The Kukulkan Manuscript (22 page)

“I’ve beaten time before,” Porter said, working faster because of the conversation, but gaining little ground.

“You have won battles, like many of us. We win a fight with Time and call ourselves
successful
, when in reality we are but shortsighted oafs afraid to face the truth.”

“
We?
” said Porter, looking up again. “You lump yourself in with the miserable?

“I meant
you
, in the plural of course.”

“Sure. And what’s the truth?” Porter returned to his work, expecting nothing profound.

“That
you
are losing the war. A few battles to speak of, but in the end…stress, unhappiness, bad health…death.”

“You always such pleasant company?” Porter said, scratching behind his ear with the mechanical pencil, but not lifting his focus.

“I prefer to be grave only when I must be.”

“And this evening you feel you have a divine calling to be the bringer of bad news to me?”

The old man stood, leaving a couple dollars protruding from beneath his mug.

Porter looked up as the man put on his black gloves.

The man’s face was the same off-white of the moon in a Halloween haze. His mouth, a ridged crease. His eyes the same. He stood perfectly straight; a gentleman, a model magnate, just what every young lawyer would hope to look like in old age; power in his blood, dignity for a skeleton behind his face, posture…perfect.

“Relax a little. You’ll live longer,” said the old man.

“I have a deadline that will shatter my life if I fail.”

“No one has what you describe. Each man and woman has just what they wish for. Everyone is bound to get what they really
want
. Some people want to lose a little weight, but they want to rest in front of the television after work more than they want to exercise. Or in other words, they want one thing, but want other things to a greater degree. So they get what they really search for. Your life is no exception. No matter what crucial moment is coming, you can always rise again if you land on your face.”

The philosopher picked up his heretofore unseen briefcase from the side of his booth while Porter watched.

“Make time your friend. Use it to gain knowledge. Don’t fight for what you cannot have right away.”

Porter pinched his eyes tight. “What are you saying?”

The old man smiled, and his whole form became human for an instant. “Don’t rush things. You can always get into another university.” He turned and went for the door, leaving Porter with his dazed eyes fixed on the spot where the man had just been sitting.

As if the manager had hit the ejection button, Porter flew out of his seat and through the door, chasing after the gentleman.

In the shadows, he saw the man’s pristine stride. No swing, one hand in his pocket, the other on the briefcase.

“You know me,” Porter said, walking up behind the man, “Don’t you.” He kept a good fifteen feet between them, realizing he may have just been lured into the open for a reason. His eyes scanned the dark street, the ebony windows of the shops across the wet road, the other pedestrians strolling in the cool drizzle.

The old man stopped. He turned. He stared through the blackness filling his eye sockets. But he said nothing.

“What do you want with me!” said Porter.

The old man considered the words. “You’re contacting the FBI. Don’t meet with them.”

“Why not,” Porter said, feeling the icy moisture from above slowly seep through his cotton shirt.

“I realize there is no way you can understand,
Mr. Porter
. You’ll have to believe me.”

“Got a reason?” said Porter, his heart running mad in his chest.

“You trusted your mother didn’t you? When you were a child and she told you not to touch the frying pan on the hot stove? You’d burned yourself on things already; children do. You took her word for it and saved your fingers.”

“That happens to every kid.”

“But
this
doesn’t.”

“We going to talk about your father again, or was that just a fabrication.” Porter was serious.

“You’ve fallen into a rat race,” said the old man who seemed to smile in the shadow. “There is only one…way…out.”

“Your way.” Porter’s lungs pumped as if he were being chased again.

“The eccentric school boy in you has been able to say and do many things the world didn’t appreciate because there are ethical boundaries to which all scholars must submit. You’ve gained a name for yourself among those in your field, and that’s admirable. Gain a reputation with those in my business…and you’re dead.”

“How do you know about me?”

“Oh, Mr. Porter! I know more than you think! You were born in American Fork, Utah in 1963, and you
are
a Mormon. Oldest of seven children, you hated your father until he died while you served your church in Japan. Your sole motivation has been to prove your father wrong…because he always shot down your aspirations.”

Porter swallowed hard.

