The Volcano That Changed The World (26 page)

After a short while,
Brennan took a few deep breaths and said, “We need to check on the people in the bus.” They exited the Range Rover with a first aid kit and headed toward the bus.

The tourists spoke
German. Three of them were on the ground being treated. As Brennan and Mark approached, several of the unhurt tourists rushed over and thanked them. “Danke! Dankeschoen.” They shook hands energetically.

Several English-speaking
Germans explained that three people had been wounded, but that their injuries did not appear life threatening and that a doctor who was part of their tour group was treating them. Brennan offered and the doctor made good use of the first aid kit, but there was little else Mark and Brennan could do.

T
hey watched silently as the terrorists’ car continued to burn in the distance.

Chapter Eighteen

Rocks are records of events that took place at the time they formed. They are books. They have a different vocabulary, a different alphabet, but you learn how to read them.

—
John McPhee

Tallahassee, September 1998

Sam Bolton was utterly amazed how easy it was to purchase a handgun in Florida. No permit or special training was required. It didn’t matter that he’d never fired a weapon before. The only requirements were that he was twenty-one years of age, had a valid driver’s license, and could pay his five dollars for a perfunctory background check.

The c
lerk said cheerfully, “Don’t worry. With no criminal record, you can pick up your gun in three days.” Bolton didn’t have a criminal record—yet.

From the numerous guns available, h
e’d selected a Glock 19 with a magazine containing fifteen nine-millimeter cartridges. He had heard stories about how a handgun was an extension of your manhood. The Glock satisfied that part of his psyche. He felt quite macho holding it. He was in control again; he had the power.

The clerk
told him the gun he selected was ideal for versatile use and that he might want to purchase an additional magazine. Bolton only had one use in mind and one magazine would be more than sufficient; he declined.

Sitting on the sofa in his Florida room, Bolton thought about his life. After that nosy cop found out the truth about the Shadron affair, he had been placed on probation pending a formal administrative hearing. Although he still maintained his office, all his official duties, including teaching, were prohibited. He felt his career was over. At the upcoming hearing, he would most likely be dismissed from the university. His sham of a marriage also was over. Priscilla had hired the best divorce attorney in Tallahassee. Caitlyn Black was known for her aggressive style and was going after him with a vengeance. Why not? He had provided her all the ammunition she needed. He had not even bothered to hire his own attorney. What was the point?

A
mmunition…the word triggered his thoughts back to his new purchase. After the required three days, Bolton had picked up his weapon and chuckled to himself to think that even a deeply depressed person like himself could buy a handgun and no one could stop him. After all, under the Constitution’s second amendment, he had the right to “keep and bear arms.” He was exercising that right as part of his plan.

He
liked his new gun; he even liked the sound of the word. “Glock, my Glock,” he said to the gun, while sitting on his couch and holding it closely in front of his face, admiring it. He thought about naming his weapon, but “Glock” worked fine.

He held it in his right hand, a bottle of Southern Comfort in his left.
Raising the tall bottle to his mouth, he gulped down several swallows of the one-hundred-proof whiskey, a trickle running down the side of his face. With his newly acquired handgun, he would be unstoppable. “Like Sherman marching to Atlanta,” he said aloud. He erupted in an odd laugh as he realized he was comparing himself to Sherman, a despicable Yankee. A Yankee, just like that damn detective!

The Glock
felt good in his hand, a nice balance. The grip warmed rapidly to the temperature of his hand. It felt a part of him. As he looked at it, he wondered how he had gone through life without owning one of these before now. While admiring it, sounding sinister, he mumbled, “Guns don’t kill people; people kill people, but you will be my little helper, Glock.” This made him chuckle, adding, “Volcanoes don’t kill people; God kills people.” He laughed louder.

Looking around the room, he noticed that many of his wife’s precious plants were
wilting and dying. Their passing matched his dark mood.

Somehow the lyrics of the theme song from
the movie
MASH
popped into his head. He tried to sing it out loud. Off key and with a slurred southern accent, he sang the first verse and chorus.

Through early morning fog I see

visions
of the things to be;

the
pains that are withheld for me;

I realize and I can see...

that suicide is painless;

it
brings on many changes

and
I can take or leave it if I please.

Again he laughed, this time at his inability to sing. He had butchered the song. His continuous fiendish laughter caused him to launch into a severe coughing fit.

Once he controlled his coughing, h
e raised the gun to the side of his head, barrel against his temple. He read somewhere that this angle was not always successful. If your hand moved while pulling the trigger, the bullet’s path might be too steep, causing it to ricochet off the skull or only damage the brain, not causing death. A more certain shot for suicide, according to the article, was to “eat the bullet.”

Slowly he moved the
gun away from his temple and slid it into his open mouth. He closed his lips around the barrel, tasting the hard, smooth steel. The sexual implications of this situation flashed through his mind and he almost gagged with laughter. Fortunately, his finger was not on the trigger.

Still
, he held the gun in place. At this natural forty-five-degree angle, the shot was certain to damage the brain and/or spinal column sufficiently to cause death. He sat, gun in mouth, thinking how easy this would be. He moved his finger onto the trigger. It would all be over in an instant. His nightmare would end. Like the song said, “Suicide is painless.” He had nothing to live for, but he had promised himself that he would not be the only one to die. The stupid undergrads referred to him as “The Volcano” because of his temper. He planned to erupt tonight.

L
owering his Glock, he took another long pull from the bottle of Southern Comfort. Swallowing the whiskey, he looked at his watch. It was almost time to go to his office. He had checked with the office administrator and learned that Mark’s flight arrived tonight. Knowing Mark, Bolton knew he would be unable to stay away from his office. His compulsion to work would be his demise. Everyone believed he had tried to kill Mark. Tonight the rumors would become reality.

