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.
“‘Never borrow or lend anyway!’ the poet replied.
“‘You can’t drink alcohol!’ the Quraysh shouted.
“‘I’ll drink water!’ Al-A’asha said.”
Alred shook her head. “What does this have to do with-”
“I found the same story in KM-2!” said Porter.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Muhammad live about a thousand years after you think the Kalpa codex was written?” Alred said.
“These stories are eternal. This one is attributed to Al-A’asha, but it could very easily have been based on an earlier tale told by Bedouin for millennia. The version in Ulman’s codex is different, but basically-”
“Ambiguous,” said Alred. “You’re the king of Ambiguity.”
Porter dropped his hands against his sides and huffed. “Okay,” he said and paused. “I have been hiding something from you.”
Alred lifted her head, her red lips tight, her eyes attentive.
“Remember I’d found something-”
“Are you going to tell me?” she said.
“It won’t matter to you!” he said, turning to her old Celica.
“Porter, I have to-”
“All right, I’ll give it to you,” he said, spinning around, “just to get it off my chest. I found a word-”
“You’re being irrational,” she said.
“-in the codex that I figured would lead me to harder evidence of a Near Eastern connection than anything else. But without KM-2, I’ll never have all the evidence I wanted.”
With her arms folded again, she demanded, “What is the word.”
“Letters, really: Y, X (Sh, really), A, and Y, H. Recognize it?”
She thought for a moment. “Expect me to?”
“Not really. What letter is linguistically interchangeable with a Y?”
“An I. You could have spelled it that way initially, why didn’t you?” she said.
“Dealing with transliterations here, remember?” said Porter.
“Isha-ih?” she said, putting the bits together.
Porter turned his voice into a whisper. “Isaiah! He was a Hebrew prophet from a little more than two hundred years before the date I gave the codex. It’s the same letters in old Hebrew.”
“And the Arab story? Do Jews often tell the tales of their enemies? How does that fit in?”
“The Book of Mormon clearly has connections with the ancient Bedouin. Names, cultural attributes, social organizations-”
“You’re stuck on this, aren’t you,” said Alred.
Porter caught his breath in the back of his throat. He heard the high cries of a red- tailed hawk lost in the night. He listened to the brisk wind, which evidently had forgotten the meaning of ‘spring.’
“Your dissertation, your schooling…all tossed away because of your religion? You’ll go to jail, Porter, and die a martyr for your church someday…and they won’t even realize it, because there won’t be anything to back up your babbling.” Alred walked to her car as she spoke, gathering her keys quietly.
Porter lagged behind.
Unlocking her door, she said, “I really hope it’s worth it. I heard you were an eccentric…but you used to be a respected one. Your ideas were far-fetched, but even I was impressed by your scholarship. Regain your cool, Porter-”
“What do you care, Alred,” said Porter with water rising in his eyes. Her words were true, and they stung deeply. His life was a capsized boat with little hope of flipping upright. He was thirty-three and unmarried, no good at anything but scholarship, no future to speak of with his current plans. The old stranger in the cafe was right.
But he had to do it. He had to translate the rest of the codex. It must go public…and he had to be the man that brought it forth.
Alred pinched the bridge of her nose. “I have to-”
“I know you don’t believe me, Alred. Don’t bother…speaking to me anymore.” He turned from the Celica and headed away.
“Porter,” she said, behind him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he called back. “Good-bye Alred.”
“Wait!”
He didn’t.
10:32 p.m.
Porter was walking blindly, and he knew it. He staggered like a drunk man down the hallway, and if someone waited with a gun, he didn’t care much.
Three doors from his office. Three doors till he reached the closed vent concealing the codex and his remaining notes.
The door was unlocked when he turned the handle. Everything looked normal: piles of volumes lining the walls and scattered over the floor and desk; sheets of forgotten papers, files, translations, and essays on the chairs or wherever he’d found foot room. But nothing was the way he’d left it. It had all been moved, rummaged through, kicked aside and forgotten.
He looked at the vent.
Two screws held the metal grating in place.
He reached over the heaps on his desk, knocking over two books with titles worn off the blue covers, and pulled his pocket knife out of the top drawer.
Slowly, he worked the screws.
The cover came away from the wall…only to reveal a dark hole blowing hot air that smelled of dust.
He threw the grating onto his desk and banged the wall with his head.
April 29
7:51 a.m.
“Come on in, Ms. Alred,” said Professor Masterson, looking down at the bag in her hands. “You got my message.”
She entered the room with the rectangular table and looked at the faces staring up at her. Here it had all begun, here it would end.
“I thought I was to-”
Arnott was the first to smile. Then she saw Goldstien who looked even happier to see her.
“-to give it to Dr. Kinnard,” she said.
Porter’s supervisor sat farthest away, his hands together, his elbows on the table. He watched her with intense silence.
“You’ve done good work, young lady,” said Arnott. He sat like a black scorpion ready to strike, perfectly still.
“Oh, the silent one,” she said to him without reservation. “Why haven’t I taken any of your classes, Dr. Arnott? Come to think of it, I’ve never heard a thing about you, and I was unable to find your name in this semester’s schedule. Are you supposed to be new here?”
Goldstien’s smile died and he shot Arnott a glance as if she’d blasphemed against the school deity.
But Arnott’s cold grin only relaxed more. “Did you bring the manuscript as requested?” he said glancing at the package in her right hand.
“It’s been a difficult semester, and I think I’m entitled to a little clarification on this matter.” Alred looked up at Masterson, who only smiled and rubbed his thick lips with the tips of the long fingers on his left hand.
