The Kukulkan Manuscript

by James Steimle

  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.”

  “What if he’s being cajoled. Gun point or something,” said Porter, bumping into the wall as they pushed down the white corridor.

  “Porter, you have to trust somebody.”

  He decided to say nothing else for fear of sounding any more like a child. But still, he looked behind him repeatedly. Almost to Dr. Kinnard’s office, Porter sneezed, panicked about giving himself away, and turned around again—doing his best to look as if he’d simply slowed to admire the modern art depiction of a fifteenth-century German pavis, the shield used in medieval times to protect the entire body.

  Porter figured there were at least twenty doors on either side of the corridor. He pictured men in black waiting for them to pass before shooting them in the back.

  He was examining the closed portals again—pretending to examine the pink and green lily pad in oils—when he heard Alred’s knuckles hit Kinnard’s door frame. His skin cooled.

  “So you did get to Ulman’s security box?” Porter said under his breath.

  “I’d better tell you about that later,” she said as Porter locked eyes on her. Alred wore an attracting perfume he didn’t recognize, and for some reason his stomach felt empty.

  Kinnard opened the door. “Come on in.”

  As the professor took his seat in silence, Porter entered and stared helplessly at the wide window to his left with no shade to shut out the night. It was a black hole in the white wall. With florescent light brightening the room, anyone could see them from outside. And if a sniper waited…he wouldn’t even need a scope to kill Porter in that small office.

  The only other decoration was the silver expansion bolt Porter always glanced at when entering, wondering if there would be a screw in it some day. He looked at it out of habit, but also hoping it would bring some sense of comforting normality. He had to shut off his emotions; they were getting in the way. He felt like a small child on a playground full of bullies hiding behind big trees.

  “Thanks for coming so late. I needed to talk to you as soon as possible…before you got much further,” said Kinnard, sitting, leaning forward, and clasping his muscular hands together.

  “Why,” Alred said, taking a seat.

  “You’d be impressed, Dr. Kinnard,” said Porter. “With all the…opposition we’ve faced in this project…everything is still progressing well.” It was the truth, but did it make him feel better?

  Kinnard examined Porter as if he were a caterpillar in a cocoon. “You’ve found positive links between the ancient Middle East and Mesoamerica?”

  “The KM-2 substantiates facts I’ve already been gathering for many years,” Porter said, sinking into the other hard chair before Kinnard’s desk, glancing at the window from time to time.

  “Like what,” Kinnard asked Porter, shooting Alred a quick look.

  “Mesoamerican historians professing isolationist’s theories have attempted to explain away the existence of the coconut, cotton, and the bottle gourd in pre-Columbian America by saying it simply floated there,” said Porter. “Their arguments for the sea voyages of pineapples, maize, and tobacco have proven more difficult. There is evidence for chickens, with weak evolutionary explanations, in America long before Columbus.

  “Mesoamerican cultural traits in parallel with the ancient Near East may have come into existence by a means of logical coincidence, but it’s hard to invent a chicken, or the sweet potato, or the red-flowering hibiscus which had to be transplanted. In KM-2, I’m finding a slew of patterns brought by visitors from the old world to the New. I’d prefer to publicize them during my formal argumentation.”

  With his lips together, Kinnard looked again at Alred, who simply waited. “You’re an ancient Americanist,” he said.

  “And I have plenty of explanations for the things Porter has mentioned,” said Alred.

  “Ah,” said Porter, “but your replies are simply the facts taught you by other ignorant authorities on the subject of Mesoamerican history and pre-history. Secondhand knowledge. The KM-2 is history, by definition of the word, and—”

  “I studied under Dr. Ulman, Porter. You forget that. He was a fine authority and the discoverer of the Kalpa site from whence we have KM-2,” she said.

  “He and his finds will validate our arguments that there is a connection between the Near East and Mesoamerica,” said Porter, raising a finger.

  “But he is dead,” Kinnard said, his face flushed
by heretofore unspoken excitement. “He was my friend…and now….Dr. Albright has also passed away.”

  “And you think there’s a link,” Porter said, studying Kinnard’s hard face for silent messages.

  With a jerk, Kinnard looked out the window.