***

Their trip back to Alexandria took much longer than the journey out to the ancient fortress of Tharo. When Egyptian officials finally arrived, Mark and Brennan explained their version of the terrorist attack. By the time they finished the interview and bade goodbyes to the German tourists, it was late afternoon. The drive back was somber, with the usually loquacious Brennan remaining quiet.

Mark, too, was not
in a talkative mood. He was somewhat subdued, and thoughts of returning to Tallahassee weighed heavily on his mind. It was almost midnight by the time they arrived back in Alexandria and checked into the same low-budget hotel Brennan had booked them prior to their trip to Tharo.

Mark’s last night in Alexandria was short and spent in restless sleep.
He caught his flight home the next day and left Egypt. There was barely time to say goodbye to Brennan as they shared breakfast that morning. He wasn’t able to sleep on the planes either, even though the long flights offered him ample opportunity. There was just too much to think about.

H
e and Alexia were planning to work on a paper updating the connection of the destruction of the Minoan civilization and Plato’s story of Atlantis. They would include the new interpretation of the hieroglyphs used in Plato’s account and the new estimate of the height of the megatsunami that engulfed Crete. The paper was exciting in its own right, but it also would be his excuse to return to Crete and see Alexia.

At breakfast, he and Brennan had
discussed publishing a paper together on their findings about the two separate eruptions of the Thera volcano. Brennan wanted to expand the paper’s discussion to include the connection with the Egyptian plagues preceding the Israelite exodus. Mark felt uncomfortable with that and suggested Brennan publish his theory on his own.

As
an enticement, Brennan told Mark a Canadian filmmaker might be interested in making a documentary on the subject. “You could be in the movie.”

T
o the contrary, this made Mark even more uncomfortable, but he told Brennan he would consider his proposition. “At the very least, I can serve as a reviewer of your paper,” Mark promised.

His excitement over these possibilities was ac
companied by a numbness that lingered after the terrorist attack. He felt helpless. Life was so fragile. He found it difficult to comprehend what would drive someone to take another’s life.

During these thoughts of life and death, h
is mind constantly drifted back to Tallahassee and all the unresolved issues he would encounter upon his return—the murder attempt, Bolton’s sabotages, his tenure vote, Shadron’s accusation. The summer had gone by much too quickly. He wasn’t looking forward to getting back to the reality that he would soon have to deal with at Florida State.

***

After too many hours to coun
t, both in the air and waiting for connections, Mark finally landed at the Tallahassee airport in the late evening.

Detective Carter was t
here to meet him at the airport. During Mark’s stopover in London, he had called Carter, who had offered to pick him up and provide him with the latest details on the attempted-murder investigation. Carter didn’t want to discuss details over the phone especially given the fact that Mark would be back in a few hours.

Carter shook his hand.
“Welcome back, Mark.”

“Thanks. Should I be happy to be back?”
Mark shifted his backpack to a more comfortable position as they walked to the luggage carousel.

Carter shrugged
. “Well, I have some good news and some bad news. Which would you like to hear first?”

“I’ll start with the good.”
Mark was ready for something positive.

The sides of Carter’s mouth curled up somewhat
—whether into either a smile or a sneer, Mark wasn’t sure. “You are not the father of Shadron’s baby.”

“I already knew that,” protested Mark.

“It’s one thing for you to know it; it is quite another for me to be able to prove it in a court of law.”

“So you can prove that I’
m not the father?” Mark asked, becoming more interested.

Carter nodded.
“Yes, using DNA.”

Mark
stopped. “Don’t you need a sample of my DNA to prove that?”

“Normally that would be the case.”

“What makes my case different?” Mark asked.

A
lmost boasting, Carter said, “I know you are not the father because I identified the real father.”

Mark sensed that Carter was enjoying this game of questions and answers, so in spite of his lack of pa
tience, he played along. “Okay, Detective, who’s the real father?”

Now there was a definite smile on Carter’s face.
“None other than your friend, Sam Bolton.” Carter watched Mark closely to see his reaction. It was instantaneous.

D
umbfounded, Mark stopped in midstride and looked blankly at Carter. It didn’t take long for his tired brain to re-engage. Not only was his name cleared and the accusation of Shadron proven false, his tenure problems were likely over. Bolton was suddenly no longer in a position to intimidate him and bully others into voting against him.

As if reading his mind, Carter added, “
Professor Bolton is now on probation and will be removed from the university as soon as a formal administrative hearing takes place.” He saw no reason to inform Mark about Priscilla or Bolton’s divorce proceedings.

“
Wow! How did all this come about?” Mark asked excitedly. He felt no sympathy for Bolton’s plight.

Carter explai
ned how he had matched Bolton’s DNA to the unborn child in Shadron’s womb. He gave Mark a thorough account, knowing the scientist would want to know every detail.

Mark
absorbed Carter’s story, then asked, “Okay. So what’s the bad news?”

Carter
’s mood changed; he looked dejected. “The bad news is that I still don’t know who tried to kill you. I still think it was Bolton, but now he has a new alibi.”

“And what would that be?” Mark asked incredulously.

Carter shook his head.
“Believe it or not, he says he was with Shadron that night, out at Lake Jackson of all places.”

“Do you believe him?”

Carter shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Shadron’s memory is vague. She claims she spent a lot of time with Bolton at Lake Jackson. She could have been with him that evening, but she’s not sure.”

Mark’s festive mood changed
; he became pensive. Someone who wanted him dead was still out there. He was back here in Tallahassee where his life was still in danger. Suddenly, he longed to be back on Crete with Alexia. “Are you still investigating my case?”