Denzel checked his phone, saw that he had missed a call from Kotler, and called back with an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.
“What took you?” Kotler said.
“I was babysitting,” Denzel said. “You alright?”
“I’m good, but the police are coming in now. I shot Chandler”
Denzel sighed. “There’s going to be paperwork. And yelling.”
“I also told them there was an agent on scene,” Kotler said.
“More yelling,” Denzel said, sternly. “Mostly from me.”
“I would just prefer not to be arrested or shot,” Kotler said. “How’d things turn out on your end?”
“Kids are safe. The armed parents have a playground covered. It’s not going anywhere, but no humans seem to be in danger. The countermeasure should be here soon, I hope.”
As if on cue, Denzel heard a helicopter approaching.
“Kotler, show them your ID, and tell them that I left to come out here and deal with a secondary threat. Hide my weapon. They’ll want a statement from you, but tell them you have to debrief with me first.”
“Got it,” Kotler said.
Denzel hung up, and went to greet an agent carrying a metal case. They placed it on the ground and opened it, revealing the makeshift device that Patel had built. “You know how it works?” he asked the agent.
She nodded.
Denzel pointed at the armed parents. “Those are your targets. Don’t get too close, they’re programmed to shoot at any threats.”
The agent nodded again, took the device out of the case, and positioned herself in range. She activated the device, aiming it like a rifle at each of the armed parents. The highly directional beam had more range than the Devil’s Interval device, which was fortunate. It took only an instant for each of the parents to come to their senses, and when they did they each tossed their weapons away as if they’d just discovered they were holding a snake.
Denzel let the agent on the scene handle them, and rushed to see if he could keep Kotler out of trouble. There would be a lot of explaining to do, but the circumstances and their victory would help.
He hoped.
Epilogue
Kotler had sunk into the cushions of a rounded booth, and was enjoying both the scotch and atmosphere. Hemingway’s was something of a theme bar, with an adventurer’s motif. It had been here, on this spot, for more than fifty years. Updated from time to time, it had avoided being ‘modernized,’ beyond a few updates to the wiring and plumbing. The walls of the place were adorned with maps, photographs, and the occasional fly fishing rod. A set of books, leather-bound and all alleged to be signed by Hemingway himself, were on shelves at the end of the bar, encased in Plexiglas, and accompanied by a small, brass plaque explaining their origin.
Kotler wandered in here from time to time—often enough that the bartenders knew him and considered him a regular. This, even though he would often disappear for months. Kotler had always liked that. He could go away for three months, and come back to find this place exactly as he’d left it, and with everyone recognizing him and greeting him with smiles and the occasional drink on the house.
But now he wondered if that was as good a thing as he always thought it to be. These people knew of him, but they didn’t know him. He could vanish this very evening, and they’d continue on with their lives as usual, maybe someday wondering “whatever happened to that archeologist guy?”
Denzel had slid into the seat across the table from him, looking uncomfortable. “How’d it go?” Kotler asked.
Denzel had a scotch of his own, but until that moment he hadn’t touched it. He took a sip, took a breath, took another sip. “It went well enough, for an ass chewing. I was quoted regulations, more than once. More than ten times, actually. The Director let the Internal Affairs guys have at me for a solid hour before he stepped in.”
“IA?” Kotler asked. “They didn’t bring IA into my debriefing.”
“They will,” Denzel said. “You’re up again tomorrow.”
“Again? I’ve already told them everything that happened. Multiple times,” Kotler said, his expression sour.
“Welcome to life in the Bureau,” Denzel said, taking a more serious turn with his drink.
Kotler watched, then chuckled, and smiled. “That’s the cost, then,” he said. “At least we stopped Chandler.”
“You stopped Chandler,” Denzel nodded, and offered his glass up for a toast.
Kotler returned the gesture, they clinked glasses, and each downed the rest of their scotch in a gulp. Kotler motioned for the waitress, pointing at the two empty glasses, and she nodded and went to retrieve more.
