The Kukulkan Manuscript (25 page)

Raising his voice as if she was hard of hearing or he was too faraway, the man at the end of the table said, “Ms. Russell, this man needs to visit Europe inconspicuously. One way. Will you make the arrangement.”

She nodded.

He raised a hand. “Go, Mr. Polaski. Be a good man…and disappear.”

Polaski’s eyes darkened, his mouth twisting. He knew the policy. He’d heard it before and participated in the exercises. But the last thing he wanted was dismissal. “The carbon dating never happened! I’ve taken care of it!”

“That is hardly relevant anymore, Mr. Polaski. Peter?”

Peter stepped forward with a dry smile and an affirmative nod. He placed his black briefcase on the table. Polaski could smell the well-tended leather.

The codex was tattered and large pieces looked ready to fall off the bark pages. With careful hands, Peter set the ancient manuscript on the glossy cherry wood. Polaski thought he could smell the book’s rotting age. He hadn’t seen it until now, and he hated it more than before. It had already complicated his life. No longer a nuisance, its existence in this room meant all his labors were worthless, resulting only in the end of his career…and a little more.

With the blood slipping from his face, Polaski looked up at all the eyes focused on him. He glanced at the faces on the wall. Even their eyes were alive.

“As you see, the chase is over. The threat has passed,” said Andrews.

Polaski licked the dry insides of his mouth and punched his brain into overdrive. “What about Peterson in Ohio?”

“What do you know about him?” said the gentleman at the end with a start, sharp eyes glancing with untrusting bitterness at Peter. “Put it out of your thoughts, Mr. Polaski. Everything’s taken care of.”

His heart pounding, Polaski looked at one of the gentlemen who sat like a clam-skinned, troubled lawyer in his red leather chair. “Mr. Andrews—!”

Eyes on the table, Andrews waved a quick hand with a minimum of wrist action, brushing Polaski off as if he were an unwelcome fly.

“Have a good vacation,” said the old man at the end. He nudged his forehead in the direction of the door. “We shan’t see you again, I trust.”

Polaski stood in silence as the rest of them waited.

“That’s all,” Peter said, touching Polaski with the tips of his fingers, nudging him toward the exit.

“Don’t push me!”

Peter stepped back and put his hands together at waist level.

Hot breath shooting through his teeth, Polaski looked at all the hard eyes watching him, tracking him like laser sights atop powerful guns.

He pulled at the bottom of his black shirt, drawing it tight around his puffed up chest, then stamped out to the patient secretary.

*  *  *

The man at the end of the table looked to his left at one individual in particular. “See that Polaski is executed immediately. I don’t care who does it. We will not waste our money funding him anymore.”

With a nod, the gentleman on his left stood, buttoned his navy blue blazer, and left the room.

Calm eyes looked on the younger fellow standing over KM-2. “Peter, what is Ms. Alred’s status?”

“She’s finished with the project. After giving up Porter’s codex without resistance earlier this morning, it seems she had an argument with her fellow graduate student resulting in their permanent separation. I have transcripts of their conversation. She appears uninterested in pursuing the matter and rather excited about continuing her doctoral research in a different area.”

“Can you be sure she doesn’t have other reasons for interest. Dr. Ulman was Alred’s most preferred professor.”

Peter didn’t even blink. “Ms. Alred will no longer research the Ulman find.”

The man at the end turned his head to Mr. Andrews.

Andrews nodded. “I concur. We had her followed to a West Federal Bank, where she does not possess an account. We concluded there to be a connection with the Ulmans but it seems to have led her nowhere. We found no reason to assume she learned anything of relevance. And she is repulsed with those things relating to the find.”

“You’re investigating behind my back?” Peter said, his face flushing, but his body unmoving. “You question my competence.”

“Not at all, Peter,” said the man at the end. “We only want to be sure nothing is overlooked. We need to be.” He looked down at the table. “And John Porter?”

“Porter seems furious,” said Peter, “but he has no more leads. He can run around and say all he likes, but he’ll become a disreputable scholar and lose himself in the back of libraries.”

