Denzel thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I'm not sure I'm ready to start thinking of Christianity as some kind of marketing campaign,” he said.
Kotler laughed. “That's a good way of putting it. But it's not quite that bad,” he said. “It's true that culturally, Christianity borrowed pretty liberally from other belief systems. But the core message of the faith has remained intact for more than two thousand years, which is simply remarkable—and unique among most religions. Christ was a very real historic figure, and so was the church he founded. His disciples moved out into Asia and Europe and Africa just as the New Testament describes. We have correlating historic documents about the life of Jesus, including some extensive documentation from the Roman Empire. References to ‘that troublesome Jew' and ‘the growing Christian movement' show us that Biblical accounts were very accurate.”
“Well,” Graham said, “I mean, the historic accounts.”
Kotler shook his head. “Historic accounts that include accounts of miracles, of course.”
“Miracles,” Graham scoffed, smirking.
“I take it you're not a believer?” Denzel asked.
Graham shrugged. “I believe in Christ as a historic figure, for certain. I've seen reference to him in records retrieved from verifiable historic figures, including Augustus Caesar himself. Whether he could turn water into wine and raise the dead—I can't really say. I can confirm that there were quite a few people who did believe in those abilities, based on the historic record. Some of those sources were quite credible. But even the most credible source can be … mistaken.”
Kotler watched Denzel, and saw his friend make certain quiet decisions about Graham's point of view. Kotler and Denzel had never discussed either's religious beliefs, per se. Later, when there was time, it might make for an interesting discussion, probably over drinks, as is often the case with deep and intriguing conversation of every variety. For now, however, Kotler could see by Denzel's body language that he must hold certain beliefs himself, but he might be willing to be open minded. To a point, at least.
They stood now in the antechamber, and Kotler turned slowly to take in the general atmosphere and details of the place. The LED work lights helped bring out details, but there were still dark corners. Kotler noted that the antechamber was strewn with debris—whole and broken statues in various serpent and animal motifs, and what appeared to be stone tiles, some of which were shattered and spread in a radiating pattern, as if they'd fallen to that spot from above. He glanced up, somewhat nervously, and saw that the ceiling was nearly bare, where it had once clearly been sheathed in ornate tiles.
There were wooden beams up there, however. These, Kotler knew, would be carved from sapodilla wood—one of the hardest and strongest varieties of wood in the world, and immensely difficult to carve. Beams just such as these had been discovered and recovered by none other than John L. Stephens and Frederick Catherwood—the famous attorney cum author and the hard-luck illustrator, respectively—who had been among the first to explore and catalog the lost Mayan culture. Carbon dating of similar lintels and beams had placed them in a range several hundred years before the birth of Christ, which was mind-boggling, but also problematic. They hinted at a culture at least as advanced as the Egyptians of the same era, with none of the influence of three neighboring continents, each contributing their own history and culture. It appeared, instead, that Mayan culture had simply sprung up from the Earth whole and intact, with the earmarks of similar cultures, an ocean away, and no explanation as to how that was possible.
To many anthropologists, the spontaneous development of an ancient culture rudely parallel to cultures in ancient Africa, Asia, and Europe was equivalent to randomly choosing the winning lotto numbers three weeks in a row. The odds were staggering.
Which, Kotler believed, opened the door to so many other possibilities, such as the infamous “third party” theory.
This was the notion that many early cultures were actually influenced by a third, globe-spanning and world-unifying culture that had somehow been erased from history by an unrecorded or as yet undiscovered catastrophe. Hints of this culture had been found in nearly every significant region on the planet, and indicated that this lost civilization might have been so technologically advanced that its discovery would redefine known history. Many believed that stories of the gods were, in fact, half-remembered tales of this technologically advanced race of pre-historic humans. It was the stuff of programs such as Ancient Aliens, and considered the domain of fringe science, by many. Despite this, the idea was intriguing all the same. Kotler privately believed there was at least some credence to it, though he knew for certain that many in the scientific community dismissed the very idea as fantasy garbage.
It had always seemed to Kotler that being immediately dismissive of any idea was simply being closed-minded. There was more in heaven and earth, after all, than was dreamt of in science.
At the moment, however, Kotler wasn't thinking so much of lost civilizations as he was pondering the mysterious force of gravity. He eyed the remaining ceiling tiles, imagining one falling and caving in someone's skull.
“We should be safe,” Graham said, standing beside Kotler and peering upward, sweeping his own flashlight across the remains of the decorative ceiling. “I believe all of the tiles that could fall have fallen already. Likely due to tectonic activity in the region.”
“Comforting,” Denzel said, only just noticing what Graham and Kotler were observing.
Kotler moved his own beam in an arc over the walls of the antechamber, resting its glow in one of the dark corners closest to the tomb entrance. “Where was Maggie's body found?” he asked.
Graham pointed. “Over there. She was supine, with her head pointed North. I believe she died peacefully.”
“Forensics did a full sweep?” Denzel asked.
Graham shrugged. “I'm not sure what a full forensic sweep would entail, but they did seem very thorough.”
“Did they do a Luminol sweep?” Kotler asked.