“Your mother…is still alive, as are your siblings, who are
all
married. You know you’ve been a poor example to them, which is why you rarely if ever contact them. You are six-one, one hundred and sixty-eight pounds, and have a stork-bite on the back of your neck that never went away. I’ve studied your profile for some time.
I even know your real middle name
, Mr. Porter, that which you so carefully hide from everyone you meet. I already said you’re in a rat race. That makes you the small animal everyone’s watching. You’re in trouble, and I’ve no more time to waste with you. Don’t meet with the FBI.”

“That’s like telling a bank teller not to call the cops when you’re robbing him.”

“Do it, Mr. Porter…and you
will
see blood spill.”

“I’ll follow the path I think is best.”

“Exactly what they expect, Mr. Porter. And that is how the race will end. You’ll fail any chance to graduate from Stratford, the opportunity to prove your church true will slip away, you’ll lose the codex you
still
have hidden, and your friends will die. No need to panic about them of course, because you will meet them in Paradise yourself!”

The old man nodded once, turned, and walked away.

April 28
4:31 p.m.

“Bernard Heidenstam, you old traitor, I see you’ve finally made captain!”

Bruno turned around and faced the infidel leaning against the bar. He wiped a wet hand on the front of his Corona Beer T-shirt and squinted his eyes at the old man in the dark suit of gray tweed. “Benjamin Andrews? So you didn’t die after all!”

“I’ve been dead since the war, Bruno. A vampire bit me behind enemy lines. I’ve been walking the dark for almost fifty years.”

“Decided to see the light,” Bruno smiled. He slapped the old man in the arm. “It
is
good to see you,” he said with fake emphasis. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“You owe me at least that, traitor.”

“You still harping on my name, Andrews?” said Bruno, pouring the most toxic liquid he could find. He’d kill this vampire, if he could. A band of seven math students pushed by Andrews on their way out, jabbering loudly as if no other humans existed on the planet around them.

“You’re a German,
Heidenstam
,” said the man, taking the fat glass when it came. “You always were a spy, and we all knew it. It’s the only reason you boxed so well.”

“Well, I can still take you out any time you’re ready, Andrews! Don’t call me by my real name. I’ve got a reputation here I don’t want changed.”

“Ah!” the old man in the suit said, leaning on the bar. “That’s how you keep your new company in order here! Terror techniques.” He took a swig and grimaced. “What
is
this stuff?!”

Bruno grinned and said in his best growl. “You don’t wanna know, Andrews!” He wiped down the bar, smelling the sour odor of the wet rag in his hands. “We missed you at the reunions, old man.”

“I missed the invitations.” He braced himself with one hand on the counter and took another swallow.

Watching him from the corner of his eye, as two girls entered the cafe laughing, Bruno said, “coming up again in November. Driskel’s putting it on, I think. Means it’s in Nebraska this year, if you’re up to it.”

“Well I am a busy fellow,” said Andrews, slapping the glass down as if he were twenty-one and proud of it.

“At your age? Doing what!”

“Look who’s flapping his naked gums!” said Andrews waving a finger. “Oh, you remember those days? Soaring over India in the dark? Not a sound! Even the wind, hushing for us!”

“I remember praying we wouldn’t be noticed,” Bruno turned his eyes up to the dead fan hanging above his old…acquaintance.

“Silent birds diving through enemy skies. 900th Airborne Engineers. Bernard, I knew the wheels on those gliders were useless. Without the skids, we’d all be buried behind enemy lines.”

“You knew nothing,” Bruno said with a huff and a chuckle. “You’d never touched down in soaked rice patties ‘fore. You were ignorant as the rest of us!”

“They told us to land there!” said Andrews. “Besides, you couldn’t land a glider if the ground was smooth and a hundred beautiful women waited for you.”

“There weren’t no woman,” said Bruno.

“There were in our company.”

“
They
weren’t women.”

“Jen sure looked like one,” said Andrews, tapping his glass.

“Jen’s danced through three husbands since the last World War. And I never needed to pilot those gliders. I was only along for the ride.” Bruno poured the toxin.

“We got those runways built in no time.”

“We did our job. Then I beat you into a ball,” Bruno said with grit in his voice.