Smith, across the table from Andrews, spoke without leaving his restful position. “Then why has Porter boarded a flight for Columbus…Ohio.”

The man at the end looked from Smith to Peter with hard eyes. “You thought this unworthy of mention?”

“I…didn’t see that it mattered where he went at this point. As long as he didn’t head for Central America.”

Andrews wrinkled his brow. “How did he find out about Dr. Peterson’s connection?”

Smith closed his eyes and opened them again as he spoke. “The April edition of the
Archaeological Journal
contains the article written by Alexander Peterson, aforementioned.”

“The April journal was catalogued as one of Porter’s possessions when we first closed in on him and the codex,” said Peter.

“Andrews,” said the man at the end, “make sure Dr. Peterson expects Porter’s appearance. We don’t want Porter catching any loose ends. Peter, I think your work is finished for the day. Go home and rest.”

Peter would do that, he said with an emotionless nod. He only wondered if he’d wake up the next day.

*  *  *

8:09 p.m. EST

The young lady closed the door and Porter was thankful; it must have been only ten degrees outside, and the Ohio wind was blowing harder than he thought it could when carrying snow. He’d already stepped in a gutter full of slush, so his right Rockport was soaked and the tips of his toes stung.

The house was very large, and undoubtedly more expensive than anything he could ever hope to own. Porter figured the structure had been built in the early part of the century before the depression. The wide staircase to the second floor suited a historian. From the high ceiling hung electric chandeliers of twinkling crystalline shapes. Ornate rugs depicting a deep forest of twisting trees and scrambling bush covered the entire entry hall. There were at least six doors Porter saw along the walls of the hall and at least two at the top of the stars. Paintings as tall as six feet, depicting Mesoamerican warriors, kings, and ball games, and mirrors at least five feet wide took up the rest of the brown wall space. Of course the elaborate carpets were predominantly red.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Oh,” Porter said with a fake laugh, “John. Peterson will know who I am. You work here?”

“My father does,” she smiled, young and pretty but as skinny as a mortal girl could become. She was literally a skeleton with an epidermis layer, one of those girls who saw fashion models as both unreachable and ideal examples of female figures, but tried to attain their supposed weight anyway. The anorexic result was unfortunate. Porter couldn’t help looking at the skinny poles with tendons and knobs halfway up which she used for legs as she climbed a few steps. The site repulsed him. Porter felt like a child with a cut on his hand that would heal if he’d leave it alone…and of course he couldn’t. He kept looking at the white corn stalks contrasting the candy-apple red carpet on the stairs and kept wincing until she looked back.

“Better wait there,” she said. “You’re not another student from the University, are you? Dr. Peterson’s already sent a number of them away. He is on sabbatical, you know. That’s why he’s not in his Columbus house.”

“No,” Porter said with a smile. “I’m from out of state. Only here for a few days.” He looked up the staircase at the bookshelves all along the top landing walls, trying to read the titles, which were too faraway. How could any professor afford all of this?!? Porter had no idea, but thought it best not to ask.

“So he
is
expecting you?” said the young lady with sky blue circles around her pupils and frosted brown hair. She’d be gorgeous if she put on a little weight, he thought.

“These students come unannounced?” Porter said.

“He shows them away when they call. They think he’ll help them out if they appear in person.” She pointed at him with a needle for a finger. “John?”

“That’s right.” Porter watched her go up the stairs and pass left and through a door he hadn’t seen.

He had no intention of waiting for the professor. If scholars had one thing in common, he figured, it was a degree of selfishness if the product was new enough. Ulman’s sure was! And Peterson probably wouldn’t be that keen on sharing it all with an eccentric Latter-day Saint.

Cutting quickly through one doorway, Porter started scanning for stairs. “Where would I study if I lived in this house?” he said. It had to be on the second floor. Maybe the third. This house was bigger inside than it looked. Places this size always had more than one staircase.

Weaving past other servant and doing his best to act as if he was a guest, and hoping his calm silence worked, Porter went up the stairs in the east wing and slid with quiet feet through the halls. Unless Peterson was prompt, Porter expected to have a couple of minutes to find what he needed and get out. If the professor was working on his book, he’d either tell the young lady to get rid of the visitor, or he’d come after ten minutes of making ‘John’ wait. Porter was betting on the latter.

