James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

“Mrs. Ulman said she’d handed everything over to the FBI,” said Porter.

“Must have given them other things Ulman mailed home. We’ll never know what those artifacts were. I still wonder what the Bureau-”

“They weren’t FBI,” Porter said, putting KM-3 back in the bag, while his eyes scanned for unfavorable persons.

The sky hung gray and wet, turning the whole world a dim color.

He never looked at the blue Volvo down the road.

Click-click-click-click-click.

“How do you know?” Alred looked into his squinting eyes.

Porter grabbed her arm. “Ulman is alive! We have to find him…before he gets killed.”

7:51 p.m. PST

“Porter, we have to talk…now!”

The ex-doctoral candidate turned to see Dr. Kinnard holding himself firmly in the doorway of the little office. The professor had 8 x 10 inch photographs in his hand.

“You don’t seem like one bearing gifts to lift my burden,” Porter said placing his copy of Sumerian Ostraca in a brown box on his desk. With one hand he took three gray volumes with the title Hebrew Eschatology off the floor and put them on top of the first book. His black copy of the Tanach followed. He eyed the other filled containers, all four with the familiar word ‘U-Haul’ in bold letters on the side.

Kinnard lowered his voice and his brow. “I don’t care how you got it, but you’d better hand it over to the University.”

Porter glanced at him with a wiry smile. “My new Stone Edition of the Tanach? Are the Aryans persecuting the Jews again?”

Kinnard flashed the pictures.

“What are those supposed to be?” said Porter unworried. He stopped loading to look anyway.

Three shots. All details of Porter examining KM-3 on the street where Alred had caught up to him. But she was outside every frame. Who had taken the pictures? Who’d doctored the prints to show only Porter with KM-3?

“Where should I go, you think,” Porter said, returning to his packing. From the corner of the white room, he grabbed eight old Loeb Library books with red covers. “I admit my ignorance when it comes to applying for a Ph. D.-after failing the first. Suppose any school will take me? I can’t believe I waited so long to get it done,” he laughed to himself, because there was nothing else to do.

“You hear what I said?” Kinnard came into the room as Porter went to the far side of his desk, keeping his eyes on the papers and books on the floor. He carried two volumes by Michael Grant, one from Joseph Campbell, and an old E.A.W. Budge book.

Shuffling through the menagerie, gathering files in semi-organized fashion, Porter stuffed the rest of the box. He held a copy of Wardarcher Tiel’s, Merenptah, in the air and eyed it as if he’d never seen it before. “Whoops. Bet I have a major fine to pay for this baby.” With a smile, he looked at his supervisor. “Disagreed with the old man anyway.” He set it on the corner of his desk as Kinnard shook his head.

“In order to be successful in the world, Porter, you need to learn the rules of the game!”

“You know I don’t play sports, Kinnard,” said the student. Porter pulled on the roll of packing tape, and it screamed like a mugged woman in an echoing alley. The box sealed, he grabbed another and taped the bottom before loading it.

“I want the book!” said Kinnard, slamming his hand on the table.

Porter looked up, his face as bland as it could be. “ You want it? What would you do with it?”

Kinnard’s tongue stuck to the bottom of his open mouth.

“Let me know one thing,” Porter said, packing as fast as a bank robber would if stashing money into his duffel bag. “I thought I saw sincerity in your eyes when you first gave me KM-2. Were you really helping me…or just giving me something to run around with since I had so little time anyway? Did you have any intention of letting me do a dissertation on Ulman’s find?”

“I tried to assist you,” said Kinnard taking off his dark-rimmed glasses.

“And then what happened,” said Porter. “When did you lose heart? When the other professors shoved you in a different direction?”

“It was a race that couldn’t be won.”

“Were you blackmailed? Coerced?” Porter said, looking at him with stabbing eyes. “Was there someone involved…that wasn’t Stratford staff?”

Gazing at Porter as if his mind had been read, Kinnard shut his mouth.

