I’ve already dodged bullets, if you see what I’m getting at.
I’m sorry, I can’t stay here and type.
They are after me again.
This is worse than I thought, but you can see the implications. This is a solid link to the Book of Mormon. I can’t put it down. Even though they are kicking me out of the University because of it. What would my father think….
They won’t give me my Ph.D.
If you can come to California, please do. I need to talk to you in person.
Gotta go.
John D. Porter
(If you don’t come, the D might stand for Dead. I’m serious. You won’t be able to contact me, so don’t try. Use your oh-so-special FBI skills to find me. I’ll be watching for you.)
* * *
9:21 p.m.
With the funny feeling that he shouldn’t, Porter left the motel room to see if the liquor store two buildings away had pistachios. He would dream they came from the Near East and relish the days when he’d pondered entering the exciting life of a professor discussing ancient texts in a squalid room.
The shadow in the alley had a familiar voice, crisp like autumn leaves, clear like a train whistle far up a valley, old as mummy’s breath. “Living in motels will break you.”
Porter stopped and looked into the dark, lifting a hand to block the obstructing light from the street lamp attached to the wall of the brick building. “My card isn’t maxxed yet.”
“Easy to track you down when you use plastic to pay.”
“I’m out of cash, old man. It’s either the card, a bush, or back to my apartment,” said Porter stepping into the shadow to see the gentleman.
It was the same one at Bruno’s, the same guy in the nice suit of gray tweed at the other cafe across town who’d called himself Joseph Smith. Seemed to have a knack for catching up to Porter. He hadn’t realized it was such an easy job. He had to check his back more often.
“Oh, you’re a smart person, Mr. Porter, you learn quickly,” said Mr. Smith as if he could read minds or was cruelly sarcastic. “Tell me, young man…is there really such a thing as truth? Or is it just a word describing an abstract idea that doesn’t exist?”
“It’s real,” Porter said.
“Then why doesn’t anyone see it?”
“You do,” said Porter, trusting his instincts. The scent of short trees in the sidewalk blossomed around them. Some plants were determined to force spring upon the world, whether or not the sky cooperated. But it was still cold.
The old man nodded with a quiet grin, his white hair moving like grain fields in the breeze jetting between the buildings, an unconsciously created air tunnel.
“So what’s the truth?” said Porter, his heart quickening.
“You…already know.”
“Mormons…”
“—have told the truth since they first came upon it,” said Smith. He stood tall, like a sycamore unnoticed in a park. He leaned slightly to one side, standing with his cane. He was merely a shape and little more.
A discarded cup imitated a rodent and ran down the alley.
“Are you LDS?” Porter said to the dark, afraid to move for fear of scaring off the old man. He had questions….
Smith shook his head. “I have no interest in religion.”
“That’s a lie. People who say they have no interest are only hiding the fear that something out there might be real. Something they don’t understand.”
“You’re wrong,” said Smith, tilting his head back.
“Or they’re so far in denial they wouldn’t realize it if all the facts tripped them to the ground.”
The old man kept his grin.
“And yet you insinuate the Mormons have the truth.”
“I deny nothing,” said the man in the wind. “I also proclaim nothing. No one wants to hear the truth. You must realize that, Mr. Porter. No one except Mormons, who are hardly relevant, and then only as long as it corresponds with their beliefs.”
“When wouldn’t it?” said Porter, the chill of the evening tightening his skin.
The gentleman’s face paled as he came into focus, then lit up again, warping one way then changing like a child’s clay; optical illusions. “Come now, John. We are talking about reality, remember? Do you claim the members of your church to be perfect?”
Porter waited before answering. “No.”
“Do all Latter-day Saints believe the same truths?”
Porter wouldn’t answer this time.
“Ever hear one of your members say something you know does not concur with Mormon doctrine?”
“What would you know about our beliefs?” Porter said. “I don’t know a single non-Mormon who understands our faith.”
“Nor do I. But over fifty years ago, I did intensive research in LDS beliefs for the committee.”
“What…committee?” said Porter, his lips quivering.
“I must tell you only what you need to know.”
“You’re saying you thoroughly investigated my church…and you never joined?”
“Shocked?!” Smith said, smiling widely and lifting his eyebrows. “Don’t be.” His mouth turned into a straight line. “I have my reasons.”
“How do I know you really understand anything about Mormons? In all my college classes when someone mentioned the church, both the students and the teachers made assumptions which weren’t true. ‘Mormons have more than one wife;’ ‘Mormons kill animals in their temples;’ ‘Mormons get married naked!’ They never knew anything about my faith. Just lumped us in with Protestants and gave us overactive imaginations.”
“Of course,” the man’s old voice eased from his beaten throat. “I thought we already established that no one wants to hear the truth. If the truth has anything to do with Latter-day Saints, do you think people will be more motivated to study it?”
“Most will shun it entirely.”