“Excuse me,” Masterson said, nodding at the manuscript. “That document should be returned to the authorities in Guatemala.” His raised hand opened.
“That’s it?” she said, lifting the book in the brown paper. She smelled wintergreen Certz on the old man’s breath.
“Sorry gal. This turned into a terrible catastrophe for you, didn’t it.” Goldstien smiled again as he drew her attention.
“Only a waste of my time,” she said as Masterson took up the codex. She watched him open the bag and take a long look inside. “I think Porter was the one really hurt.”
“That is too bad,” said Masterson with falsified feeling in his voice. “We can still make it up to you at least. Choose anything for your dissertation, and I’ll help you along.” He moved slowly, like a ship on the horizon, as he rounded the table without lifting his eyes. He handed KM-2 to Arnott. “May it be a difficult task,” Masterson said to her, “yet I’ll do all I can.”
“You’re all on top of things here, aren’t you,” Alred said to the group. She bit the corner of her mouth. The air in the room didn’t move at all. “Well…perhaps I can take the rest of the semester off. Begin again in the fall.”
“Excellent idea!” said Goldstien as Masterson and Arnott nodded.
Kinnard said nothing.
As she nodded and made for the door, her eyes slipped back to the codex one last time.
8:01 a.m.
When Alred turned the corner, her heart stopped.
Porter was right there, a wall in her way, a forgotten watchdog, waiting for her.
“Porter!” she said. She lifted a hand as if to calm the fury she knew she’d meet. “I’m glad I bumped into you.”
“The codex is gone,” he said, “and so are my new notes.” She looked at him, an exhausted man, leaning against the wall, suspicion in his eyes. She wondered where he’d spent the night; if he felt he was still being hunted by men in black; what he planned to say to her when she told him the truth. Oh well.
“I took it.”
He nodded, wiping his tongue over his lips. His silver eyes were bullets.
“I met with the staff just a few minutes ago and gave it up-”
He spun around and stormed down the hall toward the exit.
“-so we wouldn’t get in trouble with the authorities!” she had to say in a louder voice. “Porter!”
She saw the back of his hand rise by his shoulder to wave her away.
“John,” she said again, immediately regretting it.
The glass door banged when he hit it. He was gone a second later.
Alred shook her head and went to the restroom.
9:39 a.m.
“Trying to get yourself killed?” said the voice behind Porter as he drank hot chocolate at Bruno’s. Porter knew it was the old man he’d met at the cafe across town. His feet hurt from walking everywhere. Apathy continued to whisper in his ear like a little devil, telling him to just go home and shout the truth to the killers when they came. He didn’t notice the spicy scent of roasting chicken filling the small restaurant.
“I don’t have it anymore, and I haven’t met with the FBI. Happy?”
“I know you don’t have it,” said the voice. “But you’re one of those who has to keep working once your hands are dirty. You’re not going to set this aside easily. You’ll stir up waves until they are powerful enough to crush you. I told you to relax.”
Porter sniffed up the chocolate. “I’ve been meaning to get my hearing checked.”
“Everything all right here?” said Bruno, his voice sharp like a weapon.
Porter looked up at the old hunchback with the Texan mustache. Bruno’s eyes flickered to the man behind Porter and back to the student, as if ready to dispel whatever foul thing may have wandered into his cafe if it disturbed the customers.
“I’m fine,” Porter said, sucking on his mug. His eyes went straight to the dark bottom of the hot mixture and stayed there.
“You call me if you need anything,” Bruno said before walking slowly away.
“Old man wants to protect you,” said the voice.
“He’s a fighter,” Porter said in his cup.
“But old, nonetheless. You need not fear me, Porter.”
“Who are you,” said Porter, not expecting an honest answer.
“Feel free to call me Joseph…Smith.”
Porter growled in his mug. “I don’t find that humorous.”
“But it will be an easy name to remember. You’ll have worse things to worry about in the future. Do you have money?”
“Planning on mugging me?” Porter said, joking, but expecting the cold metal of a barrel in his neck at any moment. Did it matter?
“There is a man I know who has more information on Dr. Ulman’s find than you’ve been able to collect,” said the old voice behind him. The deep falsetto dimmed its power so as not to be overheard.
Click-click.
“What’s that,” Porter said, imagining a gun, but knowing it wasn’t.
“This…is the…address…of the gentleman you need to see.” Smith stood and appeared at Porter’s side.
A napkin fell from his hand, slid over the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth, and folded on Porter’s lap. Porter saw the writing with a glance.
The old man put his gold-lined pen in the inside pocket of his elegant overcoat. “He won’t be interested in sharing with you. In fact, he will soon change his mind about working on the project at all.”
“Pardon me?” Porter said, questions filling his insides enough to spill from his eyes. He didn’t look up at this Mr. Smith.
“Incentives, Mr. Porter. They are already on their way to see him. He will be given two choices: drop it…or die.”
“Who are we talking about,” said Porter, forgetting the hot chocolate.
“Dr. Alexander Peterson of Ohio State University. He’s on sabbatical right now, staying in his summer home in the mountains.” The old man pulled the skin around his eyes into a thousand wrinkles, smashing his pupils, as Porter looked at him at last. “If you intend on continuing this investigation, you will need Peterson’s material. You had better hurry.”
The hot chocolate in the forgotten mug, tilting in shaking hands, spilled onto the table and splattered on Porter’s right wrist. He hissed and looked down to wipe away the burning liquid.
When he glanced up the old man was already outside the door only one booth away.
The glass door slammed into the doorframe like pounding teeth.