfriend and a fellow researcher, had spent long mornings in each other's company, talking about their work and, on rare occasions, their future that now would never come.

  The events surrounding Pueblo, and the Coelho Medallion, had been the final gasp of their relationship, though it had really ended months earlier. He and Evelyn had been sublimely compatible in all ways except the one that mattered most: They couldn't agree on when it was time to take things to the next level. Evelyn had been ready. Kotler had not. And though Kotler had always assumed they were on the same page, with their careers at the center of their shared lives, Evelyn had decided she couldn't wait any longer. She moved on, without him.

  He smiled a bit, thinking of Evelyn, and the new life she'd built since the events in Pueblo. He'd gotten emails from her, followed her publications in journals and online, and had even talked with mutual friends about her. She had a new life, centered, at the moment, around a new career opportunity. He couldn't fault her for any of it. Pueblo had been a frightening experience for her, and though Kotler had been instrumental in her rescue, he was still a part of why it had all happened to her in the first place. No fault of his own, but that would be small comfort, he figured. It was little comfort to him, after all.

  He shook himself. No time for thoughts like that. He purposefully shifted his thoughts to something else. The coffee. The deliciousness of the coffee. The heat of the coffee. The searing pain of drinking the coffee too fast. Dammit.

  His guru would be proud. Such self-control, despite wanting to scream.

  Thinking of all these things, he remembered that he had made a promise. He took out his phone and
texted Roland—Agent Denzel—to tell him where he was. It galled him to do this—checking in like a latchkey kid, every time he so much as went to a diner or a museum. He valued his autonomy and freedom. But it was the compromise he'd made, after turning away a subdermal tracker, a ward against Kotler's tendency to get himself abducted.

  True, Kotler tended to be an "abduction magnet." But then, he'd always survived those abductions. Maybe he should get a bit of credit for that.

  He knew, though, that Denzel was at least right about one thing: Kotler needed to do something to make himself less vulnerable to disappearing without a trace.

  It could make him a liability, for starters. And in his new role as a consultant to the FBI, being a liability was worse than being useless. More than that, however, Kotler was starting to wonder about the implications of his lifestyle.

  His conversation with Ernest rang back to him. The realization that if he were gone for months, it wouldn't raise any red flags at home—that was something to consider. In light of that, sending the occasional text message to his partner, his friend, didn't seem quite so limiting.

  His phone pinged, and he looked, expecting to see an acknowledgment from Denzel, as usual. The message was indeed from his partner, but it wasn't what Kotler had expected.

  Come in to the office, Denzel wrote. We have another case that needs your expertise.

  Kotler studied the message, and replied, Can you send me details?

  It was a cop out, he knew. A stalling tactic. He'd been avoiding Denzel for weeks, burying himself in the work of cracking Gail McCarthy's riddle, deciphering what the three artifacts might mean, and the message she was sending him.

  If he were honest, however, Kotler had to admit that he'd been hiding, avoiding the complications and questions and requirements that were circling him like sharks in the water. Consulting with the FBI, as part of their new "Historic Crimes" division, had seemed a natural fit before. Now, however, Kotler wondered if he'd be better off diving into full-time research and exploration again, traveling the world at will, writing and publishing his own papers and books. He'd been blacklisted by some of his former academic contacts—mostly a political move, after Pueblo—and it was likely he couldn't get a paper as far as peer review, these days. But he had enough fame and notoriety, thanks to the Coelho Medallion, to successfully publish on his own. He didn't necessarily need gatekeepers. He didn't need funding or approval, either. He had everything he needed to go it all on his own, and be very satisfied with his life.

  Of course, he could do all that while still working with Denzel and the FBI, if that's what he wanted.

  Did he want it?

  Another text popped up.

  Come in. You've been requested by Dr. John Graham.

  John Graham?

  Kotler knew him. He was a rival, of sorts. They had done some work together at a few sites, primarily in Central America.

  Graham was smart, and good at his job, but he had something of an ego. And he wasn't overly fond of Kotler's style, or of Kotler himself. He was one of those who had spoken out against Kotler, in fact, decrying him as a rogue, lacking the same academic credentials as the rest of them, with no university backing, and no underwriters.

  Of course, Kotler had no need of either a university or underwriters. He preferred working in private research facilities or on site, anyway, and his own wealth was more than enough to fund him. More reasons for Graham and others to scorn him, Kotler supposed. They had to work so hard for funding, and had to please the “masters” who agreed to back them. It must seem that someone like Kotler was spoiled and entitled. He'd never be able to convince them that he worked as hard as anyone, that he had his own challenges to face. Money was a useful resource, but it couldn't replace the people you'd lost, and it couldn't give you a purpose, if you lacked one.

  Still, Kotler wasn't an idiot. He knew that his wealth was as much a barrier as a resource, causing many in the academic and the archeological community to resent him.

  So, for Graham to ask for Kotler specifically …

  Be right there, Kotler replied, and then called for another Uber.

  He downed the rest of his coffee, and regretted it immediately, wincing through the scalding pain as he gathered his things and walked out into the chilling bloom of winter.