“After five years?” Denzel replied. “Likely not.”
“There's a study going at Highlands Ranch Law Enforcement Training Facility, in Denver,” Kotler said. “They've been able to detect blood eight years after it was spilled. There was a paper published on the topic in 2013. Conditions for that study were far more volatile than what we have in here, and I would expect you could find some trace, at least.”
Denzel studied him for a moment. “You read too much.”
“I've been accused of worse,” Kotler grinned.
“Why on Earth would you read a forensics study?” Graham asked.
Kotler peered at him. “You're a scientist. You, of all people, know that advances in our field almost always depend on advances in other fields. Forensic science is constantly pushing the edge to find new ways to determine the cause, timing, and method of death. That's useful information for anyone studying the cultures of long-dead humans, wouldn't you agree?”
Graham considered this, and nodded. Kotler could almost see him mentally determining to subscribe to forensic journals, at the first opportunity. If for no other reason, he would make himself an expert in forensic science just to close any gap between himself and Kotler.
Kotler was still smiling when he turned back to Denzel. “You have Luminol and a black light in your kit, I assume?”
Denzel grumbled as he once again shrugged off his pack. “We're going to get you a forensic kit of your own, when this is over,” he said. He riffled through his pack, and produced a small spray bottle and a handheld black light. He handed these to Kotler, and stood back, nudging Graham to do the same.
Kotler knelt near the spot that Graham had indicated. He studied the area, trying to picture Maggie's body, laying prone and still. The mental image that persisted, however, was from long before her remains had turned skeletal, and her clothes had started to deteriorate. He imagined the fullness of her, as close to life as she could be, but still very much a corps
e.
It was morbid, he knew, but it helped. Imagining her alive, in that spot, was distracting at best. She was dead. The dead stayed put, their body language silent. Their bodies had in fact told all the stories they could tell—and now it was time for the corpse to tell its own story, and for Kotler and the others to learn from it.
Kotler sprayed Luminol on the area. He focused his attention on where he thought Maggie was most likely to rest. There was a space that was relatively clear of debris, where the floor was flat and a small ridge of stone would do for Maggie to rest her head.
Spraying this area brought results. As Kotler passed the black light over the spot, several dots of long-faded blood were illuminated. They were faint, but detectable.
He sprayed more, over a wider area, and a large blotch of long-dried blood came into view. It was quite a bit, Kotler saw. An alarming amount of blood. He was no physician, but he knew enough to recognize a fatal bleed out.
“I'll be damned,” Denzel said, peering over Kotler's shoulder.
“She was definitely injured,” Kotler said.
“What made you think of that?” Denzel asked. “What made you think she was injured at all? I was set to believe that she had starved to death in here.”
“Several hints,” Kotler said. “The immediacy of the note she left, for one. Scribbled in a hurry, with eyeliner pencil. A fast warning—not something she'd had time to consider. She needed to get her message down before it was too late.”
As he spoke, he sprayed another area, and as he passed the light over it, they saw an even bigger glow of long-dried blood. “Pretty bad,” Kotler said.
“She bled out, then?” Denzel asked.
“I don't think there's any doubt,” Kotler said.
“What were the other hints?” Graham asked, with a touch of awe in his voice.
Kotler exhaled, considering. “The spent cartridges outside,” he replied. “Why would the guerrillas need to fire their weapons?”
Denzel shook his head. “I was wondering that myself.”
“They wouldn't, of course,” Kotler said. “They were the only people who knew about this place. Presumably. But I think it's likely. I think that they brought Maggie here, possibly with someone else. And they fired on her when she tried to escape. I believe she was hit, and she managed to lock herself in here.”
“Where she bled to death,” Denzel asked.
Kotler nodded.
“But,” Graham started, “What about the door of the tomb? The chips around its edge?”
Kotler stood, and ran his flashlight over the edges of the door. “Zebras,” Kotler said.
“Excuse me?” Graham replied.
“An old doctor's adage. When you hear hoof prints, you tend to think horses, not zebras.”
Graham looked impatient. “And?”
Kotler shook his head. “Bias, Graham. You found a body in here, and one that didn't belong in this place. You found evidence that someone had tried to enter the tomb. It was only natural to assume that it was Maggie, trying to find a way out.”
“You're saying that it wasn't Ms. Hamilton who tried to open that door?” Graham asked.
“I think Maggie was too injured to try anything. I think she came in here to escape, and was shot in the process. And I think she realized she was dying, so she left that note.”
Graham was shaking his head. “It all sounds like conjecture,” he said.
“That's true,” Kotler replied. “But, I mean … Prada.”
“Her shoes?” Denzel asked.
Kotler nodded. He looked to Graham. “You said she was wearing them? The corpse?”
Graham nodded, then cursed under his breath. “Why would she be wearing designer shoes in here? Particularly with those heels? She would surely have removed them, to avoid stumbling over the rubble in here.” He looked at Kotler. “She wasn't alive in here long enough to take them off.”
Kotler nodded once.
“So let me run through this,” Denzel said, turning and sweeping his eyes around the chamber. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed his notebook, flipping through it and jotting things down as he spoke.
