The Kukulkan Manuscript (33 page)

“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—”

“Clusser, I need your help! I told you, the University took KM-2 away from me!” Porter said, leaning into his friend’s face.

“Stratford strictly states that you, John D. Porter, are in possession of the codex.” Clusser stopped with his mouth open. His probing eyes dug deep into Porter’s brain, scanning for the facts Porter couldn’t explain.

Porter half-hoped Clusser would find what he needed and say nothing. But the throbbing silence ached. Clusser stared until Porter moved to speak for the sake of killing the quiet and salvaging their friendship.

But Clusser’s words were faster. “You don’t trust me anymore.”

“Only because you refuse to believe me when I’m telling you the truth,” said Porter, sitting back slowly.

Clusser swished his tongue in his closed mouth. “You think I’m with those who tried to kill you. I’m not. But unless you help me figure out what’s happening here, one thing’s for sure: your middle initial stands for
Dead-meat
. Either in the courtroom…or outside it.”

“Thanks for the confidence,” said Porter, folding his arms.

“They don’t want you alive, Porter.” Clusser added, “You were involved in the incident at the library, weren’t you.”

“How did you—”

“The librarians made a list of the odd conglomeration of books you’d left on a table. It’s amazing the police didn’t trace them to you.”

“I never checked them out.”

“How many students at Stratford would have a mixture of Mayan, Hebrew, and Egyptian texts and dictionaries spread open in one place? It was in the report, but never followed for some reason.”

“I can give you one.
They
didn’t want the police involved.” Porter crossed his legs under the table, then loosened his limbs as he realized he was hugging himself—a common sign of insecurity and an attempt at psychological self-defense.

“The night librarian was given three hundred-dollar bills by an unrecognized man to step out for a coffee. The librarian came forward with the guilt-ridden truth. So if you were the only one in the library…you broke the window to get off the second floor. It was your blood the officers typed.”

“And you can’t see why I’m in here now? They want to destroy all evidence of Ulman’s find.”

“And
they
killed Dr. Ulman,” Clusser said for him.

Porter nodded.

Leaning forward, Clusser said, “The nebulous
they
won’t hold up in court, Porter.”

“If
they
got into Stratford, who’s to say they wouldn’t gain control of the codex after the judge is through?”

“So you do have KM-2.”

“No! I’m saying a ‘what-if!’” Porter was slipping up. He needed help, but was afraid to open his mouth anymore. He wiped his face with both hands. “What does Arnott have to do with all this, then.”

The FBI looked silently through the transparent air, thick with dust visible in the bright beams from over their heads. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

Porter slapped the table. “Yes you should! Comp.!?!”

“Don’t call me that. We haven’t been missionaries for years.” Clusser groaned as their eyes held each other in a silent bond full of crackling electricity. “Raymond Polaski, the suspect in the Wilkinson murder, came forward. He said he was hired by a man called Gerard Jasper. Polaski said, however, that he heard a number of people call Jasper a different name: Peter.”

“Then you have your proof! Polaski can testify and—”

“Polaski shot himself while in Police Protection.”

“Really,” Porter said in disbelief. “Do people in safe houses usually have access to guns?”

“We don’t know how he obtained the weapon. But with Polaski’s information, I was able to find out a bit about this…Peter Arnott.”

“False name,” Porter said with a dull voice. Reality was crumbling around him. With innocence, he looked at Clusser. “You’re FBI. You told me agents handled cases in their own areas, never chasing them personally across the US like in the junk novels, but transferring the info and responsibility to whatever office is closest to the relative location.”

Clusser stood and looked with dark eyes at his one-time companion.

Porter licked his lips. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

With a flat smile, Clusser said, “Just came to help a friend.” He turned to the exit.

“Where are you going?”

The agent stopped and looked back. “Porter…you’re not lying to me….I need to know.”

Porter shook his head.

“Then I’m off to the bat-cave. See you in court.”

*  *  *

May 5
8:40 a.m. PST

Well, the tuna was a little old, but Harvey Goodwill munched away without noticing. He’d waited in his beat-up ‘92 Mustang for over two hours, watching for his mark, one John D. Porter, to show his face.

It would be an effortless assassination.

Goodwill’s mark had a rather simple face with no peculiarities, the kind of kisser Goodwill wanted for himself—Porter would make the perfect killer! The student’s hair was flat and dry brown, his eyes a haze of plain gray. Even when Porter smiled there wasn’t a glow. At least not in the photographs. Goodwill memorized the snapshots before tearing them into the toilet of a motel with no name.

Goodwill had taken easier men down, like the rich fellow of many years who’d been feeding his own organized criminal unit enough funds to make them immortal and beyond reach. That man had never openly posed as a crime lord, and therefore never suspected that anyone knew of his existence. He’d lived in obscurity behind electronic defenses and more than ten angry rottweilers that chewed on whole tires for fun. That guy was a sip of soda. He never awoke from his sleep, and the doctors blamed his death on his yellow liver.

This Porter job wouldn’t be much of a bother at all. It would be over within an hour. Goodwill would be on a Greyhound to Florida before eleven o’clock, reading the sports page and chewing on apple skins.

He smiled at the thought.

The plan was basic. One man on the outside: the hit man. One on the inside: the point man. The point man went by the name
Red Rover
, while Goodwill was known only as
Sunshine
.

Goodwill waited and watched as Red Rover took care of all preliminary operations. Someone made the stupid jurisdictional decision to put Porter in a small bus for the trip to court.

The point man had already checked: there was no one else but the driver on board, one Jackie Golb, and he was a competent officer. Golb wasn’t a US Marshall, which was out of the ordinary. And normally, a second Marshall accompanied the driver while transporting a prisoner aboard a bus. These intentional errors in propriety amused Goodwill. Who knows, Goodwill’s employers may have had a hand in setting up this folly. The lax attitude on the part of the administrators would become a point of contentious debate during the investigation that would inevitably follow the assassination. The officers would yell at each other while Goodwill put up his heels and spent his well-earned bucks faraway.

Goodwill took another bite of his sandwich as he replayed the rest of the scenario in his mind. He’d designed it. Of course it would work.

Red Rover, also a excellent officer with a heretofore perfect record, would ask Officer Golb where he was headed. The driver would tell him. The inside man would reply that he had orders to report to the Federal courthouse as well and would playfully be kind enough to “escort” the bus. It was an unnecessary offer, but it would help Golb relax. Not that Porter was a particularly corrupt individual liable to escape, or even to make the attempt, but this way Golb wouldn’t have much to think about besides driving.

A small remote-controlled relay had been placed in the line of the radio power cable in the bus. It was a simple device, which Goodwill called a
Snubber
, for lack of another term. When activated, the Snubber opened the circuit, resulting in an absence of power to the device the electricity was supposed to operate; i.e., no radio. If Golb had a phone on his person, it wouldn’t matter. It would all be over moments after it began.

Red Rover would then get into his own car when the bus driver looked ready to go. He would radio Golb to confirm the green light and give the naive man a feeling of bland normality. Immediately, Red Rover would hit the remote to the Snubber, killing the driver’s radio. No smoke. No nothing. Golb wouldn’t realize for a moment he’d been cut off from the real world.

Goodwill pulled a green apple from his bag and began skinning it with his teeth, chewing the epidermis like gum.

The next part the inside man would play would make him appear completely innocent of the crime about to occur. It would result in Red Rover’s patrol car pulling to the side of the freeway. He would later report a string of carefully crafted fables followed by the verbal admittance that he “was unsure of what he saw and what
really
happened.”

Porter would be found dead, the driver also executed. The authorities would come and spin their mental tires until they ran out of gas.