Turning off the main highway, Kestrel guided his Land Cruiser deep into the national park. He clipped a clunky GPS unit to the dash and packed a first-aid kit, plenty of water, protein bars, and extra batteries for his sat phone. He’d even notified the park ranger of his itinerary — a sensible precaution in the unforgiving Mojave Desert.
He had left downtown Los Angeles well before rush hour and arrived on site by midday, parking beside a cluster of similar SUVs. Stepping out, he scanned the makeshift camp. A hundred yards away stood an eclectic collection of shelters: lean-tos, modern tents, and even a traditional wickiup. The place was decidedly an estrogen-free zone, populated by grizzled professors and grad students sporting deerskin hats and well-worn leather boots.
Before he could approach, a large, heavily bearded man stepped into his path.
“You look a little lost, friend.”
“I’m looking for Dr. Hagelin. I was told he might be able to help me.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows rose. “You found him.”
Sticking to his cover as private investigator Crowe, working for the Society for Indigenous North American Justice (SINJ), he laid out the situation: he was investigating a cold case and a recent string of murders, hoping to find connections between them.
From Hagelin—who had helped draft the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act—he expected empathy and cooperation. The professor surpassed those expectations. He listened with genuine compassion, eyes glistening, then pulled Kestrel into a powerful bear hug as if greeting a long-lost Indigenous brother.
After the slightly awkward embrace, Kestrel noticed something curious. Despite the men’s Daniel Boone-style outfits, there wasn’t a single modern firearm in sight. Instead, they carried or worked on primitive tools and weapons—stone blades, atlatls, and hafted axes in various stages of creation.
“Survivalists?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.
“Not quite,” the professor replied with a chuckle. “We prefer the term Primitivists.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Survivalists tend to be doomsday-prepping militia types. Our group? Mostly PhDs who like getting our hands dirty with the old ways.”
He smirked. “Got it. Well, I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’m still very much wired to the modern world. I can’t function without my electronics.”
The professor raised his voice for the others. “Gentlemen! This one came fully wired. Should we send him packing?”
Laughter rippled through the camp. Several men good-naturedly pulled out their own phones, waving them like contraband.
“Sorry,” he said, grinning. “Your associate at the university told me you were completely off-grid out here.”
“A little white lie we tell the administration, our wives, and our grant committees so they leave us in peace,” he admitted, eyeing his satellite phone appreciatively. “Nice rig, by the way. You won’t get any signal this deep in, though. Coverage is decent along the highway thanks to the rangers, but out here? You’re on your own.”
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
***
“As stunning as this landscape is,” Dr. Hagelin said later, “it’s not the scenery that brought us here.”
They stood on a rocky knoll roughly a thousand meters from camp, surrounded by boulders of varying sizes. Using a sturdy stick, the professor pried two fist-sized stones from the dirt. He sat on a large boulder, placed one stone on his thigh, and struck it sharply with the other. A large flake broke off cleanly, revealing a glossy black interior.
“Obsidian?” he asked.
“Exactly. To the ancient peoples of this continent, this stone was worth more than gold.” He struck it again, detaching a smaller, razor-sharp fragment and handing it over. “Be careful — the edges are sharper than surgical steel.”
He tested it gingerly and winced. “No kidding.”
“We’re experimenting with hafting these onto antler handles to make axes and knives. Our ancestors figured this technology out nearly two million years ago during the Pleistocene. It gave Homo habilis — the original ‘handy man’ — a massive advantage.”
“I can see why.”
He wiped his hands and continued. “As clever as they were, do you know how long it took them to make the next significant leap in stone tool technology?”
“A thousand years?”
“Try a million.”
He let out a low whistle. “Damn. Our congressmen must be their direct descendants.”
The professor barked a laugh. He reached into a leather pouch and produced several finely crafted stone tools.
“In my opinion, your average Pleistocene hominid had more practical intelligence than most modern politicians. Surviving that world demanded real skill.” He handed him a crudely flaked knife. “This is a replica of a Paleoindian tool from about twelve thousand years ago — basic percussion flaking. The older pieces from this site show even earlier techniques. We can date them by hydration rinds on the obsidian; the thicker the rind, the older the artifact.”
“Remarkable,” he murmured.
“And because you drove all the way out here — and because of your Native ancestry — I’m going to let you keep this one.” He pulled out a nearly identical knife, freshly made. “I knapped this one this morning. A little souvenir.”
He accepted it with a nod of thanks.
***
Later that evening, beneath a brilliant canopy of stars, they sat in canvas chairs near a crackling campfire, slightly apart from the rest of the group. Using an LED headlamp, the professor spent nearly two hours carefully reviewing the forensic reports Kestrel had brought. He finally looked up from the section on microshard recovery and sourcing.
“So your working theory is that these women were tortured, raped, murdered, and dismembered by a sexual sadist?”
“Initially, yes,” he replied. “But the reports show no signs of sexual assault. The killer appears to have sanitized the bodies — possibly as part of a ritual to absolve himself.”
“Interesting you mention ritual,” he said, leaning forward. “Because from where I’m sitting, this has all the hallmarks of one. Not sexual. Spiritual. Specifically, it strongly echoes ancient Maya cosmology.”
Pulling the engraved Zippo lighter from his pocket — the one recovered from Strongblood’s apartment — he handed it over. “The serpent patterns on this are supposedly Mayan.”
The professor produced a hand lens and examined the engravings closely. “They are. Pre-Classic period glyphs, most commonly associated with the Central Highlands of Guatemala — the same region as the obsidian source in your reports.”
“I’m starting to see a pattern,” Kestrel muttered.
“Indeed.” He tapped the lighter thoughtfully. “Let me lay this out simply. One: The murder weapon appears to be modeled after a Maya ceremonial obsidian axe — toki — used for ritual decapitation, and the blade resembles the eccentric flints employed in dismemberment of sacrificial victims. Two: All victims were decapitated and dismembered in a manner consistent with documented Maya sacrificial practices. Three: The microshards recovered from the wounds trace back with 98.7% probability to the El Chayal quarry in the Guatemalan highlands, a major obsidian source for the ancient Maya. And four: This lighter.”
Hagelin handed it back. “One can only conclude that Maya ritual — or a deep obsession with it — lies at the heart of the killer’s motivation and method. The connections are far too specific to be coincidence.”
beta draft, I'd love your thoughts:
- Did the reveal and evidence breakdown land effectively?
- How did the contrast between the modern investigator and the primitivists feel?
- Favorite moments, lines, or details?
- Any suggestions for accuracy, flow, character depth, or what you'd like to see next?
After Dr. Hagelin’s analysis, what’s your biggest takeaway from this chapter?