He dipped the chalice again, and offered it to Denzel, who stood watching him with an expression of curiosity and, Kotler thought, hope.
“Drink it,” Kotler said.
Denzel took the chalice and drained it, handing it back to Kotler. He made a face. “Not exactly a fine red wine,” he said.
“But the health benefits are positively godly,” Kotler replied, smiling.
“So that was an antidote?” Denzel asked.
Kotler shrugged. “I can't say for sure, but it's what Masters and these two were counting on to save them from Ah-Puch.”
He looked again at Masters, who had rolled on to his back and sat up, watching them. He had a strange expression on his face, almost bliss. He laughed, lightly, and said, “It doesn't matter what you do to me now.”
Kotler placed the chalice on the altar and turned to face Masters full on.
“What was it?' Kotler asked. “Why did you do this? What were you after?”
Masters laughed. “Life,” he said. “I just got my life back.”
“For what that's worth,” Denzel said. “You're about to go to prison for a very long time.”
Masters chuckled. “Maybe. Even if I do, it will be worth it.” He smiled and leaned back until he was lying flat, staring up at the glass ceiling of the greenhouse like a kid watching the clouds.
Denzel eyed Kotler.
“Don't look at me,” Kotler said. “I think he's nuts.”
“But you knew that …” he motioned to the gourd. “That whatever it was would cure us?”
“I hope so,” Kotler said.
“You … hope so?” Denzel asked, incredulous.
Kotler was about to reply when suddenly several people wearing biohazard suits stormed into the greenhouse. Liz Ludlum, leading everyone, raced to the altar and used it as a work surface as she tore open packs of lightweight plastic. They were the quick-use equivalent of the heavier biohazard suits, and Kotler and Denzel were ordered to pull them on. Masters and his two assistants were helped into suits by the FBI agents, while Liz busied herself with gathering samples and sealing the chalice, the gourd, and the liquid it contained into a portable container.
Kotler was impressed by how quickly it all happened.
“When we're out of this greenhouse, seal it tight,” Liz said to the other CDC operative. She turned to Kotler, “We need to get all five of you into containment.”
“I think we're going to be fine,” Kotler said. “And I think we may have a cure to use on Graham.”
“Fine,” Liz said tersely. “You can be fine in containment.”
Kotler nodded, and allowed himself to be led out of the greenhouse.
“Can we commandeer that helicopter?” Liz asked, pointing. “It's kind of a stroke of good luck.”
Denzel looked at Hicks, who had the helicopter's pilot cuffed and on the ground. The bird still had its rotors going, and the props were spun up and ready. “I think that would be fine, under the circumstances,” Denzel said.
Liz gave orders to the agents accompanying her, and then guided Denzel, Kotler, and the other three exposures into the helicopter. She climbed in back with them, along with one of the FBI team. Two more agents climbed into the cockpit, one of whom was a qualified pilot, and in moments they were in the air.
Within half an hour they touched down at the CDC facility, where they were met by dozens of suited doctors and personnel. They rushed forward, guiding each of the exposed through decontamination, having them shuck bio suits and clothing as they were hosed with antiviral and antibacterial agents from hundreds of jets. They were then marched into the facility and into individual containment rooms, where they were given hospital gowns and bedding, all in sterilized plastic packaging.
Kotler let all of this happen without comment and without resistance. He let himself get pulled into the flow of it, and a sort of warmth settled on him.
It grew, filling his body, tingling in his extremities, giving him a sense of euphoria and lightheadedness.
He worried, briefly, that these sensations might be symptoms of Ah-Puch, expanding and replicating within his cells, preparing to kill him from within, in a mad orgy of replication. And perhaps it was. Perhaps this was what it felt like to die a cellular death. But he was certain that he was fine. As was Denzel. As was Masters.
The warm feeling grew, and with it came a sense of peace and, oddly, increased vitality.
Basically, he felt great. And he suspected he knew what that meant.
