James Steimle - The Kukulkan Manuscript

2:17 p.m. PST

Porter met Alred outside the courthouse, his eyes looking all about for the old man he knew only as Joseph Smith. He saw a newspaper salesman, bent with age and malnutrition, but dressed in a flashy orange vest so that both pedestrians and cars would spot him from far enough away to get their change ready. A woman with too much makeup and jewelry waited as her orange-brown chow sniffed a skinny fern held up by a wooden stick in a hole cut in the sidewalk. A quiet menagerie of folk passed the courthouse, people who had little else to do with their retired days.

“I got back as soon as I could,” she said, wiping her nose with her finger.

“It’s over, Alred,” said Porter with a sigh.

“Well, you’re on the outside, which is good. What did I miss?” The wind pushed at the back of her auburn hair.

Porter looked up at the long line of double doors on the granite building. Crows bellowed overhead. He thought he heard a child yelling somewhere, but hadn’t seen one. “Stratford made an official statement.”

“What.” Alred licked her lips.

“They admitted the responsibility for Ulman’s codex falling into our possession. They are willing to hear our dissertation arguments and give us our degrees based upon work accomplished.”

Alred nodded at the ground. “What about Dr. Kinnard? Will he be charged with-”

“No, the FBI is conducting a manhunt for Peter Arnott. All the blame has fallen on him.” He smiled a sigh, but knew things really hadn’t ended. There were too many loose strings. Would they still come after him? Would they kill him simply for the trouble he had become? Or would they run, hide for years before taking their revenge…just to be safe? They would get their doctoral credentials, but would they live free enough to use them?

“Porter…did we do the right thing?” she looked up at him with passion in her green eyes.

Porter beamed down at her. “I’ll tell you everything at Bruno’s. Meet me at five?”

She nodded, then reached into her pocket and handed him a small slip of paper as Clusser came up behind him.

As Alred marched down the concrete steps, the FBI agent sagged loudly, “You’re a lucky man, Porter!”

“Why didn’t you say anything about them?” Porter said with a bite in his voice.

“The court knows enough,” said Clusser, relaxed. “They’ve learned the FBI is searching and has reason to believe your case was only a fraction of the big game.”

“You let the whole issue skid by!” said Porter.

Clusser put his hand on Porter’s shoulder to steady him. “They will always exist, Porter. You know that. This little case wouldn’t touch them. If I gave the court too much information, it would only announce that one lone LDS man who works for the FBI has spotted them. Let me handle this.”

Porter threw his hands up. There was no more he could do about it. “What if the judge learns of our relationship.”

“He will,” Clusser said with a glow with no grin. “That will prove only that I had motivation to find you innocent. That’s not a crime, if the facts are present, and there are plenty.”

Clusser stuck out his right hand. “So long, John Porter, you’re a good man.”

Porter took his hand like a clamp, tears rising under his eyeslids. He hated partings. “Take care of that wife of yours. Easy come, easy go, they say!”

Clusser smiled. “You don’t know anything about the wiser sex.” He eyed Alred, almost around the corner of the office building beside the courthouse and into the parking lot.

“I still have time to learn,” said Porter, ignoring his gaze.

“Not by my standards!” said Clusser. As he strode down the steps in a different direction than Alred went, Porter had the terrible feeling their relationship would remain the same for years to come.

Porter realized he had no way to get home, and it was a long drive. But there was no worry. Porter started for the parking lot after Alred, who wouldn’t get to her car before he caught up. Nevertheless, he pushed his feet at high speed down the courthouse stairs while slipping his hands into his suit pockets.

“John Porter?” said a man with a microphone as Porter moved down the sidewalk, his eyes scanning ahead to make sure Alred’s car wasn’t pulling out of the lot too quickly.

Spinning to see the reporter, the student slammed into the old man selling newspapers.

“Mr. Porter, congratulations on your case! May we ask you a few questions?”

A cameraman appeared with a beautiful Japanese contraption hanging around his neck while his right shoulder was armed with a larger camera with a Channel 12 logo in blue and pink on the side.

Though slightly flattered, Porter asked forgiveness from the newspaper salesman, and looked back to the parking lot around the side of the building. “I’ve gotta get my ride,” said Porter as the news anchor started in with inquiries as to how he’d felt in the courtroom, and whether or not he truly believed the Mormons were right about the end of the world, and when exactly would that finale come, and-Porter really wasn’t listening.

The old man swore at them and moved away.

Porter kept walking as the jabbering reporter stepped in front of him, lowered the microphone as said, “Then one shot! Please, just a picture! Sandy, get over here!!!”

The cameraman came around in front of Porter and put the black machine up to his eye. The inquirer in a flashy yellow shirt stood beside Porter as the camera snapped three times.

“Now just one with the courthouse in the background,” said the professional annoyance as Porter spoke.

“No, I really need to go.”

“Last one, I promise!” he said, waving energetic hands. He stepped beside Sandy and looked at Porter and the background. “This is good!”

Porter sighed and quickly turned to see where they were in relation to the front of the courthouse, which was still somewhat in view around the brick office building. He grinned a fake curve of teeth which Clusser would have been proud of.

The flamboyant newsperson, a little man with the microphone swinging from some kind of hook on his belt now, waved his arms. “No, a little right. Right, Mr. Porter, please, thank you that’s beautiful. Now back, back…Good! Now Sandy!”

Just behind him against the curb, Porter heard a van door roar open on metal wheels as he concentrated on his smile. Four hands grabbed and yanked his body like it was a cloth doll. The world disappeared, and the dark interior of the van grew crowded as Sandy and the reporter jumped in. The door closed while someone struck Porter across the face twice.

When the van started moving, Porter realized he was pinned and not just dazed. His head exploded with a flash of light as they threw him against the side of the empty automobile. His arms bent backward, and he screamed out, struggling against-what-he could not tell. He heard the screech and bellow of duck tape being pulled from the roll. They bound his wrists together as the reporter hit him and said, “Sorry for soiling your suit.”

“You gotta be insane snagging me in front of a Federal courthouse! The whole planet probably saw you!” said Porter, his eyelids fluttering, his hands raised to ward off further attacks. He felt the tape tear at the skin on his forearms, his heart pumping so fast and hard it hurt. They yanked him around, and Porter hit metal again with his chin.

Leaning his face close to Porter’s, the reporter said, “Do you think we would have picked you up right there if others were watching?”

“What about the old man selling newspapers!” said Porter, his eyes only beginning to adjust to the darkness. “And the old lady walking the dog!”

“They are our eyes, Mr. Porter,” said a voice from the passenger seat in the front of the vehicle.