The gentleman nodded slowly. “Your professors and classmates, while perhaps well-meaning, have not investigated your church. Naturally they would assume Mormons to be like other religious institutions they know something about or hear about on the news. Assumption, my friend, is a drug to which the world is addicted. We see all things through drunk paradigms—yourself included. So of course no one has a grasp on LDS beliefs. The world simply goes on living delusions of happiness, steering clear of what is real if it looks remotely hazardous to their complacent lives.
“Your religion insinuates change, something most people find revolting. Even the intellectuals, who know better. Oh, yes. I understand your church doctrine. I probably know it even better than you do, my friend.”
“Oh really?” Porter twisted his lips into a knot off to one side of his face. His feet still ached from walking everywhere, but he didn’t notice.
The old man tilted his face toward the light shining only on the sidewalk and the student. “The Mormons possess five books of scripture as opposed to two like other Christians.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Porter said. “You probably dug that out of your encyclopedia.”
“Besides the Old and New Testaments of the Bible, Latter-day Saints read out of the Book of Mormon on a daily basis…or at least they are supposed to.”
“Sounds like a logical conclusion,” Porter said.
The gentleman kept his face as calm stone. “The two remaining books are The Doctrine and Covenants of the Church, and the Pearl of Great Price. The former is a compilation of revelations produced by the founder of the church, Joseph Smith…Jr. The latter is primarily made up of the Book of Moses, translated through revelation by Joseph Smith out of the King James versions of the Holy Bible, and the Book of Abraham, which your prophet translated from Egyptian records which fell into his hands prior to his martyrdom. Am I doing well?”
“Very. You’re even getting everything in the right order,” Porter said though he wasn’t convinced Smith really understood his beliefs.
Slowly, the shadow man said, “John, I have held
in these hands the original Egyptian papyrus Joseph Smith found. I doubt even you can make such a concrete claim. I know it is real.”
“The Joseph Smith Papyri was described in newspapers in the seventies,” said Porter.
“I know the Lachish Letters, found in Palestine in 1935, wouldn’t have been released to the world had scientists realized how much the records supported the Book of Mormon. Most scholars still don’t notice the connection, because they’ve never read your scriptures. Ordinary folk have never heard of the Lachish Letters. Ignorance of archaeological data is the most common error in supposing the Book of Mormon does not meet with evidences that have been found.”
Porter nodded, squinting his eyes.
“For years non-Mormons, as you call them, were able to laugh at the feminine Latin name Alma given to certain men in the Book of Mormon. An obvious failure by Joseph Smith when he wrote the book. Then the Dead Sea Scrolls came out of the caves in 1947. Without realizing it, the Jews published a scroll describing one Alma ben Jacob—”
“Alma the son of Jacob,” said Porter.
The old man lowered his chin. “We’ve scoffed at the southern hick name Josh that Joseph Smith put in the Book of Mormon, until the same name was acknowledged in the Lachish Letters. And scholars have already identified from the Letters that the Jewish King’s—Zedekiah’s—final and only surviving heir may have escaped with a party between the years 590 and 588 BCE, when the Jews were captured and taken to Babylon.”
Porter listened, the chill biting the tips of his ears.
“The Book of Mormon has been describing that same historical scene for over one-hundred and fifty years, hasn’t it.”
Porter couldn’t say anything. In disbelief, he stood in the dark, wondering what more this man knew but wasn’t saying. The facts were accurate. “And you’re…not…a Mormon?”
The thin man in the Italian suit shook his head. “If I were a Latter-day Saint because of what I know, wouldn’t I share that information with my fellow Mormons?” The wind pulled at his buttoned coat. “Knowledge is a dangerous thing. People will kill to keep some things buried. Becoming a Mormon…could slay me, Mr. Porter. You can understand why I work in the shadows.”
Porter shook his head, his eyes growing weak. His heart beat like a tiger’s in a chase. “No…no, I can’t. You know about archaeology proving the validity of what the LDS church has said for so long…but you remain separate from the faith?”
“It is faith, Porter. I realize what you’re saying and how you feel. But archaeological evidence should never be the basis for a man’s belief in a divine being or choice of religion. You can own a rock with ancient writings on it, but no one can own a real god.”
A car rolled slowly behind Porter, catching Smith’s eyes.
Porter turned around but it sped up and was gone.
“You said the Mormons possessed the truth,” said Porter. “You mean the Book of Mormon?”
The old man nodded. “For a long time, I’ve known the book wasn’t written by Joseph Smith as enemies of your church often claim.”
“How’s that?” Porter said.
Smith’s eyes turned into black slits in the dark. “Do you really think Ulman’s codex…is the first one found in Central America proving the authenticity of your beliefs?!”
Porter touched his throat in silence. His eyes glazed over. He stopped breathing. But this time he didn’t pass out. He snapped back, licked the wind against his mouth, and said, “Why are you telling me all this?”
The old man reached into his coat.
Porter could see the shine on the black semiautomatic pistol with the silencer extension.
“My life is near an end.” Smith held his cane in his free hand. “I think it’s time to shift the balance of power.”