Chapter 35
It had been almost two weeks since the takedown of Masters and his people, all of whom pled complete ignorance to his plans. Many of the researchers taken down by Denzel's team of agents were being cleared, officially, though they were all being held in observation for the time being.
Kotler, Denzel, even Graham had all been cleared of any signs of the Ah-Puch virus, mere days after the raid. Once it was determined that the purple liquid was an effective counter agent to Ah-Puch, it was administered to Graham immediately. Within a day, his symptoms were reduced, and he regained consciousness by the second day.
They were all fine, it seemed. No sign of the virus in any of them.
In fact, other than Graham having to take things easy as his organs mended themselves, the three of them were in better condition than ever.
“Blood pressure, cholesterol, heart rate … everything is as good as anyone could expect it to be,” Dr. Dawson reported.
Kotler, Denzel, and Graham were all seated around a conference table in the CDC's Manhattan facility. They were dressed in scrubs, which were a welcome change from the hospital gowns they'd been confined to for the past two weeks.
“That's good to hear,” Denzel said. “Now, when do we get the hell out of here?”
Dawson smiled. “Soon. Today, actually. There isn't a single trace of Ah-Puch in your systems. It's like you were never exposed.”
Denzel relaxed, and Kotler fought the urge to laugh. The agent had been an absolute bear for the past two weeks, making life slightly miserable for everyone around him.
Kotler understood, of course. It would be a criminal understatement to say that this had been a stressful situation. It was a true relief to be cleared, and very welcome news that they'd all be going home.
Still, there were questions, and Kotler had been waiting as patiently as possible to get the answers.
Apparently, so had Denzel.
“Do we know why Masters did this?” Denzel asked. “What was he after? And why risk all of this?”
Kotler cleared his throat, and Dawson looked at him with a curious expression.
“I think the real question,” Kotler said, “is what fatal disease did Masters have?”
Dawson blinked, looking from Kotler to the others and then back again. “How did you know he had a fatal disease?” she asked.
Kotler huffed. “The ceremony, actually. Kili'ich K'aak is meant to bring balance, pitting Junab K'uj—essentially the god of life—against Ah-Puch, the god of death, through a cosmic fire. The fire burns away the old, and gives rise to the new. Much the way burning a forest clears the brush and deadwood, allowing new growth to emerge.”
“And you think that's what Masters was after?” Denzel asked.
It was Dawson who responded. “It was,” she said.
Denzel shot Kotler a look. “Don't be smug,” he said.
Kotler, stifling a smile, shook his head and said nothing.
“But he failed,” Dawson reported.
Kotler looked to her, surprised. “Failed? The ceremony didn't work?”
Dawson sighed, and shook her head. “It helped, I believe. I've seen his medical records. He had stage five pancreatic cancer. It was a miracle he was still alive, though upon questioning him I believe this was due to certain experimental treatments.”
“It helps to own your own biotech company,” Kotler supplied.
Dawson nodded. “The cancer went into remission for a time, several years ago, but re-emerged, resista
nt to chemotherapy and other traditional treatments. Masters used his firm's research and resources to prolong his life, though he was dealing with quite a bit of pain. He's told me that he first heard of Kili'ich K'aak when he was casting about for alternative treatments. He encountered a legend about the Mayan god of death, and about the cosmic fire ceremony, and made certain intuitive leaps. He spent years gathering everything he could about Ah-Puch, and determined he had a cure.”
“Wait, the virus cures cancer?” Denzel asked.
Dawson shook her head. “It's more like the virus is an extremely efficient form of chemotherapy. The bitter beverage you took is derived from a flower in Central America that is being studied for its cancer-fighting effects. Masters learned that it was used in the cosmic fire ceremony, and figured out that it was a counter balance to Ah-Puch. The virus essentially destroys the cells of the host, but it latches onto certain proteins, using them like homing beacons. Drinking the beverage in conjunction with exposure to the virus essentially trains Ah-Puch to seek out specific markers in the body.”