Denzel relaxed a bit. “You did good, Kotler,” he said. “I know we’re taking a ration of shit now, but the Director is vouching for both of us. We managed to save Ross Miller, to keep a bunch of kids from being gunned down in a payground, and to take out Garrett Chandler without killing him. He’s in critical condition, but expected to pull through.”
“Good news,” Kotler said, nodding.
“So why do I get the impression that you’re not seeing this as a complete victory?”
Kotler regarded him for a moment, shook his head and smiled. “We won. I know that. I guess I’m having sort of an existential crisis. I’m wondering what I’m doing in the middle of an investigation like this in the first place. I’m an archeologist, not an FBI agent. All my career, I’ve dealt with artifacts and ancient texts and research.”
“You’ve had your fair share of action,” Denzel pointed out. “I’ve seen your file. You’ve been in some heavy activity.”
“Not generally by choice,” Kotler grinned. “But true.”
“Are you having second thoughts, then?” Denzel asked. The waitress had returned with two new glasses of scotch. Denzel took his, staring into it for a second, then looking up at Kotler. “Are you thinking you’d rather not do this?”
Kotler shook his head, sipping from his glass. “Not at all. I’m thinking that I need to change a few things, if doing this is important to me.”
“Like what?” Denzel asked.
“Like how I move around in the world. I don’t really ‘check in.’ It sort of rankles me to even think about it, though. I like being free roaming, unattached. But … well, maybe that’s been part of my problem, in the past.”
“You’re not just talking about being abducted,” Denzel said.
Kotler laughed. “No, I guess not. Evelyn. I was thinking about her and how things ended. They ended well before she was taken. And it was my fault. And I was thinking about Gail. She showed me she could get to me, but it was mostly possible because of how I live. She took advantage of my freedom, and used it to shackle me.” He sipped his scotch, then shook his head. “I don’t think I can change entirely, Roland. I like my life. I like how I live. But I see that I need to compromise a bit, if I’m going to keep finding myself in situations where a sociopath might have a gun on me.”
Denzel nodded. “I was going to ask if you’d agree to a sub-dermal tracker.”
Kotler choked then laughed, a loud bark that brought some eyes their way. “I was thinking I should probably just check in more. You want to tag me like a seal?”
“It would only be used if you went missing and I needed to find you,” Denzel said. “I’m getting one, too.”
Kotler shivered. “I don’t know. That doesn’t sound appealing at all. Makes me feel … leashed.”
“I could make it a condition of your contract,” Denzel said.
Kotler gave him a hard stare. “You could,” he replied.
The rest went unspoken, but was still clearly understood. If it became a condition of Kotler’s eligibility to consult with the FBI, it would be the end of that consultation. Kotler was willing to put on a leash, but it was going to be a very long leash, or none at all.
Denzel nodded. “Voluntary is better,” he said.
Kotler felt the muscles in his neck and jaw loosen, and the smile returned
to his face. “Voluntary is always better.”
“Will you do it?” Denzel asked.
“Give me some time to think about it,” Kotler said. “For now, I’ll promise to check in regularly.”
It wasn’t enough, Kotler knew. This new role would require Kotler to be in the line of fire more, and it meant he would have to make some compromises.
What if he just went back to his old work? It was true, the gatekeepers of academia and science had more or less blackballed him, in terms of publication. But Kotler could go it on his own. He could publish his own work, in much the way men like Graham Hancock or Erich von Däniken continued their work despite garnering jeers from their peers. These were brilliant men, pushing the boundaries of what was known about human history, offering new perspectives and new theories about who we were as a race. And they were brave enough to take the heat for it. Maybe Kotler could follow their example.
Or maybe he could do both. Working with Denzel had opened new opportunities for him, and provided him with a new cause. But it didn’t have to be his only work. He had stipulated, from the start, that he would consult but would also continue his own work. It was how he had been able to spend weeks at the Atlantis site. Maybe he would make that more of a regular thing, with his FBI consulting becoming less prominent in his life.
