The Kukulkan Manuscript

by James Steimle

  “Now just one with the courthouse in the background,” said the professional annoyance as Porter spoke.

  “No, I really need to go.”

  “Last one, I promise!” he said, waving energetic hands. He stepped beside Sandy and looked at Porter and the background. “This is good!”

  Porter sighed and quickly turned to see where they were in relation to the front of the courthouse, which was still somewhat in view around the brick office building. He grinned a fake curve of teeth which Clusser would have been proud of.

  The flamboyant newsperson, a little man with the microphone swinging from some kind of hook on his belt now, waved his arms. “No, a little right. Right, Mr. Porter, please, thank you that’s beautiful. Now back, back…Good! Now Sandy!”

  Just behind him against the curb, Porter heard a van door roar open on metal wheels as he concentrated on his smile. Four hands grabbed and yanked his body like it was a cloth doll. The world disappeared, and the dark interior of the van grew crowded as Sandy and the reporter jumped in. The door closed while someone struck Porter across the face twice.

  When the van started moving, Porter realized he was pinned and not just dazed. His head exploded with a flash of light as they threw him against the side of the empty automobile. His arms bent backward, and he screamed out, struggling against—what—he could not tell. He heard the screech and bellow of duck tape being pulled from the roll. They bound his wrists together as the reporter hit him and said, “Sorry for soiling your suit.”

  “You gotta be insane snagging me in front of a Federal courthouse! The whole planet probably saw you!” said Porter, his eyelids fluttering, his hands raised to ward off further attacks. He felt the tape tear at the skin on his forearms, his heart pumping so fast and hard it hurt. They yanked him around, and Porter hit metal again with his chin.

  Leaning his face close to Porter’s, the reporter said, “Do you think we would have picked you up right there if others were watching?”

  “What about the old man selling newspapers!” said Porter, his eyes only beginning to adjust to the darkness. “And the old lady walking the dog!”

  “They are our eyes, Mr. Porter,” said a voice from the passenger seat in the front of the vehicle.

  Porter whipped his head around. Against the blinding light of the windshield, he could clearly make out a man looking back, a face filled with darkness.

  “Peter Arnott!” said Porter.

  Arnott turned to the reporter. “Excellent work Mr. Goodwill.”

  The assassin leaned again to Porter’s face and whispered. “I’ve never missed an opportunity to kill a mark I’ve been hired to hit. You would’ve been my first loss.”

  * * *

  It felt like a ski mask, but it didn’t matter what it was. Porter fought claustrophobia and couldn’t see a thing. They drove for hours, or so it seemed. No one said a word, and when the car finally stopped, Porter felt Harvey Goodwill grab his shoulder and come close enough to kiss his right ear.

  “The cold sensation against the back of your neck is the icy muzzle of a lovely 10 mm Colt Delta Elite handgun,” said Goodwill. “We will escort you into a building, into an elevator, and into a room. You will say nothing, or you will be shot and buried in the cement of some new construction site. I have every reason to kill you for free, Mr. Porter. I fear no one. I suggest…silence.”

  They wanted him alive. It was Porter’s only comforting thought. But his heart went into overdrive, and he pictured himself jumping off a building and into the tops of a brittle tree to escape. Stupid. He could have killed himself. But that was passed, and things had grown worse. If he tried to run now, it would definitely be the end.

  It hurt when they tore the tape off his wrists. They never removed the ski mask. Would anyone see him, his head covered as he entered the building to which Goodwill alluded? Would they suspect anything nasty? Call in the police? Or would they be as dirty as the men who grabbed him? Porter would never be sure.

  Finally, the short trek by foot ended as Goodwill had described.

  Porter heard a door close. No one spoke. Goodwill released him. But the room reeked with the sensation of cold eyes and old breath.

  “Thank you, Mr. Goodwill,” said an aged voice some ways away. It was a big room, with a ceiling low and soft enough that Porter heard no echo. In fact, as he thought about it, he heard nothing but the tick of a clock on an unseen wall. No cars outside, though when they had left the van he had no doubt he was in the middle of some city. Porter could hear his own heart pumping, and that worried him. He stood still as ancient stone in an Egyptian desert.

  “Take off the mask, Mr. Porter.”

  The light was bright as Porter pulled the hood from his head. He saw an expensive room with pictures of presidents and other prominent political figures along each wall but the one filled with windows covered by shades. Porter tightened his eyes on numerous faces from the dusty past he’d studied throughout his college career.

  Was that Herodotus?

