The Kukulkan Manuscript (40 page)

“In Guatemala?!?” said Porter, realizing the lie.

“Rafael Madrigal threatened to blow up the entire plantation of his
competidor
, Antonio Janés. But Janés purchased the local anti-government guerrilla militia to intercept Madrigal’s powerful weapons. Regrettably, the army caught up with Madrigal’s men just outside of a little-known village in the Highlands…called Kalpa by the natives—You’ve heard of it.”

Porter ground his teeth and twisted his lips, his face growing red with anger while his heart melted with hopelessness.

“No one survived,” said the old man, leaning forward, pushing his unseen ribs into the cherry wood. “No modern Quiche Mayans, no guerrillas…. The explosion may have provoked the 6.8 scale earthquake and recent lava flow mentioned in this week’s paper. Did you read the incoherent story? Only a short mention really. After all, who cares about a small band of Indians in the mountains of Central America? Who cares about rotting archaeological sites?”

Porter tried to steady his breathing. He was powerless to even stop the gentleman’s words.

“The entire area is buried again…by the hand of our sweet Mother Nature.” Relaxing back into the leather chair, the old man sighed. His words lacked no measure of force. “Now…where is KM-3.”

“I already gave it to Salt Lake City,” said Porter, wiping the wetness from his eyes. He tried to not think about those innocents, murdered in order to keep the past in the past.

“You lie badly.”

“I tell the truth much better,” said Porter. “Alred did it for me during my last minutes in court. I have the proof in my pocket. She was the one who had KM-3 during the whole trial. Actually, I understand she gave the codex to an old friend for safe storage. I told her to send it away, though it was the last thing she would have expected of me. In my pocket I have a certified mail receipt. It won’t take long for you to figure out who received it, I’m sure.”

“Andrews,” said the man at the end of the table.

One old fellow nearest Porter stood casually, walked to Porter and reached a hand into the pocket Porter indicated with a glance of his eyes while speaking. Andrews read the markings. He nodded to the gentlemen that Porter’s words were accurate.

“What does that mean?” said the man at the end of the table to another member of this secret board.

Joseph Smith leaned forward, curling fingers together in his relaxed fashion. His voice, deep as always, shifted in pitch as he pointed his face from the fellow at one end of the table first and then to Porter standing alone at the opposite end. “KM-3 is in the hands of the Mormon church now.”

Andrews sat down.

Smith looked at Porter with incalculable thought in his eyes.

Others stared at the table in front of them, their old brows rising and falling, their dry lips mumbling, their hands shifting.

Porter wondered if the time to die had come at last.

The room filled with wave after wave of thick silence.

The air conditioning shut off with a jump.

The quiet boomed louder than thunder.

“Then it’s over,” said the man at the far end.

Shaking, Porter ran multiple scenarios through his mind. What next? Should he sprint for the door? Was he dead already? Would they kill Alred and anyone who knew anything about the codex to cover all their footprints? Would they carry their covert works on to other members of the church? Leaders of the LDS faith?

First things first. If anyone would die, it would be John D. Porter. After a long pause, Porter finally said, “What about me?”

Squinting his colorless eyes, the old man at the end studied Porter…for a long time…before deciding.

7:16 p.m PST

“You have a nice day now,” said Bruno as Alred and Porter left the cafe. Porter felt the gaze of the boxer with ancient wisdom in his eyes. He smiled and waved.

Outside, the sun touched the horizon, lighting the world with a blaze of electroplated gold.

Alred frowned.

“You’ve done well, Mr. Porter,” said an old voice.

Porter looked behind him as the man with the British walk stopped. It was Joseph Smith, leaning on his cane as the jasmine-scented wind tugged at the bottom of his gray overcoat.

“You stayed alive.”

“No thanks to you,” said Porter, pushing a hand through his brown hair. He held his suit coat at his side in a tightening fist.

The gentleman smiled. “Actually,
all
thanks goes to me, but I require none. I told you. I have my own reasons for messing up their little game.”

Alred looked at the man in silence. Porter had explained everything from the beginning, so she knew this had to be the
Joseph Smith
Porter had described. Porter glanced at her, squinting with curious eyes at the gold-lit man east of where they stood.

“I still don’t understand anything about you,” said Porter. “I want answers.”

Smith smiled and blinked slowly. “Some things are best left unknown. You lost the codex, but some ancient documents aren’t meant to be in the hands of scholars. Those belong in the possession of prophets who don’t need them for proof of their religion…but use them for spiritual profit and learning. Sometimes the only way to keep something is to lose it.”

“Your message,” said Porter, referring to the scriptural note in the courtroom.

“Congratulations on your doctoral dissertations.” He looked at the two students as the evening wind cooled between them. The old man’s grin faded, but Porter could not discern why. Smith turned as if he still had much to do and walked down the sidewalk to nowhere.

“Why did
they
let you go?” said Alred, watching the old man in the long coat. Three twelve-year old boys shot out of an alley in front of Smith and disappeared across the street.

Porter shrugged. “I can’t track them down. I’d be killed the moment I got close.” He put his cold fingertips into the pockets of his slacks. He licked his lips. “In ancient times, a community just to the west of the Dead Sea in Israel believed we were all…living ‘through the dominion of Belial.’”

“Who?” said Alred. Porter looked at her through tight eyes. The sun blazed a bright yellow and orange behind her and yet many thousands of miles away. The sky was a swirl of pink, florescent purple, glowing gold, and low clouds valiantly holding their shimmering whites.

The cool wind blew right into Alred’s face, holding back her red hair, but she kept her green eyes opened. The air was sweet.

“Our time will come, Alred. But right now…we are meant to have trials,” said Porter.

“You never stop, do you.” Alred shook her head and grinned. “I guess I’ll miss that someday.” She turned into the sun and started walking, looking back. “Good-bye, Porter.”

Porter stood with his right hand in his pocket, a sinking sadness in his throat as she left him at last.

Alred whipped around suddenly, but her feet kept moving. “Wait a minute. You never told me your middle name.”

Porter glowed. “D,” he said with a wide grin. Then he moseyed away.

A historian obsessed enough to do the work for an MFA in Creative Writing on top of a master’s in Education, James Steimle is the award-winning author of “Pearl of Great Price” and “The Happy Dog and the Lonely Cat.”  While he has written multiple volumes on developmental theory and many books for children, he is also the author of
Interference
,
The Room That Wasn’t There
, and
The Ghost People
.

Visit him online at
www.steimle.us
.

Copyright © 2009 by James Steimle. All rights reserved. Published by Technical Data Freeway, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.