James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

He threw the grating onto his desk and banged the wall with his head.

April 29

7:51 a.m.

“Come on in, Ms. Alred,” said Professor Masterson, looking down at the bag in her hands. “You got my message.”

She entered the room with the rectangular table and looked at the faces staring up at her. Here it had all begun, here it would end.

“I thought I was to-”

Arnott was the first to smile. Then she saw Goldstien who looked even happier to see her.

“-to give it to Dr. Kinnard,” she said.

Porter’s supervisor sat farthest away, his hands together, his elbows on the table. He watched her with intense silence.

“You’ve done good work, young lady,” said Arnott. He sat like a black scorpion ready to strike, perfectly still.

“Oh, the silent one,” she said to him without reservation. “Why haven’t I taken any of your classes, Dr. Arnott? Come to think of it, I’ve never heard a thing about you, and I was unable to find your name in this semester’s schedule. Are you supposed to be new here?”

Goldstien’s smile died and he shot Arnott a glance as if she’d blasphemed against the school deity.

But Arnott’s cold grin only relaxed more. “Did you bring the manuscript as requested?” he said glancing at the package in her right hand.

“It’s been a difficult semester, and I think I’m entitled to a little clarification on this matter.” Alred looked up at Masterson, who only smiled and rubbed his thick lips with the tips of the long fingers on his left hand.

“Excuse me,” Masterson said, nodding at the manuscript. “That document should be returned to the authorities in Guatemala.” His raised hand opened.

“That’s it?” she said, lifting the book in the brown paper. She smelled wintergreen Certz on the old man’s breath.

“Sorry gal. This turned into a terrible catastrophe for you, didn’t it.” Goldstien smiled again as he drew her attention.

“Only a waste of my time,” she said as Masterson took up the codex. She watched him open the bag and take a long look inside. “I think Porter was the one really hurt.”

“That is too bad,” said Masterson with falsified feeling in his voice. “We can still make it up to you at least. Choose anything for your dissertation, and I’ll help you along.” He moved slowly, like a ship on the horizon, as he rounded the table without lifting his eyes. He handed KM-2 to Arnott. “May it be a difficult task,” Masterson said to her, “yet I’ll do all I can.”

“You’re all on top of things here, aren’t you,” Alred said to the group. She bit the corner of her mouth. The air in the room didn’t move at all. “Well…perhaps I can take the rest of the semester off. Begin again in the fall.”

“Excellent idea!” said Goldstien as Masterson and Arnott nodded.

Kinnard said nothing.

As she nodded and made for the door, her eyes slipped back to the codex one last time.

8:01 a.m.

When Alred turned the corner, her heart stopped.

Porter was right there, a wall in her way, a forgotten watchdog, waiting for her.

“Porter!” she said. She lifted a hand as if to calm the fury she knew she’d meet. “I’m glad I bumped into you.”

“The codex is gone,” he said, “and so are my new notes.” She looked at him, an exhausted man, leaning against the wall, suspicion in his eyes. She wondered where he’d spent the night; if he felt he was still being hunted by men in black; what he planned to say to her when she told him the truth. Oh well.

“I took it.”

He nodded, wiping his tongue over his lips. His silver eyes were bullets.

“I met with the staff just a few minutes ago and gave it up-”

He spun around and stormed down the hall toward the exit.

“-so we wouldn’t get in trouble with the authorities!” she had to say in a louder voice. “Porter!”

She saw the back of his hand rise by his shoulder to wave her away.

“John,” she said again, immediately regretting it.

The glass door banged when he hit it. He was gone a second later.

Alred shook her head and went to the restroom.

9:39 a.m.

“Trying to get yourself killed?” said the voice behind Porter as he drank hot chocolate at Bruno’s. Porter knew it was the old man he’d met at the cafe across town. His feet hurt from walking everywhere. Apathy continued to whisper in his ear like a little devil, telling him to just go home and shout the truth to the killers when they came. He didn’t notice the spicy scent of roasting chicken filling the small restaurant.

“I don’t have it anymore, and I haven’t met with the FBI. Happy?”

“I know you don’t have it,” said the voice. “But you’re one of those who has to keep working once your hands are dirty. You’re not going to set this aside easily. You’ll stir up waves until they are powerful enough to crush you. I told you to relax.”

Porter sniffed up the chocolate. “I’ve been meaning to get my hearing checked.”

“Everything all right here?” said Bruno, his voice sharp like a weapon.

Porter looked up at the old hunchback with the Texan mustache. Bruno’s eyes flickered to the man behind Porter and back to the student, as if ready to dispel whatever foul thing may have wandered into his cafe if it disturbed the customers.

“I’m fine,” Porter said, sucking on his mug. His eyes went straight to the dark bottom of the hot mixture and stayed there.

“You call me if you need anything,” Bruno said before walking slowly away.

“Old man wants to protect you,” said the voice.

“He’s a fighter,” Porter said in his cup.

“But old, nonetheless. You need not fear me, Porter.”

“Who are you,” said Porter, not expecting an honest answer.

“Feel free to call me Joseph…Smith.”

Porter growled in his mug. “I don’t find that humorous.”

“But it will be an easy name to remember. You’ll have worse things to worry about in the future. Do you have money?”

“Planning on mugging me?” Porter said, joking, but expecting the cold metal of a barrel in his neck at any moment. Did it matter?

“There is a man I know who has more information on Dr. Ulman’s find than you’ve been able to collect,” said the old voice behind him. The deep falsetto dimmed its power so as not to be overheard.

Click-click.

“What’s that,” Porter said, imagining a gun, but knowing it wasn’t.

“This…is the…address…of the gentleman you need to see.” Smith stood and appeared at Porter’s side.

A napkin fell from his hand, slid over the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth, and folded on Porter’s lap. Porter saw the writing with a glance.

The old man put his gold-lined pen in the inside pocket of his elegant overcoat. “He won’t be interested in sharing with you. In fact, he will soon change his mind about working on the project at all.”

“Pardon me?” Porter said, questions filling his insides enough to spill from his eyes. He didn’t look up at this Mr. Smith.

“Incentives, Mr. Porter. They are already on their way to see him. He will be given two choices: drop it…or die.”

“Who are we talking about,” said Porter, forgetting the hot chocolate.

“Dr. Alexander Peterson of Ohio State University. He’s on sabbatical right now, staying in his summer home in the mountains.” The old man pulled the skin around his eyes into a thousand wrinkles, smashing his pupils, as Porter looked at him at last. “If you intend on continuing this investigation, you will need Peterson’s material. You had better hurry.”

The hot chocolate in the forgotten mug, tilting in shaking hands, spilled onto the table and splattered on Porter’s right wrist. He hissed and looked down to wipe away the burning liquid.