Porter peeked in rooms and dodged mumbled conversations made by shadows striding by him without seeing anyone else until he poked his head into what had to be a den.

Closing the door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar so he could hear anyone coming up the hallway, Porter scanned the room. Beautiful Victorian wood curled under every table and over every bookshelf. There was plenty of light from the brass lamps hanging about. A fire cooked the Ohio air, giving it a sweet incense odor and filling the study with blankets of warmth.

“I’d fall asleep in here!” Porter whispered to himself. His eyes examined the heavy desk in the center of the room. Massive. Bright lights beamed over the piles standing in perfect order. Rolls rested together like sacred scrolls waiting to be opened by the pious. Two stacks of hand-typed pages stood on the right side. Three books hid beneath a fourth Porter found open and unfinished. They were handwritten journals.

He drew closer and saw the words:
Kalpa
, and
KM-1
, and
buried site
. Porter remembered the article Peterson had written for the
Archaeological Journal
, “The New Mesoamerican Mystery: Guatemala’s Hidden Treasure.” He took one of the scrolls made of modern paper and pulled off the rubber band.

The air in his lungs evaporated, and he stopped breathing.

It was a hand-drawn map.

It had to be Ulman’s site in Highland Guatemala. A small scale at the bottom implied the enormity of the find. The buildings, the towers, the canals, the streets…it was hard to fathom. Porter’s brain seemed to roll inside his head as dizziness set in.

He shut his mouth, closed the roll and grabbed the others, jamming them all under his arm. He’d examine every detail once he was safe. His eyes glanced at the door, still unmoved.

He looked at typed pages, tempting him. His eyes darted to the journals, which he closed and gathered in a scramble.

Porter came around to the front of the desk, knocking the black leather chair aside.

The fire popped behind him, and he spun to face it.

Nothing but hungry flames. Again he smelled the sweet wood burning.

He looked back at the claw-footed desk, at the dark wood drawers running down the front.

Good antique contraption. No working locks.

He checked the door. No one.

One of the rolls fell from under his arm.

But his free hand was already pulling a drawer open. Envelopes, pens, a small tape recorder.

He slammed it quietly and grabbed the next drawer. Wrenching it open—

He almost fell backward at the sight. He swayed, but his free hand caught his weight on the sinking leather of the chair.

Warm leather.

The pages in the drawer were the same. Crisp, but malleable.

Someone had been heating the seat only a few moments ago.

It was definitely bark paper, just like KM-2. And it was real! And it was in the states! And it was right in front of him! He saw the letters. All of them less Mayan, more pseudo-Egyptian.

Instinctive hands grabbed the codex, took up the fallen rolls—

Crack!

Porter turned his eyes to the fireplace again.

Only the flames.

Cold metal gently touched the back of his neck.

“John D. Porter…I presume?” said a British voice.

Nickel-plated .44 Magnum, Porter’s subconscious said as he raised himself slowly. He hadn’t heard the professor enter and couldn’t see him now—it had to be Dr. Peterson. Porter looked down at the ancient manuscript in his hands, unable to believe its reality, unsure there was really anyone in the room with him at all. The blood drained quickly from his head. “I’mmm…going to pass out,” his voice slurred.

“Well then, think boy!” came the British voice through a cloud. “Put your head at knee level.”

Trapped, caught, subdued, and losing the real world as he stood there, Porter lowered himself away from the cold barrel of the pistol until his head sunk below his waist. His throat made a weird sound, and he felt tears rising in his eyes.

Dad’ll be proud of me now! Porter said to himself sarcastically, considering his situation. “I can explain why—”

“I already know the reason you are here, John,” said the Englishman as he walked around the desk into Porter’s peripheral vision.

The doctoral candidate (turned madman) lifted himself to his full height. He looked into the professor’s squinting eyes, realizing the man didn’t hold a gun at all.

inlaid with silver, a brown cane with a steel tip pointed at Porter like a spike. “Put it down.”