“Ms. Hamilton buys a bunch of Mayan artifacts and artwork, to use in her show. Some unknown individual buys all of it, but Maggie holds back a statue of Ah-Puch. From there, we have a gap. Ms. Hamilton ends up here, at a lost Mayan city, where she winds up shot and hiding in a tomb. She bleeds out and dies, but before she goes she leaves a warning about the statue. She couldn't have been the one to scar up that tomb door, so she wasn't the first one to enter this tomb.”
“A chronic circumstance for all of us,” Graham grumbled under his breath.
“So,” Denzel continued, “We can see some of the holes in the story now, at least.”
“And we can suppose a few details to start filling those in as well,” Kotler said. He walked across the antechamber, and stood in front of the tomb door. “Whoever made these marks,” he said, running his fingertips over the scarred stone, “was desperate to get inside. Judging by the crudeness of the attempt, I'm guessing it was someone among the guerillas. My best guess? I think that Maggie tracked down the person who sold her the statue and the other artifacts, hoping to buy more, maybe. Whoever that person was, it's a cinch they were dealing in black-market goods. It's even likely they supplied the guerrillas with their weapons. He or she may have known about these ruins, and kept them secret. When Maggie showed up, wanting more of these artifacts, she may have caused some buzz. A prominent American looking for lost Mayan antiquities? It would get attention.”
“So they kidnapped her,” Denzel said, nodding. “Planning to ransom her.”
“It's not unheard of,” Graham said. “It's common, in fact. It's the reason the university hired Sarge and his men, to provide some protection for my team.”
“I think they were on to something even bigger, though,” Kotler said. “I think they tracked Maggie and her dealer to this city, where the dealer was likely storing his finds. Maybe even using the tomb to store weapons. Notice how sections of this place are cleared of debris?”
Denzel and Graham both looked around then, as Kotler swept his flashlight back into the dark corners of the antechamber, where he'd been exploring earlier.
“How did I miss that?” Graham asked, quietly. “It's conspicuous, now that you point it out.”
“You had other things competing for your attention, at the time,” Kotler said. “But the point is, I think someone was using this place as storage, and the guerrillas discovered it when they followed Maggie here.”
“So they looted the place,” Denzel said. “And one of them tried to get into the tomb.”
“Probably hoping to find treasure,” Kotler replied. “But this door has a different trigger than the main entrance. I'm also guessing that the guerrillas showed up as Maggie and her guide were inside, with the door standing open. The guerrillas looted the place, but had no idea how to open the door, once it was closed. Otherwise, they would have gotten in here and disturbed her remains. Maggie's dealer was likely killed in the firefight outside, and Maggie herself was injured as she ran for the tomb door and closed herself off in here.”
Denzel considered this, and scribbled on the blank pages of his notebook. “I'm willing to run with that narrative,” he said. “It fits, at any rate. But what about the guerrillas? Why did they just leave Ah-Puch behind? They just tossed it on the ground, next to a pile of ash?”
Kotler shook his head. “I don't have an answer for that, yet. Something about that scenario isn't clicking. Maybe the statue proved worthless after all? Maybe whatever the biological weapon is, they were able to get it and no longer needed that statue?”
“Too many maybes for my comfort,” Denzel said.
“Mine, too,” Kotler agreed. “But that's as far as I can take it, at the moment. I was having a hard time reconciling some of the details of this, until I found the blood.”
“Admit it, you've been weaving that story
for a while now, and the blood was the confirmation,” Denzel said.
Kotler blinked. “I have no idea what you're insinuating,” he replied.
Denzel shook his head.
“Well,” Graham said, clapping his hands together. The sound it produced echoed eerily in the chamber, startling both Kotler and Denzel. “Now that we've reasoned that part out, what say we attempt the tomb?”
Kotler nodded. “I think it's time to give it a look. If Maggie's dealer had anything special that he wanted to keep safe, he might have hidden it in there.”
“Sure, sure,” Denzel said. “Obviously you've already figured out a good enough reason to go ahead and open the super-secret tomb door.”
Kotler smiled and shrugged. “Obviously.”
Chapter 13
Masters wasn't used to feeling eager or impatient.
Anticipation wasn't new to him, of course. He'd learned to relish anticipation, to savor it like a fine wine. Anticipation could sharpen the senses and enhance an experience.
But anticipation was cultivated, its rewards agreeable. This—waiting in the sweltering heat among the filth and grime, the pungent body odor of the guerrillas overpowering his senses, and the persistent dive-bomb attacks of insects driving him near insanity—this was not anticipation. This was the upper limit of his patience being worn away and scrubbed from him, eroded and finally carried away like silt in a river torrent.
For half a decade, his plans had been put on hold. His purpose had been delayed. After a lifetime of careful planning and orchestration, of positioning himself as the head of an empire, after building an unassailable reputation and a hidden cache of resources, he'd had to endure this interminable delay because of the whims of a stage light maven who couldn't bring herself to simply honor the deal as discussed, and trust that he'd do the same.
The Girl in the Mayan Tomb Page 12