Maybe.
He was feeling better now. Nothing was entirely resolved, but he could feel that resolution coming. He would work this out.
“So, what about the Devil’s Interval technology?” Kotler asked. “Were we able to determine whether Chandler sold it to anyone?”
“So far, things seem clear. We’re still looking for Gail McCarthy, to see how much she knows. That’s just one more note in her file, though. She has a lot to answer for.”
Kotler nodded. “I’ll start looking into those objects she gave us. She’s baiting us, but there’s something to that.”
“Careful,” Denzel said. “Don’t do anything without looping me in.”
“Of course,” Kotler said, smiling.
Denzel studied him, a look of doubt on his face, but went on. “Holden called me this afternoon to say that he’s arrested Jack Harris.”
Kotler’s eyebrows arched. “He tracked him down?”
“It wasn’t hard, once we knew that Garrett Chandler was behind everything. Holden ran all of his records and found several rental properties, inside and outside the city. Harris was holed up in one right here in Manhattan. He had a burner phone with Chandler’s number programmed in. He’d been waiting for instructions, he said.”
“Did he confess to Ashton’s murder?” Kotler asked.
Denzel nodded, sipping his scotch. “He did. And to Lawny Bristol’s murder.”
Kotler whistled. “Two murders, with confessions.” He shook his head, then thought. He looked at Denzel, who was staring back at him. “You’re kidding … he cut a deal?”
“He had contact with Gail McCarthy’s network. It’s how Chandler found out about it. He has information we need.”
Kotler felt his face flush. He wasn’t given to being angry, but lately the injustices were piling up. “So he walks? Two murders, two confessions, and he gets off?”
“He’ll do time,” Denzel said. “It’ll just be a nicer prison. And if he screws up, even once, it’s off to harder times.”
Kotler shook his head, unbelieving. He had studied humanity all his life, but sometimes it could still surprise him. He sighed, sipped his scotch, and brooded for a moment.
Denzel, apparently sensing Kotler’s frustration and wanting to shift the conversation, changed gears.
“As soon as Chandler wakes up, we’ll have a lot more questions for him. But it looks like his motives were primarily aimed at aiding his cause. I think he was planning to use any money from the sale of the tech to fund a new operation, to keep exploring how to use this technology to effect larger numbers of people.”
“That would fit,” Kotler said. “He somehow became radicalized. And it’s not too hard to see why. History is filled with instances of oppressed classes rising up, and it’s almost always a bloody revolution.”
“I don’t know that he’s part of an oppressed class,” Denzel said.
Kotler shook his head. “He isn’t. Not really. He has rights, and he has more wealth than most. But he thinks he’s oppressed, and that’s the reality that matters to him. There are possibly millions of others who feel the same way. Look at the state of things, in the US. The media can’t seem to report anything without connecting it to something homophobic or repressive to women, transgender, blacks, or someone else. These good people are being told, every day, that they’re victims, and that turns them sour. It’s no wonder there’s so much tension and hatred growing. It isn’t good. I’ve studied human cultures my whole life, and I can tell you that this isn’t a new phenomenon. We’re watching an ‘us versus them’ mentality gain a strong foothold in the world, and eventually it will boil over into conflict. Chandler’s move to use Devil’s Interval may be one of the first volleys, but it won’t be the last.”
Denzel considered this, and nodded. “It’s sad,” he said. “I fought for this country, and for the values of it. I want people to have the kind of freedom that lets them choose who they want to be, and to be that, without hesitation. If it doesn’t harm someone else, or infringe on someone else’s rights, then it should be that way, I believe. Somehow, that’s been twisted, and even militarized.”
The two sat, somber, sipping their drinks, until Kotler smacked the table with the palm of his hand. “Enough,” he said. “We won. We celebrate that. No more crisis, no more lamenting.”
“Agreed,” Denzel said.