  Chapter 2

  It had been a few weeks since Kotler's last visit to Agent Denzel's offices, tucked into the back of one floor of the FBI's Manhattan headquarters. The last time he'd been here had been a grueling experience, as he endured hours of questioning from Denzel's superiors, as well as from Internal Affairs, over his use of Agent Denzel's weapon.

  The fact that Kotler had used the weapon to apprehend a murderer and potential terrorist hadn't quite appeased anyone. Kotler had taken his lumps for only so long before he had pushed back. He was, after all, a consultant for the FBI, at their own request, and not an agent. He had no qualms in dressing down the IA agent or the Assistant Director, both of whom had resorted to repeating their line of questions from the beginning for the third or possibly fourth time in a row.

  Letting himself get irritated with high-ranking FBI agents was likely a bad idea. But by that point, Kotler was already wondering if perhaps he'd had enough of the FBI, and whether it would be worth it to just go back to archaeology and anthropology full time. There were slightly fewer instances of being shot at, in the ruins of ancient cultures, and virtually no instances in which he'd be locked in a room and interrogated. Fewer than he'd had over the past year, at any rate.

  Denzel had ultimately intervened. He had, in effect, talked both Kotler and his examiners off the ledge, pointing out that Kotler had been instrumental in resolving not one but three major cases, including more than one terrorist action against the United States.

  The IA agent had pointed out that Gail McCarthy was still in the wind, and he made a point of calling out that Gail and Kotler had been in an intimate relationship. It was then that Denzel tore into the man himself, unraveling any headway made in calming the situation.

  In the end, the Director finally stepped into the room, and presented a pardon that had come down through the ranks. It called off the Internal Affairs investigation, absolving Kotler and Denzel of any misconduct. Despite this, however, the Director strongly cautioned Agent Denzel against letting Kotler have use of his weapon, ever again.

  These were easy terms to agree to. Kotler even considered asking permission to carry a weapon of his own, but had decided it wasn't the best time to ask. Better to accept the reprieve, and move on without comment.

  Now, as he walked back through the bullpen of agents, each busily fielding phone calls or typing reports, Kotler felt his irritation with the FBI return, and wondered again what he was doing here. Was he really doing any good, for the FBI or himself, by being part of this new division? What was he really getting out of this anyway?

  But the answer to that was simple, if mired a bit in some of Kotler's subconscious and unexplored baggage.

  Kotler had met Denzel during the events in Pueblo, and they became friends, even if Denzel would grumble before admitting it. Working with the FBI, alongside Denzel, had given Kotler a new sense of mission, just as the bedrock of his old life was crumbling somewhat. It was a chance to use his expertise in a whole new way, and to help to keep the world a bit safer. It was a rare opportunity to do some real good in the world, alongside someone whom Kotler had come to respect.

  Kotler cracked the door and peeked into the conference room that was just off of Denzel's office.

  “Roland,” he said, smiling. It was the way he'd always greeted his friend and partner, and Kotler realized there was nothing forced about it. He was genuinely glad to see his friend. The tension he'd felt, walking through the FBI offices, melted immediately.

  The agent looked up as Kotler entered the room, and nodded. Which was, Kotler admitted to himself, also part of their standard greeting.

  Denzel was leaning against the sill of the conference room
windows, with the Manhattan skyline stretching into the background behind him like a photographer's backdrop, lit by the diffused daylight that came with the approaching winter. Denzel looked as brooding as ever, of course.

  Kotler chuckled, and all feelings of animosity were suddenly gone. Roland Denzel was his friend, as well as his partner. He was a good man. And good men were hard to come by, at times. Even harder to ignore, for long. He suddenly felt that he'd missed Denzel a great deal over the past few weeks. Perhaps it had been a mistake to stay away for so long.

  Another man sat at the long table of the conference room, with his back to Kotler, and as he turned Kotler recognized him immediately.

  Dr. John Graham.

  “Good to see you, Dan,” Graham said, though the set of his jaw told Kotler that Graham wasn't all that enthused.

  Kotler's mood brightened even further, though it was hard to say if he was glad to see his old colleague, or if he was secretly glad to cause him a bit of discomfort. The latter would be a bit petty, Kotler knew, but in a friendly way, of course. Friendly pettiness was excusable, Kotler figured.

  “John,” he nodded, smiling. “What sort of trouble have you uncovered, and how can I help you get out of it?”

  There was an almost imperceptible flare from Graham's nostrils, but to his credit he took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh, and glanced at Agent Denzel.

  “Take a seat, Kotler,” Denzel said, motioning to one of the empty chairs.

  Kotler sat, and before Denzel himself took one of the remaining chairs, he walked to a Keurig coffee maker, took one of the ceramic mugs by the handle, and waved it to Kotler and Graham, offering.

  Kotler knew what this was. More than just an offer to make coffee, which was rare for Denzel anyway. This was an olive branch. A gesture. Clearly Denzel had understood that Kotler needed some space, and this was the start of asking if things were good.

  Kotler nodded, as did Graham, and Denzel busied himself making three hot cups of coffee as he spoke.