“Markers linked to cancer,” Kotler said.
Dawson nodded.
“So why didn't it work?” Graham asked. His voice was weak, but much stronger than it had been days earlier. He was regaining his strength.
“His exposure time was too limited,” Dawson said. “He rushed the ceremony, unaware that while the beverage cancels out Ah-Puch, the beneficial effects require the virus to spread throughout the host's tissues. The beverage itself delivers a feeling of euphoria and well-being, and it acts essentially as an extreme antioxidant. But in order for it to cure the cancer, the virus must be allowed to … well, to do quite a bit of damage.”
They each looked to Graham, he raised a weak hand. He had a hospital cane in his other hand, and he looked a bit slumped and weary. Kotler was glad to see his friend making a recovery, but it was shocking to see him in this state. He was lucky to be alive.
They wrapped up with Dr. Dawson, and were given instructions for what to do if they ever experienced any symptoms. They rose from the table, and were about to file out, when Kotler turned.
“What about Ah-Puch?” he asked. “We … well, we effectively have a cure for cancer now, don't we?” He asked. “What will we do with it?”
Dawson looked sad for an instant, then exhaled. “We don't, unfortunately. We don't have a cure. Because we do not have the Ah-Puch virus.”
Kotler's eyebrows arched. He looked first to Denzel, then back to Dawson. “What about all of those statues recovered at the private airport in Mexico?”
“The Mexican government felt they posed a public health risk,” Dawson said, her voice subdued. “They destroyed all of it. It was all taken to a secure facility and incinerated. None of it was left.”
“None?” Kotler asked, shocked. “No sample?'
“Nothing like what was in the statue Raymond Masters took with him,” she said, her expression sad. “We've determined that the strand of Ah-Puch that Dr. Graham was exposed to was similar, but weaker than the full virus. It's why he survived so long, actually. The full Ah-Puch virus, left unchecked, would destroy the cells of a human body within a day.”
“Thank God for small miracles and small statues then,” Graham said.
Kotler shot him a look, and was very pleased to see a glint of joy in the archaeologist's eye. It was good to see life returning.
As the meeting wrapped up, they were each led away to their private rooms. Kotler arrived to find a change of clothes waiting for him, which he pulled on gratefully. He had no other possessions—everything they'd been wearing or carrying, including, sadly, his weapon, had been destroyed to prevent possible contamination. Once again, Kotler found himself in need of tapping his phone's insurance policy. He was certain they would eventually refuse to cover him.
Dressed, and more than ready to be on his way, Kotler gracefully declined the offer of a ride from one of the CDC people, in favor of taking an Uber back to his apartment. He couldn't quite stand the idea of spending even another second talking about viruses, or everything that had happened regarding Ah-Puch. The Uber driver, blissfully unaware that he was ferrying someone who only days ago was considered a public health risk, was all too happy to discuss anything and everything else in the world. Kotler let him chatter on for the hour it took to get home.
After a brief chat with Ernest, Kotler slipped into the elevator and up to his apartment. He entered through his front door only to find his luggage from Mexico placed on the floor of the living room, courtesy of the FBI. It was a relief to see it, though Kotler decided he would leave everything there until the morning. For now, all he wanted in the world was to take a shower, change into something comfortable, and retire to a comfortable chair with a good book and a fine scotch.
He was certain there would be more than one scotch.
He spotted his iPad on the bar that separated his kitchen from the living area. He hadn't had any contact with his iPad, or anything else really, over the past couple of weeks. It was simply safer and easier for the CDC to limit his access to only those things within the quarantine space. Kotler dreaded the volume of messages he was likely to have missed, but again decided it would be best to get to those in the morning.
Despite this, he couldn't help turning on the iPad's screen, just for a preview of what he may have to deal with. It was a bad idea, he knew, and one he instantly regretted.
There was a text message on his screen from a blocked number, which read simply, “Welcome back. I'm still waiting.”
