James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

“Only wondering,” Goldstien said, leaning back in his chair.

“Porter’s an analyst of ancient Near Eastern studies,” Kinnard said. “Ulman sent me the package, because he thought I might be interested. I shared it with John Porter before discussing it with Dr. Masterson, which I shouldn’t have done. But it’s done. Porter’s been working on the project for a few days now.”

“How could he be working on an archaeological find from Mesoamerica if he has no knowledge of Mesoamerican studies?” Alred said, feeling offended and assaulted.

“The find,” Wilkinson said with a pause, “seems to draw…a connection to the ancient Near East.”

No one said a word.

“So the Mormons are right?” Alred said. She saw the smiles, but didn’t change the shape of her face. Her question was both sincere and sarcastic. She didn’t believe any religion had logical bearing or any integrity. They helped people be morally and ethically better than they might otherwise be, but the rest was a fill-in-the-blank to lessen the fear of death-look at Heaven’s Gate, the thirty-nine human-inhabiting “aliens” who committed suicide at the end of last week! She smirked and looked at Kinnard who sat still with his hands in front of his mouth.

“If the Mormons are right, we are all in grave spiritual trouble,” Masterson said with a chuckle.

The room rumbled lightly with laughter before Wilkinson continued. “If you look hard enough, you’ll see what you want to see. That’s an old idea historians must deal with daily.”

“Of course,” Alred said, hoping this was all some huge April Fools joke.

“Porter is a keen student,” Kinnard said. “He is very skilled in what he does and loves it when everyone disagrees with him. He thrives on argument-”

”-But then so do you!” Masterson added, jabbing his finger in the air, grinning at Alred. “That’s why I knew you would be the best student for the project.”

“John Porter will give a wonderful analysis of the find, though his time is extremely short,” said Wilkinson.

“And therefore so is mine,” Alred replied with a sting at the aged scholar.

Goldstien squinted at Alred, “But Porter will also have a resolute Mormon bias.”

“What we want from you is an unbiased study of Ulman’s discovery,” Masterson finished. “While Porter quickly presents his dissertation, which will no doubt excel in the field, you will present a counter dissertation just as briskly, which will be the first objective view of the discovery presented by Porter. The scholars of the world will love you, and you will soar to the top of all the most recent doctoral graduates. You will then gain access to any university in the world and be set for life as a well-known scientist!” He grinned, and it was his real smile: one full of greed.

Alred shot a quick and curious glance at Kinnard who continued to silently stare into the tabletop.

Masterson added, “You and John Porter are assigned to work together, and that you will. At the same time, you shall be fighting head to head with him. Only…Porter must never know it!”

April 10

9:54 a.m. PST

“Well it’s about time you showed up,” said Porter with a smile on his face and fire in his eyes.

“Good morning,” Alred said as she slid through the tight portal. The door wouldn’t open all the way.

“Sorry about the mess,” Porter said without enthusiasm.

The stuffy air choked Alred almost as badly as the tension she felt from her fellow student. She thought she smelled forgotten lettuce and bologna sandwiches and wouldn’t be at all surprised if a few hid beneath the disordered piles of papers, the open files, the scattered heaps of books.

“Need a bookshelf?” she said, only to regret it. The walls were naked and white, but there definitely were enough volumes in the tiny room to carpet at least two walls. Obviously, whole cases wouldn’t fit in the room. If Porter lined each wall with independently hanging shelves, his books would practically be falling on him. His desk wasn’t a desk, but a common four foot by two and a half foot classroom table, and some of the stacks on top of it stood two feet high. Florescent lights shined from behind a rectangular plate in the ceiling. There was no phone that she could see. His ergonomic chair squeaked with every movement.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Porter said, bending around his desk to remove a one-foot high mountain of pages from the only extra seat in the room.

Alred stepped carefully wherever she could see the floor. She really couldn’t believe it. “Nice office,” she said. If it sounded sarcastic, she didn’t care. Porter’s response would probably be bitter no matter what she said.

“I realize the room is disguised as a closet,” he said, landing noisily back in his chair. A pencil dropped from behind his ear, and he bent to pick it up while speaking. “I won’t be offended if you try to hang your coat on the door.”

Alred sat.

“How’d you manage to get an office?” she said, trying to see what he was doing. His back and shoulders shook quickly as he erased some unseen mark his stylus must have made on one of the open files on the floor, and the jiggle made the chair squeak like a captured rodent.

“Oh,” Porter said getting up. His short hair fell like the fur of a long-haired dachshund after hanging upside down. “I’m a research assistant.”

“I know plenty of research assistants without offices,” she said, measuring him with her eyes. He looked tall, but that may have been due to his thin bone structure. His face also looked thin and awfully plain. There was nothing attractive about him, but nothing unattractive at the same time. Well…his hair did look soft, but it caused no emotional stir. If only he could clean up his attitude.

Porter smiled again and sighed. “It’s who you know in the world that counts, they say.”

“Yes, but who is they?”

“The cause of all good and bad; the blamed in every society,” Porter said as she smiled. He stood and gave her his hand. “John D. Porter.”

She took his hand without getting up. “What does the D stand for?”

“Desirable,” he said, sitting down.

“I guess you…already know who I am.”

“Erma Alred. No middle name. Been with us at Stratford for…five semesters now? And you’re in the same position I am in.”

“What position would that be?” said Alred.

“The desperate need for a dissertation, of course,” his smile faded slightly.

“If I understand things correctly, the D in your name deserves the word desperate far more than I do.”

He scratched his head with one abrupt movement, focusing his eyes on his desk. John Desperate Porter. Why did that have such a natural ring to it?

“Why aren’t you married?” she asked suddenly.

“Why do I get the feeling everyone’s asking me that?”

“I thought Mormons were supposed to wed and have lots of little kiddies like the Catholics,” she said matter-of-factly.

“You know I’m Mormon.”

“It sounds like we know a lot about each other.”

He smiled at her. “And still so very little.” She watched him examine her medium-length auburn hair, green eyes, and fair, unfreckled skin.

“Just enough to get the job done,” she said.

“What?”

She tilted her head. “Mind wandering, Mr. Porter?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You have green eyes.”

“You always this perceptive?”

“Lived in Japan for a few years. Green eyes are highly praised there. If you were half Japanese and kept the eyes, you could make it big in the Nippon entertainment industry.”

“That’s good to know in case this dissertation ruins me.”