7:51 p.m. PST
“Porter, we have to talk…now!”
The ex-doctoral candidate turned to see Dr. Kinnard holding himself firmly in the doorway of the little office. The professor had 8 x 10 inch photographs in his hand.
“You don’t seem like one bearing gifts to lift my burden,” Porter said placing his copy of Sumerian Ostraca in a brown box on his desk. With one hand he took three gray volumes with the title Hebrew Eschatology off the floor and put them on top of the first book. His black copy of the Tanach followed. He eyed the other filled containers, all four with the familiar word ‘U-Haul’ in bold letters on the side.
Kinnard lowered his voice and his brow. “I don’t care how you got it, but you’d better hand it over to the University.”
Porter glanced at him with a wiry smile. “My new Stone Edition of the Tanach? Are the Aryans persecuting the Jews again?”
Kinnard flashed the pictures.
“What are those supposed to be?” said Porter unworried. He stopped loading to look anyway.
Three shots. All details of Porter examining KM-3 on the street where Alred had caught up to him. But she was outside every frame. Who had taken the pictures? Who’d doctored the prints to show only Porter with KM-3?
“Where should I go, you think,” Porter said, returning to his packing. From the corner of the white room, he grabbed eight old Loeb Library books with red covers. “I admit my ignorance when it comes to applying for a Ph. D.-after failing the first. Suppose any school will take me? I can’t believe I waited so long to get it done,” he laughed to himself, because there was nothing else to do.
“You hear what I said?” Kinnard came into the room as Porter went to the far side of his desk, keeping his eyes on the papers and books on the floor. He carried two volumes by Michael Grant, one from Joseph Campbell, and an old E.A.W. Budge book.
Shuffling through the menagerie, gathering files in semi-organized fashion, Porter stuffed the rest of the box. He held a copy of Wardarcher Tiel’s, Merenptah, in the air and eyed it as if he’d never seen it before. “Whoops. Bet I have a major fine to pay for this baby.” With a smile, he looked at his supervisor. “Disagreed with the old man anyway.” He set it on the corner of his desk as Kinnard shook his head.
“In order to be successful in the world, Porter, you need to learn the rules of the game!”
“You know I don’t play sports, Kinnard,” said the student. Porter pulled on the roll of packing tape, and it screamed like a mugged woman in an echoing alley. The box sealed, he grabbed another and taped the bottom before loading it.
“I want the book!” said Kinnard, slamming his hand on the table.
Porter looked up, his face as bland as it could be. “ You want it? What would you do with it?”
Kinnard’s tongue stuck to the bottom of his open mouth.
“Let me know one thing,” Porter said, packing as fast as a bank robber would if stashing money into his duffel bag. “I thought I saw sincerity in your eyes when you first gave me KM-2. Were you really helping me…or just giving me something to run around with since I had so little time anyway? Did you have any intention of letting me do a dissertation on Ulman’s find?”
“I tried to assist you,” said Kinnard taking off his dark-rimmed glasses.
“And then what happened,” said Porter. “When did you lose heart? When the other professors shoved you in a different direction?”
“It was a race that couldn’t be won.”
“Were you blackmailed? Coerced?” Porter said, looking at him with stabbing eyes. “Was there someone involved…that wasn’t Stratford staff?”
Gazing at Porter as if his mind had been read, Kinnard shut his mouth.
“Then I hold no blame on you.” Porter went back to packing, finding papers written by other students which he should have read and corrected by now. He left them next to the library book.
“You’re in a lot of trouble,” said Kinnard, his voice low and serious. “Where is the codex.”
“See it here?” said Porter waving an arm but not turning up his eyes.
“You are not listening to me, are you.” Kinnard leaned on the card-table desk, which rocked beneath his weight. “You could go to jail for this. You could be killed.”
Grinning again, Porter said, “Oh is that all? I thought you’d say something that would get my heart going. I’m already desensitized to those things, you see. Well, maybe you don’t. We’re driving on different tracks now.”
“I gave you Ulman’s manuscript,” said Kinnard, “I’m responsible.”
“You’re afraid they’ll kill you?” Porter flopped in his screaming chair to be closer to the stacks on the ground to his left, which he immediately reached for.
The heater came on.
“You don’t see how serious this is,” said Kinnard.
“Better than you realize!” Porter almost chuckled, tossing The Dead Sea Scroll Companion into the box, followed by Civilization Before Egypt and Mesopotamia, and the new one volume edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. “So who are they?”
Kinnard put his glasses back on his face and stood straight.
Porter stopped and looked at his teacher. “You taught me yourself that throughout history there have been shadow parties, gangs who have operated in the background, people who started small, but through secrets and careful planning rose to prominent power until they ran the government alone. Pharaohs, Roman Emperors…they’ve all been oppressed by these hidden sects built up for power and financial gain.” He lifted his eyebrows. “I agreed with you, remember? Great discussion we had that day. Lasted way into the night.”
“Give me the manuscript,” said Kinnard.
“How do you know I have it? Who took those photographs?”
“Where is the document, Porter!” Kinnard said, trembling. “I know you have it-everyone knows you have it!” He slowed his words but the energy stayed. “Shrapnel will fly until you hand it over. A lot of people will get hurt. I hate these people. I had to deal with them in the war, and I thought they were all gone.”
“‘Those who fail to learn the lessons of history are doomed to-’”
Kinnard wiped his hands on his blue slacks. “I’m through running around! I already told you this project is terminated. If you still don’t get it, Porter…you can consider your time at this university finished.”
“There’s a threat!” said Porter with a relaxed smirk. “That mean I get credit without the dissertation?”
Kinnard slammed two fists into the desktop. “It means you’re done, Porter! The University doesn’t know you anymore!”
Knocking on his forehead as if it were a door, Porter moaned and stared at the computer screen.
He typed the e-mail address, cocking his head, hoping it was right. If it wasn’t, there wasn’t anything else he could do. Date: Wed, 30 April 1997 8:45:19 -0500 (PST) To: Clusser@alexandria. va. gov. fbi From: Tomodachi Subject: Immediate assistance Stan, I’m in the computer lab at Stratford University. Don’t reply to this message. I need your help. I don’t know if there is anything you can do. You’re a busy man but you are in the FBI so maybe you’ll have some ideas. I’ve fallen into a very messy hole out here. About three months ago, Dr. Christopher Ulman found a city in the highlands of Guatemala. Somewhere inside, he came upon a library with books written in some early form of Mayan. One of the codices has both this proto-Mayan and, though you won’t believe it, Reformed Egyptian. One of the books fell into my hands. I translated half of it before it was taken from me. Albeit, the document came into the country illegally, that’s not what worries me. Someone else has been hovering around me like a silent cloud ready to snap out lightning. 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.