Kotler blinked, and let the tumblers click into place. He knew who this was from. He knew what it meant.
Gail McCarthy was letting him know that she was still out there, and that he still had work to do.
He studied the message, his mind already tumbling to permutations of meaning, as if he were deciphering an ancient code. And then, quite suddenly, he exhaled and turned the iPad off, placing it back on the bar.
Gail was playing games. Still playing games.
That was fine. He would let that pass, for now. He had plans of his own for Gail McCarthy, and he'd already laid the groundwork for them. He'd get back to solving the little puzzle she'd left for him, because it was, in fact, a puzzle, and it intrigued him.
For now, though, it was to the showers, and to the scotch. And everything else could go to hell.
Epilogue
Kotler, Denzel, and Graham were gathered among hundreds, possibly thousands of other funeral goers. The weather was right for this kind of service, Kotler thought. It was bright out. Sunny. Not dank and dismal, the way funerals always seemed to be. There was a chill in the air, enough that everyone was wearing winter clothing, but not so cold that anyone was miserable. But this was the right way to say goodbye to someone who had been such a bright presence, however brief, in the lives of so many.
After five years of questions, worries, and enigmas, Margaret Elizabeth Hamilton—Maggie Hamilton to her friends and her fans—was finally being put to rest.
Among the well-wishers were Leonard DeFranco and Mick Scalera. Both had been lovers of Maggie's, both had been part of her life in intimate ways, onstage and offstage. Both had been among the last to see her alive.
Both avoided each other, but their presence was certainly felt.
DeFranco had been exonerated of any wrong-doing, and it was clear this was a tremendous relief to the man who had suffered under the scrutiny of both the press and the police for so long. He did a fair enough job keeping his expression somber, but Kotler could see he was practically ready to dance for joy. He was, however, appropriately sad when the eulogy was given, and Kotler thought the man might be feeling some genuine emotion, under all of the acting. He was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least. For Maggie's sake.
Mick Scalera, on the other hand, made no pretense of tears or sadness. He played his emotions closer to the vest. It was clear he was drunk, though he remained respectful. As people filed past Maggie's casket, pla
cing roses and pausing to whisper their goodbyes, Mick joined in. He lingered for a moment with a hand on the casket lid, then pulled on his sunglasses and walked away, his back to the entire congregation. Kotler watched him disappear among the grave stones.
Maybe he'd been impacted more by Maggie than Kotler had thought. Scalera's career hadn't exactly been a rocket ride into the stratosphere, since his initial success. He might have regretted that things hadn't worked out with Maggie's show. Or, if Kotler was being more generous, perhaps Scalera simply regretted not having Maggie in his life any longer. He was a driven artist, dedicated to his craft to the point of snobbery, but perhaps he was more capable of appreciating Maggie's life and work than he had initially seemed.
Again, for Maggie's sake, Kotler chose that to be his impression, as Scalera finally vanished from sight.
Dr. Graham had made the funeral, to Kotler's great surprise and relief. He was still using the cane, but he'd clearly gotten stronger. He was recovering well. It had been a few weeks since they'd all left the CDC, and Kotler had meant to check in on Graham soon.
When the funeral was over, Graham motioned for Kotler, calling him to one of the nearby gazebos that had been decorated with flowers and arrangements, in Maggie's honor. There was a large, framed photo of Maggie on stage—a black and white image in which the stage lighting struck her in just the right way, softening her young features while catching in the sheer fabric of the gown she was wearing. It was a breathtaking image, particularly in light of all that would follow that scene.
Kotler stood beside Graham, who was leaning on the wooden rail of the gazebo. They overlooked the scene of the funeral as people filed out, making their way to waiting cars in the narrow drive of the cemetery, each leaving one by one. There had been enough people in attendance that it was taking time for everyone to clear out, and this quiet moment was as good a way to wait things out as Kotler could imagine. It was also a good chance to chat with his friend, to see how he was doing.
The Girl in the Mayan Tomb Page 29