But Porter couldn’t toss the feeling that they’d come after him by mistake. So why hide KM-2 and drop what the codex had been wrapped in? They wouldn’t know what snugly waited in the brown bag. He’d gotten away as they scurried like Japanese cockroaches to the bait.
Why hadn’t Clusser replied yet? Porter thought, rubbing his face. Or was Porter simply out of touch. Alred had checked his mail, but told him on the phone she’d found nothing important; no personal letters at all.
This was no matter for authorities.
It would all go away…in time.
He didn’t have the minutes he needed to read the papers to see if anyone had noticed what had happened in the library a week ago. He had to study.
Looking up he examined with red eyes the dusty cafe around him.
Certainly was quieter than Bruno’s, but too far from the university for any students to frequent. That’s why he’d decided to hide out here. He’d stay, eating and drinking amid the heaps of books and growing mass of notes, until they pushed him out.
George C. Richter’s Tales from the Amu stared up at him from beneath four yellow pages of his scribbles relating three parallel stories Porter had found. With a brown copy of Von den Bedouinen des Altertums, by Walther Molin, Tha-labai’s Qisas al-Anbiya, and of course John L. Burckhardt’s, Notes on the Bedouins and Wahabys (an oldie, but…you know), Porter wondered if he was heading up the wrong ladder. He had theories only, and as often was the case, none of the scholars agreed with him, which really didn’t matter. It was the essence of scholarship: to break traditional ideas in favor of the truth. Unless of course the truth existed in the old conclusions.
“Can I get you anything…else, sir?” said the waitress.
Porter looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. A gold tag read: Michelle. Black hair with a shine. White teeth and auburn skin that would be prune texture in about fifteen years because of sun exposure.
“No,” he said, unsure of her message until he mentally played it back. “Yes! Do you have pretzels?”
“To go with your hot chocolate?” she said, leaning with her hip cocked. He’d already had a full pitcher’s worth, and she’d seen him go to the bathroom twice, leaving his table hidden beneath a flotsam of falling papers and dirty volumes. He’d buried his mug once and taken at least fifteen seconds to find it when she’d come about the twentieth time to see if he wanted dinner. He’d ordered fries. And ranch dressing on the side.
“Please.” His head bobbed back to his books as if she’d already left. With a shake of her head, she disappeared.
Porter didn’t worry about her, or what the manager might hear. He had to make positive the links he already supposed he’d found in the codex. If he couldn’t prove the relation between the Kalpa Manuscript and the Near East, which Albright and Peterson insinuated strongly, his dissertation would be seen as a flop. He had a certain distasteful, but respected, reputation to keep.
And Alred? Porter couldn’t figure her out, but suspected she wasn’t all with him in the project. For example, what was her thesis? Why weren’t they writing the same paper? Yes, yes, they were separate Ph.D’s, but why all the secrecy on her part. She didn’t try to hide anything from him, but her constant defensive posture confused him. And her offensive stance against the chance that Ulman’s find had a relation to the Book of Mormon? Perhaps she hid a religious fear and not an academic one.
“My father died that way.”
Porter heard these words. He couldn’t help but be quick to hear anything related to death, since it seemed a horrible possibility at present.
Over the bench in front of him, Porter could see an old man in a suit sitting alone with a cup of something hot. The eyes, aged with the wisdom of the Greeks and surrounded in similar wrinkles, waited patiently on him.
“I’m sorry, are you—”
“Talking to you?” said the fellow, glancing into his cup. “You’re the only one who heard me!”
Porter looked down at his notes. It seemed that an ant farm had broken open over his papers and ceased living; all the words were unreadable, a mess only. His heart skipped to a start and pounded like a newborn’s.
“Don’t have to listen,” said the old man, sipping loudly. “Didn’t mean to push my emotions on you. Sometimes they rise to the brim and can’t be contained, I suppose.”
“Know what you mean,” Porter mumbled.
“Worked himself to death,” said the stranger. “Just stayed out, away from the family, forming regrets he wouldn’t have a chance to remedy. He drank, but not too much. Some people hide in bottles. He hid in books.”
Taking a breath, Porter looked up at the old man and relaxed a little. The guy was probably just lonely. He didn’t look drunk, and his well-pressed Brione of dark Italian fabric meant he was a man of wealth and possible importance. So his head was on somewhat straight. Why wasn’t he home with his family. Like father, like son?
The doctoral candidate went back to work, and this time the words on the pages made sense. He needed to rest. He dropped a pad to one side and scanned the index of Molin’s volume with hungry fingers and furious eyes.
“He was a attorney. But you look more like a student.”
“You also a lawyer? You’re very perceptive,” said Porter without looking up.
The old man chuckled lightly. “I may be foolish, but…I learned not to follow the path of my forefathers.”
“How untraditional,” Porter said, scribbling on his pad before sticking his mechanical pencil in his mouth.
“Sometimes tradition is a bad thing. Old things die, and they must. Things in the past should be left alone.”
“I’m a historian and therefore have to disagree.” Porter said through the pencil. His eyes never left his books. Peripheral vision told Porter’s brain that the old man hadn’t moved, but continued to sip the steaming liquid. “Simple point. Elementary, my dear Watson.”
“Doyle never wrote that, you know,” said the fellow.
Porter looked up with honest curiosity coloring his face. “Really?”
The old man nodded, but didn’t make eye contact with the student. “Created later in what I would call The Further Fabrications of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Has a good ring to it,” Porter said, returning to the index.
“I can think of no job more difficult than yours,” said the old man.
“I can think of many more difficult jobs!”
“Columbus.”
“What about him,” said Porter with little enthusiasm in his tone.
“The most hated man in America, and the only hated man we celebrate once a year.”
“Depends on who you talk to,” Porter said.
“I speak with Time.”
Porter looked at him. He pointed at the old man with his pencil, “An English teacher, right?”
A gentle shake of the head.
“Back to your father, are we?” said Porter.
“I watch the years come and go. Same as everyone else, though time usually gets in people’s way. They hate it and try to paddle against it’s mighty current. That’s what you’re doing. Don’t have much time, do you. That’s only because time is your enemy. If it were with you, you would always win!”
“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 mec
hanical 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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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.
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