  And that one Solon?

  Thomas Jefferson?

  A long table dominated the room, with high-backed chairs running around it. In each seat sat a man who easily should have been retired. They all looked at him through coarse webs of wrinkles. But they held themselves up with metal skeletons hidden beneath their flesh and atrociously expensive suits.

  The one at the far end, whose features were difficult to see, spoke while the others listened. “You’ve failed us, Peter. We have confirmed that the FBI has quite a file on you at present. It’s only a matter of time before they track you down. You’re a liability now.”

  “I brought you John Porter,” said Arnott without showing signs of stress. “I brought you the codex.”

  “You have brought us, if only slightly, beneath the microscope of the ever searching Federal Bureau of Investigations. We can live with this. We can make up for your mistakes. We’ve returned from worse conditions in the past. But you must pay for your crimes.”

  Arnott looked at Porter, and Porter saw all the blood drain from the pseudo-professor’s cheeks. “I still have assets to give.”

  “You are a lie, Peter. You are a bad one. Goodwill, please escort him into the next room,” said the old man as the assassin’s black pistol lifted. The tip of the barrel bumped Arnott lightly against his cranium. “We will speak again in a moment.”

  Porter watched Goodwill lead Arnott to the door.

  Arnott said nothing, but kept his head high, his shoulders level, his eyes as unshaken as possible. But both Arnott and Porter knew he was a dead man.

  “There are two kinds of people in this world, Mr. Porter,” said the old man at the end of the lengthy slab of cherry wood. “The successful and the unsuccessful. I’m sure you will agree that the difference between the two is that successful people do things they do not necessarily enjoy. Yet some things need to happen…for the good of the whole.”

  In a moment of silence, Porter felt the old man’s eyes examining him from afar. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he realized the room was actually dimly lit from the ceiling. Then the gentleman said slowly, “Tell us the location of KM-3. We know you have it, and we understand your motivation behind keeping it.”

  “You want it destroyed,” said Porter, not hiding anymore. They recognized the truth as well as he did. But Porter couldn’t understand their motivations.

  The old man at the far end of the table lifted his chin. “The rest of the world will thank you.”

  “I will never give it to you. You’d better kill me now.”

  Everyone smiled. Some even laughed lightly.

  “We do not intend to make you a martyr, Mr. Porter. We won’t fuel your passionate religious flame. But there must be a balance in the world. The codex cannot come to light.”

  “Like the Dead Sea Scrolls,” said Porter. “Were you the ones behind their suppression?”

  The old man kept his hands under the table. He didn’t move at all while speaking. “You reali
ze the scrolls of Qumran are trivial compared to KM-3. Their ambiguity among the professionals is an adequate shield protecting the Earth’s population. I do not intend to bribe you either, Mr. Porter, but we are willing to pay a worthy sum to take possession of your precious Mesoamerican codex.”

  “So you can do what you will with it?”

  “Don’t play hero, Porter. Your life is nothing. No one will notice or even care when you are gone.”

  “I matter to you,” said Porter, his lips trembling.

  “Two million dollars,” said the old man as others watched for Porter’s expression. “I’ve attempted to explain the value of KM-3. It has nothing to do with religion.”

  “Right.”

  “The price is negotiable, Mr. Porter. We are prepared to discuss the manuscript’s worth in relation to your needs. And I am sure you recognize our resolve to purchase the document. You may choose not to sell. You have your agency. But you also must be aware that we will be obliged to kill you if you decide not to do business with us. What figure do you put on the codex?”

  Smelling the freshness of the recently cleaned carpet, Porter imagined himself on a plane to Hawaii. A degree, a vacation, and all the money he would need for the rest of his life…it was all being laid before him. Like the kingdoms of the world placed by Satan before Christ in the first book of the New Testament. Yet this was different. This was what Porter longed for. Peace at last. Every stumbling block had dropped in his path, and all would be taken away instantly if he demanded it. They offered him power, not just money. They put him in a position to request anything. And he had the firm feeling they would comply. But could he ever revoke the truth, the testimony he’d given in court, the experiences he’d had, and the knowledge in his heart?

  With wet lips, Porter said, “You know others will eventually seek out and find Ulman’s site. Albright’s article was enough to plant that seed of curiosity.”

  The old man smiled. “You don’t know how easy it is to hide these things. You see…there has been a most unfortunate occurrence in the Highlands of Guatemala recently. There appears to have been a battle between drug lords in the area.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  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.

  About the Author

  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

  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.