“I’ve…given up boxing,” said Andrews, drinking.

“For what,” said Bruno, turning his back to the man in order to look casual.

Andrews pinched down the alcohol. “FBI, my good man. That’s why I’m here.”

“Isn’t there a law against working for a government agency when you’re passed eighty? There should be! The world’s going senile, and if you’re running things, it’s no wonder why!” Bruno grabbed a dry cloth from under the bar and wiped his hands.

“I’ve retired,” said Andrews with a grin. His eyes were tight, dry, and as serious as they had been in India. “But I still work…as a Special Informant.”

“Counter intelligence? You’re spying on Americans for America, eh? Back-stabbing your brother and that stuff? You gone communist on us, Andrews? That why we haven’t heard from you in so long?” Bruno said with a laugh, but the questions had meaning, expecting straight answers. Andrews had carried a dark soul inside his living corpse during the war. No one at the reunions debated how much blacker he’d become since then.

Andrews looked at the remaining liquid in his glass. “You wouldn’t understand what I do, traitor.”

“How do you know I didn’t go work with the CIA before retirement?” said Bruno, turning away.

“You’re a fist, Bernard. Not an intelligence officer,” said Andrews, scratching the side of his nose.

“Hundred and twenty men and five officers in our division. You were the traitor all along. Here to check up on me, Andrews? You’re not here to catch up on lost memories, are you.”

Rubbing the rim of his glass in an attempt to get it to hum, Andrews said nothing.

“What
can
I do for you then?” Bruno said to the businessman, as customers waved good-bye, heading out the glass door.

“I’m looking for a student from these parts.”

The door slapped into the doorframe with a crack.

“Wait here then. Get about three hundred of them in a day,” said the man in the T-shirt.

“Name’s…Alred. First name, Erma. Know her?” said Andrews, his pupils dry as natural glass in the Sudan.

“Nope. Said yourself, I’m not a brainiac, I’m a grunt. What’s up with her.” Bruno kept his chin up, his old trick for inviting punches. He did his best to look vulnerable. That way, Andrews wouldn’t defend against Bruno’s mind-probing jabs.

“Green eyes. Light auburn hair. Big-boned, but not overweight. Twenty-seven.” Andrews pulled a black and white photograph from a leather briefcase he lifted onto one of the stools.

Bruno examined the picture. Immediately he rumbled through the files in his mind, collating the data, searching….

“Hey Bruno!” called a customer.

He shouted without looking up. “Hold your hairy horses!” Bruno remembered the girl. She’d been in a few times. The one who looked like she’d seen a ghost. Had some connection with…John Porter, the hot chocolate, French fries, and ranch dressing man. Asked questions about the young man, if Bruno remembered right. “Don’t recognize her.”

“No?” said Andrews, obviously sensing the lie.

“What’d she do?”

“She may have stolen something,” Andrews said, sliding the glossed paper back into the briefcase. “But I think she’s innocent. I can help her, if I find her. What about…this guy.”

The picture of Porter made Bruno’s blood speed even faster through his well-aged veins. The snapshot looked as if it’d been taken within the month.

“Been a student at Stratford University almost seven years now. Kinda plain looking, I realize, and the black and white doesn’t help. Brown hair and gray eyes. About thirty-three, little over six feet…seen him?”

“Not at all,” Bruno said too quickly.

“Worth a shot,” said Andrews. He smiled and put the photo away. “Well it was good to see ya…you old traitor.” His eyes were sharp as old-fashioned razor-blades.

Bruno nodded, eyeing the straight-standing geezer in the suit, wondering who was the real defector. Andrews was a weasel from the beginning, strategically selling his soul—or rather, anyone else’s—for a filthy buck. “You take care, now. No dying of old age, hear?”

“I told you,” Andrews said heading for the door, “I’m immortal now.”

The glass door swung closed, another thunderclap.

“A bloodthirsty killer, I have no doubt,” said Bruno.

*  *  *

8:59 p.m.

“This is a rotten idea. It’s going to get me killed,” Porter said.

“You don’t know that,” said Alred, leading the way. “Besides, Kinnard said he needed both of us right away.”