James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

“I know about Diego de Landa,” she said, nodding.

“Then why are you here, Alred?! Tell me the truth,” said Porter, knowing her words would be painful to hear, but utterly necessary.

Staring at him for half-a-minute without speaking, Alred considered her options.

This had gone on long enough.

“You know I hated the project from the beginning,” she said.

He nodded.

“I stayed with you…because I had to find out what happened to Ulman.”

“That’s it?” said Porter.

“It’s all over now, Porter. And you know I won’t sacrifice my standards about our judicial system when we come to court.”

“At least you have some standards,” Porter said, his face sagging. He eyed her, a mask of solemn thought changing his features to look like some ancient prophet contemplating the end of the world as seen in a vision. “Alred…you have…held the proof…in your hands.”

“But I’ve had so little time to study the codex.”

“A religion is something we analyze for a lifetime. You may figure it all out, Alred… But will it be too late?”

“Can your faith get you out of jail?” said Alred with eyes on the base of the microphone. She ached for him, sitting alone and trapped behind the bullet-proof glass. He had nothing. There was no one to feel for him. No one who would dare care. Didn’t he realize his words were pushing her out to the room? He needed her! Whoever hunted him would surely use Porter’s family if he pulled them into the picture. Who’s to say they haven’t already? She looked into his gray eyes. “You’re gonna be tried for illegally possessing the archaeological treasures of a foreign country. And they’ll use me to testify against you. You’re a Mormon, so I’m sure you’ll understand my honesty when I tell them…that everything they suspect…is true.”

“Truth only hurts when it ought to,” Porter told himself with a sting, a twisted smile, and a pale face.

May 4

2:35 p.m. PST

“Porter,” said Clusser, drumming his fingers together and leaning forward, “What’s going on?” The weight of the situation drew his dark walnut-colored face into a mass of ridged sobriety.

“Where have you been?!?” Porter said, adjusting himself in his seat and looking around the tight room with no cameras, no microphones, and no glass walls.

“Do you know a man by the name of Gerard Jasper?” said Clusser looking at his fingers.

“You realize how long I’ve been in here?!?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“I’m getting buried alive in bureaucratic sand! Pounding on the inside of my coffin won’t help at all after a few more days. Don’t you think this trial is going to court a bit too fast?”

“What do you know about the legal system, Porter. If you want help, you’ll give me answers. I want to know what you think happened to the man you wrote me about, Christopher Ulman. I want to know where this ancient document, KM-2, is hidden.”

Porter’s face flushed. “I don’t have it anymore. It’s back in Stratford’s possession.”

Clusser ran his fingers through the butched curls of raven hair hugging his slightly balding head, which tilted to the right. He grimaced and sighed together. “You remember Koishi-san? Tall Japanese? Skinny as a starving man? Do you recall that last day he met with us, how through his cigarette-stained teeth he told us in his own language, ‘ Even if I find the truth, I will not change? ’”

“Yeah, Koishi,” said Porter, his mind drawn back to Japan behind closed eyes.

“I never understood that,” said Clusser. “Why would anyone choose to dodge the facts when they know they are valid and will have the greatest impact on their temporal lives?”

“I couldn’t figure him out myself.”

With solid eyes holding his old missionary companion in place, Clusser said in his naturally deep voice, “Well I don’t have a clue as why you would do the same stupid thing!”

Porter pulled his head back. “I’ve never heard you talk this way.”

“I’ve never been so worried about a friend as helpless as yourself! I know it’s not your nature, but I want you to listen to me, Porter.”

“School’s changed me, Clusser,” said Porter, his voice weak but serious. He looked at the dark tabletop between his fingers.

“I hope so. You’re in real trouble.”

“You said not to worry about it.”

“Someone shot you with two. 40 caliber Smith and Wesson, 180 grain, jacketed round nose bullets from less than ten feet away and then disappeared. Was it a punk?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. My guess is, you were meant to live.”

Porter’s mouth opened, but there was no power to fuel his voice box.

“You’re hiding the codex. You know I recognize your motives. I’ve read the articles about Dr. Ulman’s find. I’ve even examined your incomplete doctoral thesis.”

“How did you get that?!” Porter said, his head popping like a jack-in-the-box.

“You probably think you’re doing our church a service, but you’ve forgotten the Twelfth Article of Faith,” said Clusser, putting his hands together.

“Why memorize them if you’ve always got ‘em with you,” said Porter. “What are you insinuating.”

“You memorize everything else, Porter,” Clusser said with disappointment on his face. “I’m talking about the article that says, ‘We believe in…obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.’ You think the prophet would sanction your possession of KM-2 in violation of our legal system? Everyone knows you have it.”

Drained of hope and power, Porter sagged into the back of his chair. He said nothing and fought back the wetness behind his eyelids. He sniffed the musky scent of Clusser’s cologne on the lukewarm air. Porter didn’t recall Clusser ever wearing any form of scent. He’d changed. “You’re…with them.”

Clusser lifted his chin and squared his jaw. “If you mean the law? Yes.”

Porter sat quietly. The room otherwise smelled slightly of coffee left by the former occupants.

“But that’s not what you’re thinking,” said Clusser.

Porter leaned forward and whispered. “I…was…shot, Clusser. Do customs agents normally do that?!”

Clusser looked into his briefcase, withdrew a file, and pulled out a picture. “Let me ask you again. Do you know this man?”

It was a candid photo. Porter recognized the face. Clean, hair perfectly set in place, untouched by the bad weather around him. Icy eyes making the blue-gray sky behind him look sunnier. The man wore a long overcoat of some suede-like material, navy in color. A suit underneath with a solid burgundy tie against a pressed white shirt.

“You never said anything about him. Friend of yours?” Porter’s last words bit with a bitter tone.

“Gerard Jasper,” said Clusser.

“No…this guy’s name is Arnott.”

Clusser’s face lost all emotion and regained it again…in about a millisecond. “ Peter Arnott?”

“I guess. He works at Stratford University.”

Clusser smiled his white teeth. He tilted his head again, but there was no glow in his eyes. “No he doesn’t. Is this the man who shot you.”

Porter waited, of course well-aware of the answer. “No.”

“Then who did.”

Porter paused. “I don’t know his name.” He couldn’t very well say he was shot by Joseph Smith! It was obviously a pseudonym.

“You’ve gotta work with me on this, Porter!”

“I’m going to be tried for an international crime in a Federal court, right? For what, stealing Ulman’s merchandise.”

“You got it. Look…by law you have the right to say nothing here without legal counsel-”