  Porter snapped his head to the glass as well, expecting to see….

  “Seems you both suppose the same conspiracy,” Alred said to Porter. “But we don’t know what’s going on. I suggest taking a breath and getting to work.”

  “I—,” said Kinnard, but he didn’t say anything else.

  Porter sensed the heat radiating from the professor’s flexing muscles. Was he having second thoughts? Why would that— “Dr. Kinnard…do you know what is going on?”

  Kinnard looked at his desk and reached up with his right hand to rub his bald forehead. He removed his glasses. “Porter, you…are really in a lot of trouble…with your dissertation. I know how terribly consequential these last few days have been—”

  “Why was the deadline for dissertations moved?” Porter said. “I suppose there are a vast number of other Ph.D. candidates complaining.”

  “I had nothing to do with it—”

  “Was it Dr. Masterson? Is that who I need to talk to?” said Porter.

  Alred closed her eyes.

  “Porter, will you stop cutting me off?” said Kinnard, struggling to maintain a peaceful face. His naked head was turning white, and his lower forehead red. He pushed his glasses against his face.

  “If I didn’t need to write it all out, I could give my dissertation tomorrow,” Porter said.

  “You could not,” said Kinnard.

  “I have enough data to speak for a day on the aforementioned connection.”

  “Porter,” said Alred, putting a hand over his.

  Porter jumped from his seat, glanced at the window, found a safe location in the corner of the room, and faced the professor again. “Did you know Cortez wrote in a letter to his king that the things he found were so…unbelievable…Cortez knew the description he was about to write down would not be easily trusted? He gave a written warning to that effect before his report.” Porter lifted a finger and pointed as he spoke. “Cortez feared-feared no one would go along with his story about the Old World because even he and his men, who saw the things with their own eyes that he was about to relate—and no doubt witnessed things he didn’t write down!—Cortez and his men couldn’t comprehend as actual reality? There is so much that we as Americans have forgotten or lost since ancient times. Not even the natives agree on the old tales. Don’t tell me we should give up—”

  “Porter,” Alred said calmly, turning around in her chair, “sit down. We don’t know why Kinnard asked us here. You’re jumping to conclusions and…not acting very scholarly right now.”

  An embarrassed statue, Porter stood in the corner until his legs carried him back to the chair. His eyes shot out the window on their own for a second. No bullets so far.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Kinnard,” said Alred, still sitting with her hands neatly settled one atop the other, her folded legs relaxed, her back straight, and her head up. “It’s been a stressful semester.”

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing,” said Kinnard, looking back at her. “Ms. Alred, this won’t affect you as much…as it will Porter, but it won’t make you happy either.”

  Kinnard stood and looked down at his desk, attempting to collect himself and breathe more easily.

  Porter shoved his focus to his own knee-caps, as if the action would hide him from whatever Kinnard was about to say. He still suspected a gun in Kinnard’s back…somehow.

  “KM-2,” Kinnard said. He looked at Alred. “Wouldn’t Kalpa start with a C, Alred, if it is a Central American—”

  “That is my understanding,” said Alred. “I can’t explain Albright’s choice, nor the reason other scholars have perpetuated—”

  “Was there a reason we came here?” said Porter as innocently as he could, though the emotions were pouring invisibly from every orifice.

  “I think you should forget about this project,” Kinnard said looking straight at Porter.

  Gazing through the silence, Porter felt the blood to his brain shut-off. “Why?”

  “We might be wrong, Porter, but I think you agree with me. This isn’t a simple dissertation you’re working on anymore. I fear…illegal actions may have been taken, and icy waters are stirring which we should leave alone.”

  “That,” said Porter, “is…it? Thank you, Dr. Kinnard,” he said with a smile, “but I would rather present my argument to the board!”

  Alred sighed.

  “We only have six days left! Six!!! You can’t pull the rug out on this one,” Porter said.

  Kinnard kept his eyes on the desk. “I really feel for you—”

  “But…not that much, eh?!” Porter huffed and flung his hands, standing again.

  Alred got to her feet. It was over.

  “Look,” Kinnard said as she turned quietly to the door and Porter threw his hands a second time, flopping them against his sides. “I know the vitality of your predicament, Porter, but I can’t do anything about it.”