They finished their drinks, and Kotler paid the tab. They left Hemingway’s exactly as they found it, moving out into the Manhattan night.
Kotler decided, on the ride back to his apartment, that the world needed someone to occasionally point out the repeating patterns of history, and to sometimes act to protect humanity from its own fears and prejudices. History was a pretty remarkable guide for that, in Kotler’s estimate. And if assisting Denzel in solving cases and unlocking mysteries and sometimes saving the world with a gun in his hand was the path he was on, then for the moment, at least, he could live with it.
He would continue his research and keep publishing. He would keep traveling the world, exploring cultures first hand, and connecting disparate ideas of history and science to understand it all. He would be himself, and the best version of himself that he could think to be. And he would try, as hard as he could, to avoid being kidnapped or shot, in the process.
Keep the Adventure Going!
Read the Next Dan Kotler Archaeological Thriller Now
When Broadway star Maggie Hamilton disappeared five years ago, it was a mystery that captured the imaginations of everyone. When her body turns up in the tomb of a Mayan god, it opens the door for an evil that could consume the world.
Dan Kolter and Agent Roland Denzel are back, and just in time, as a new threat emerges that could mean the end of all humanity. A mysterious figure has his sights on the contents of a lost Mayan tomb, and Kotler and company will need to use all of their resources, intelligence, and any luck they may have to keep an ancient curse at bay.
In this fourth full-length adventure, Dr. Dan Kotler faces off with the most clever death traps the Mayan culture ever conceived, using his wits and his skills to keep himself and everyone else alive.
Even if he escapes the Mayan tomb, it could be too late.
READ THE GIRL IN THE MAYAN TOMB NOW, AND JOIN KOTLER ON A HISTORY-SPANNING THRILL RIDE!
START READING THE GIRL IN
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A Note at the End
When I first started writing Dan Kotler’s adventures, I figured they would end up like all my other books. I love what I do, and I love the stories I’ve crafted. They’re a part of me, and it pleases the hell out of me when they become part of
the readers as well. But all my previous books have become more like family you only see on holidays. You still love them. You’re still excited to see them, when they come around. You still cherish them and want them to do well. But they aren’t part of your daily life anymore.
In some ways, that’s a bit sad. It’s the way life works, though.
I once had an employer—a cantankerous attorney with a big heart and a bigger mouth—tell me, “I don’t buy people, I rent them.” This was said in answer to some comment I must have made, maybe casually stating the fact that it was clear I wouldn’t work for him forever. I liked him, quite a bit. I respected him. But I knew from day one that he and I weren’t going to be lifelong partners in anything. And this was his way of saying he knew it, too.
And I think that’s the way a lot of our relationships work. We’re in it for seasons, not lifetimes. There are souls who come into our lives for a season, and we enjoy each other’s company, drinking and laughing and spending time together, and then we move on. That season may come around again, some day, but for now, the world keeps rotating and revolving, and we’re hovering just above it, letting it pass beneath our feet, on to new people, new relationships, new adventures.
This applies to the work, too.
These days, I’m a thriller writer. Previously, I was a science fiction writer, and a fantasy writer. I can still pen a sci-fi or fantasy story any time I want, but that’s more like buying your Christmas gifts in April, and wrapping them in July. It’s sweet. It has meaning. But it isn’t the season.
There’s something about thrillers that has really caught on with me, and I think it comes to me from multiple directions.
First, the nature of the thrillers I enjoy writing is that they are tied to some bit of history. And not just any history, but “out of place history.” I love the idea of a character who is as versed in history as anyone in academia, but is obsessed with finding the oddballs and the out-of-places. I love, as well, that this character might have other interests that are weighted equally with his love of history—interests such as quantum physics, and the study of how the universe itself is stitched together. In a way, both disciplines are identical, in that they both entail looking below the surface, studying and making observations, and connecting disparate ideas to form a cohesive whole. They’re both about pursuing meaning by studying the world around us.
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