“Do you need the pistol to do it?” Porter said, his voice possessing twice the force, but already buried in a grave.
“No, Mr. Porter.” The old man smiled. “Only you.”
There was a flash.
One bang of solid thunder. A second immediate echoing BANG followed.
Porter spun with the impact of the bullets.
There was no pain. Even when his head hit the ground, creating a blinding light inside his eyes.
Then the candle went out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
May 1
1:03 a.m. PST
Porter opened his eyelids, the fuzzy world rocking left and right. Nothing he did helped him to focus, so he tried to keep his eyes shut.
They opened again.
There was too much talking.
Faces looking down and then leaving him.
The motors of cars.
Something over his nose.
A constant hiss coming from just outside his mouth.
He couldn’t move.
Beeping sounds.
He needed to cough, but as soon as he started the voices intensified, the scrambling increased.
What were they saying?
The light disappeared.
A blinding whiteness followed, and Porter blinked and thought he saw green exit signs, monitors, and ceiling tiles. Where was he?
He smelled plastic and…mild chemicals? He wanted to cry, especially when he thought he smelled his own bowel discharge.
More faces appeared, then disappeared. Hands brushed his shoulder. Moved his arms. He thought he heard someone talking to him. Something about St. Mary’s Hospital. “Where do you hurt.” Some question about previous medical problems.
Something tugged at him slightly, and Porter tried to lift his head to see what was happening.
They were cutting the clothes from his body.
He wept, realizing his nakedness, and tried to move to cover himself, but they held him down.
The air blew warm over his body, but the tips of his toes and fingers felt chilled.
He saw another monitor, then shut his eyes as they moved him onto what had to be a hospital gurney.
Porter hated hospitals. He despised them when he was the patient, at least, which really hadn’t ever happened until now.
Someone moved his arm. He glanced at the IV as they set it. Nausea rippled through him, and Porter slammed his eyes shut.
He looked down when he realized they were poking a second time for a new IV and again to draw blood.
A new voice materialized, more forceful than the rest, but slow and in control. “What’s his pressure?”
Someone answered.
“Good evening Mr. Porter, glad to have you with us. What’s his heart rate?”
Another sound from another side.
“What’s his rhythm?”
The world spun, and Porter realized he’d stopped crying. He couldn’t start again, though he wanted it.
He shuddered when a number of the beings around him went to his left side and log-rolled him onto his right.
Pain jolted his insides, and he needed to cough again badly. He needed to rest. He was hurting, but couldn’t understand where or why. He just wanted to sleep.
“Get respiratory here stat!”
“Putting in the foley,” said a different voice.
It was all nonsense. The words meant nothing. Porter only—
They were doing something below the belt, and he felt a burning sensation and knew he was being utterly violated.
He had to trust the hands of the doctors. Porter hoped he’d pass out. This had gone on too long already.
Someone put gentle clips on his fingers, but he couldn’t look anymore.
“I want a med. blood panel and a type and cross for four units!” A woman disguised as an Egyptian mummy in bright-colored cloth looked down at him.
They moved him but he didn’t care, he didn’t pay attention anymore. Would he die? If so, why?! Because of the man in the shadows, the man who spoke of truth and reality and knowledge? Because Porter was important to the stranger? It was hopeless to understand.
Porter listened to the hiss from the plastic mask over his
mouth and nose. It was soothing…goodness amid the chaos.
“I want X-ray for a stat C-spine, chest and abdomen. Move your legs sir,” said the dominant voice, a woman with power—how exciting!
But Porter didn’t realize she spoke to him.
“Move your legs,” she said again, touching his skin with her cold rubber-laced fingers.
He lifted one leg, only slightly. Then the other and coughed.
“Move your arms. I’ve got two entrance wounds. Looks like close range, left-upper quadrant, one or two exit wounds.”
Porter shut off his ears. She wasn’t talking to him anymore.
Porter felt more liquid in his lungs and had to cough again. Weakness crushed him, and he thought for a moment they were slowly packing gold-bullion on his chest. Breathing grew difficult under the pressure. He wanted to tell them to get off, but—
“He’s becoming more tachypneic!” said a different voice with serious concern in his tone.
Porter opened his mouth to draw more air.
“I hear a lot of wheezes.”
“Respiratory give another treatment,” said the doctor. “Get me a gas!”
“O2 stat’s falling.”
“Specifics!”
“Only 86.”
Porter felt fingers poking up his abdomen, something jabbed at his rectum, other hands shoving in points along his chest wall.
What was it?!? he worried. Don’t ask questions! he told himself.
The cold disc of a stethoscope on his breast opened his eyes.
The world had grown white. Porter knew he could see—had the ability to focus if he desired—but he pinpointed all his energy on breathing…
From the other side came the doctor’s voice. “Let’s give him some SUCC to paralyze him.”
Was time passing, or was everything happening at once? He counted breaths, but lost track after eight.
Porter had to cough once more, but felt the need to sit up. His arms and legs wouldn’t budge. Could he even feel them? What had they said? Paralyze?
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