“Then I hold no blame on you.” Porter went back to packing, finding papers written by other students which he should have read and corrected by now. He left them next to the library book.

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” said Kinnard, his voice low and serious. “Where is the codex.”

“See it here?” said Porter waving an arm but not turning up his eyes.

“You are not listening to me, are you.” Kinnard leaned on the card-table desk, which rocked beneath his weight. “You could go to jail for this. You could be killed.”

Grinning again, Porter said, “Oh is that all? I thought you’d say something that would get my heart going. I’m already desensitized to those things, you see. Well, maybe you don’t. We’re driving on different tracks now.”

“I gave you Ulman’s manuscript,” said Kinnard, “I’m responsible.”

“You’re afraid they’ll kill you?” Porter flopped in his screaming chair to be closer to the stacks on the ground to his left, which he immediately reached for.

The heater came on.

“You don’t see how serious this is,” said Kinnard.

“Better than you realize!” Porter almost chuckled, tossing The Dead Sea Scroll Companion into the box, followed by Civilization Before Egypt and Mesopotamia, and the new one volume edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. “So who are they?”

Kinnard put his glasses back on his face and stood straight.

Porter stopped and looked at his teacher. “You taught me yourself that throughout history there have been shadow parties, gangs who have operated in the background, people who started small, but through secrets and careful planning rose to prominent power until they ran the government alone. Pharaohs, Roman Emperors…they’ve all been oppressed by these hidden sects built up for power and financial gain.” He lifted his eyebrows. “I agreed with you, remember? Great discussion we had that day. Lasted way into the night.”

“Give me the manuscript,” said Kinnard.

“How do you know I have it? Who took those photographs?”

“Where is the document, Porter!” Kinnard said, trembling. “I know you have it-everyone knows you have it!” He slowed his words but the energy stayed. “Shrapnel will fly until you hand it over. A lot of people will get hurt. I hate these people. I had to deal with them in the war, and I thought they were all gone.”

“‘Those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to-’”

Kinnard wiped his hands on his blue slacks. “I’m through running around! I already told you this project is terminated. If you still don’t get it, Porter…you can consider your time at this university finished.”

“There’s a threat!” said Porter with a relaxed smirk. “That mean I get credit without the dissertation?”

Kinnard slammed two fists into the desktop. “It means you’re done, Porter! The University doesn’t know you anymore!”

Knocking on his forehead as if it were a door, Porter moaned and stared at the computer screen.

He typed the e-mail address, cocking his head, hoping it was right. If it wasn’t, there wasn’t anything else he could do. Date: Wed, 30 April 1997 8:45:19 -0500 (PST) To: Clusser@alexandria. va. gov. fbi From: Tomodachi Subject: Immediate assistance Stan, I’m in the computer lab at Stratford University. Don’t reply to this message. I need your help. I don’t know if there is anything you can do. You’re a busy man but you are in the FBI so maybe you’ll have some ideas. I’ve fallen into a very messy hole out here. About three months ago, Dr. Christopher Ulman found a city in the highlands of Guatemala. Somewhere inside, he came upon a library with books written in some early form of Mayan. One of the codices has both this proto-Mayan and, though you won’t believe it, Reformed Egyptian. One of the books fell into my hands. I translated half of it before it was taken from me. Albeit, the document came into the country illegally, that’s not what worries me. Someone else has been hovering around me like a silent cloud ready to snap out lightning. I’ve already dodged bullets, if you see what I’m getting at. I’m sorry, I can’t stay here and type. They are after me again. This is worse than I thought, but you can see the implications. This is a solid link to the Book of Mormon. I can’t put it down. Even though they are kicking me out of the University because of it. What would my father think… They won’t give me my Ph. D. If you can come to California, please do. I need to talk to you in person. Gotta go. John D. Porter (If you don’t come, the D might stand for Dead. I’m serious. You won’t be able to contact me, so don’t try. Use your oh-so-special FBI skills to find me. I’ll be watching for you.)