  Porter froze his arms in midair and looked at his supervising professor. “Wait.” He pointed again. “You can’t. You mean you tried to….You didn’t make this decision?”

  Alred turned slowly. “What? Dr. Kinnard, you’re not shutting down the study because you’re worried about—”

  “No,” he said.

  “It was Masterson, wasn’t it!” said Porter approaching the desk. He felt the acid rain in his lungs.

  Kinnard lifted a signed paper from his desk. “Stratford is terminating your research and the applicable dissertations.”

  “Can the University do that?!?” Porter asked Alred.

  With eyebrows lifted at Kinnard and arms folded, she said, “Stratford can do anything she wants.”

  “Especially when impending lawsuits are suspected,” said Kinnard. “I’m sorry.”

  Porter turned like a rhino for the door, bumping Alred aside and yanking the portal open. This was worse than being shot through the window.

  Before he could make it out, he heard Kinnard’s voice. “We will need KM-2 back…of course.”

  Black smoke clogging his heart, Porter looked at his supervisor.

  Alred thanked the professor and put a hand on Porter’s shoulder as she went by him. “That’s it, Porter. We’re done.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  April 28

  9:18 p.m. PST

  Alred followed Porter out of the building.

  A white T-bird almost hit him as he stepped onto the parking lot. “I’m not giving up the codex,” Porter said without turning.

  “That’s a good way to make sure you never teach in a university,” said Alred under the yellow lights hanging from high poles over the sparsely filled lot.

  Porter stopped and jabbed a finger into her face. “You don’t care what happens to me! You lost your dissertation, but so what?! You know you can start something else from scratch; you have plenty of years left to complete it!”

  “That’s true,” she said, raising her eyebrows, her face calm stone. “I plan to do exactly as you outlined.” She folded her arms. “But we—”

  “You’ve been against me from the start,” said Porter coming up close to her, “don’t deny it.”

  She nodded. “I was assigned by the faculty to debunk the assertions you would attempt to make. They knew your work would be good.”

  “They pitted you—”

  “And I wanted nothing to do with it,” she said, pulling her overcoat tighter as the frigid wind blew through her clothing. “I told you when we met, I already had other plans. I’m done with my schooling. I just need my dissertation, which I saved for the end in order to concentrate all of my energy. Now—”

  “Did you even take the codex to get dated, or were you trying your best to keep it from me to slow down my work?” said Porter, turning away from
her and stepping into a deep puddle.

  “John—”

  “Oh, don’t get casual on me now, Ms. Alred! This has just been a game for you. Well I’m not relinquishing KM-2 to anybody—I especially can’t trust you!”

  “If you had any brains at all, Porter, you’d see I’m the only one with you on this!” she said pressing herself forward.

  “How can you say that?!?” he said, his eyes wide, his hands spread as he gawked at her. “Every time I tell you what’s in the codex, you turn to ice! You’d rather be in a mortuary than in my presence! You know my arguments are valid, my proofs are sound, and that rightfully disturbs you! But instead of opening up to the facts, you’ve been looking for holes, haven’t you!”

  “You sound like an infant who’s had his candy stolen,” she said, leaning back. “Listen to your own words.”

  “You hear me,” he said slowly, poking himself in the chest. He took a deep breath to calm himself before starting. “There is an old Arabian tale about a poet named Maymun ibn Qays, who I’m sure you’ve never heard of. Al-A’asha is his more common name. This man, living into the days of the prophet Muhammad wished to see the holy man. But in his time, a poet in a royal circles had great power to turn the heads of political courts. He could change the balance of power if he sided with the Prophet. So on his way to the Prophet, Muhammad’s rivals, the Quraysh, met Al-A’asha and tempted him with reasons to not join the prophet’s party.”

  Porter spoke in rapid fire, spitting out the story.

  “‘He won’t let you mess around with women,’ they told him.

  “‘No skin off my back,’ Al-A’asha said.

  “‘Muhammad forbids gambling!’ they told him.

  “‘There’ll be other benefits,’ he said.

  “‘The prophet doesn’t allow you to make loans with interest!’ they said, trying to appeal to al-Asha’s financial needs.