John Sowerby considered himself to be a good attorney, but couldn’t shake the feeling his client was lying to him. Porter so often ran away from direct questions, he looked guilty to everyone. But even Sowerby could say nothing after Porter’s bold spiel. He hadn’t dared to yank his client back into his seat-not that the poor student was paying for his services, but Porter had his own agenda and was intent on keeping his attorney in the dark. Whatever.
The words in the note had no meaning to John Sowerby. Porter looked down at the paper again, as Alred stood to leave the stand. Sowerby ran the words through his mind. What was it, a psalm from the Bible? He’d never gone to any form of Sunday school, but had really enjoyed the Bhagavad-Gita in junior college. Mr. Porter, “He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life…shall find it” (Matthew 11:39). Your only friend, -J. Smith.
Judge Panofsky spoke without looking up. “We will take a one hour recess, after which time, gentlemen, I hope you will prepare your final arguments.” The gavel came down with one crack and everyone stood to depart.
When Alred, studying the ground, came within earshot of Porter, the student called her over with a clearing of his throat.
Sowerby packed his briefcase as if he hadn’t noticed.
Before she could comment on anything said so far in the courthouse, Porter grabbed her by the elbow and drew her close.
He whispered into her ear.
Alred immediately pulled away as though she’d just been propositioned. She stared at Porter as if he’d already been shipped to the crazy house. Porter pulled her again and whispered into her left ear for a longer time.
Sowerby felt someone brush up behind him and stay. He turned to see a large African-American with hard eyes looking down at him. The man wore a dark gray suit and a green paisley tie which looked slightly out of date, and he held a file folder in his left hand against his chest.
“Who is that,” said Alred behind Sowerby. There was just enough seriousness in her voice to tell Sowerby that at least she cared about who was talking with Porter’s lawyer.
“Batman.” Porter spoke with the same gravity. “I hope.”
“Stan Clusser, FBI,” said the agent, raising his identification with his right hand. He gave Sowerby the folder without looking at his old missionary companion. “Call me to the stand and ask me these questions after the recess. Take the steps you need to reach this goal.”
“I’ll have to look them over first and meet with the Prosecuting Attorney,” said Sowerby, fighting to keep a hand on some semblance of dignity.
“You do whatever is necessary,” said Clusser. “Memorize the file.”
One eye shot to Porter and Alred, and the agent pushed into the small crowd behind him.
Sowerby huffed in indignation, then looked at his client.
Porter raised his eyebrows while tilting his mellow face downward. “I trust that man more than I trust you,” he said to Sowerby.
“Well…you’ve gotta have someone on your side.” Sowerby let his smile show the sarcastic bitterness.
Alred walked away shaking her head at both of them.
Staring at the empty judge’s seat, as Sowerby packed his black briefcase, Porter said, “You have a piece of paper?”
Sowerby handed a sheet to him and watched his client sit and scrawl out the date: May 7, 1997.
“What’s that, a journal entry?”
Porter looked at his attorney with obvious anger in his eyes. “Yeah.”
Sowerby lifted a hand, finished gathering his things, and turned to chase after Mr. Comer. But as he did so, he gazed over his client’s shoulder at Porter’s first written words:
I, John D. Porter, have done at last that which I thought I would never do.
Sowerby didn’t want to read anymore.
12:02 p.m. PST
The recess was not nearly long enough, and Porter still had a vast amount of questions. Sowerby was in a bad mood and didn’t seem to care about Porter at all anymore. Porter thought that even Sowerby wanted him to fry in the legal pan. But the truth came in the form of Clusser’s script. Questions filled the page, and Sowerby no doubt realized he would do little for this case; it was all in the care of the FBI now, though Sowerby would never understand how or why.
Porter watched the skinny attorney stand and call Agent Stan Clusser to testify. Mr. Comer had already been briefed and had no problem with a member of the FBI stepping forth.
Porter wondered what the Prosecuting Attorney intended to do after his verbal explosion. Well, Porter had said his peace. He felt good about it and would stand behind his words to the end, while at the same time he wondered when that end would come.
The next act of the play had begun. A few preliminary questions: Tell the court who you are, what are your credentials etc.
Sowerby did his best to look like he’d invented the questions himself. “Agent Clusser, in your opinion as a field operative of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, has a crime been committed?”
Sitting tall in the leather chair, Clusser gave a powerful, “Yes.”
“Will you tell us what has happened?”
“I will. On the twenty-second of March, an object of archaeological significance, the property of Guatemala, illegally entered the United States.”
“You are referring to KM-2?” said the attorney.
Clusser’s brow lowered as he nodded, and Porter suspected the attorney wasn’t sticking to his lines. “That artifact was then passed to two graduate students attending Stratford University.”
“Who,” said Sowerby.
“John D. Porter and Erma Alred.”
“Do you suspect Porter and Alred knew they had an illegal object?” said Sowerby.
Porter bit the inside of his cheek as he saw Clusser tighten up. Sowerby didn’t want to play the game. Porter trusted his missionary companion, but he was quickly losing faith in his attorney who had helped him little so far. For a second, Porter even wondered if the lawyer had already been bought off by those who’d tried to kill him. But he couldn’t continue thinking that way, because the next question might be, who else in the courtroom had been swayed by the secret combination pushing for Porter’s destruction?
The FBI agent’s eyes darkened. Porter knew his companion wasn’t the best at hiding his feelings. That’s what made him a good missionary. Porter wondered how he could possibly be a good field operative for the government if he couldn’t lie well.
“Agent Clusser?” said the attorney.
“I do not know to what realization the students came concerning the legality of their work.”
“But you have sat in court since the beginning, haven’t you? Listening to the testimonies?” said the attorney.
“I have.”
“Did you hear the statements made by Ms. Alred and the accused that Stratford University assigned them both to the project?” said Sowerby.
Clusser nodded. “The research was directed by a man known to some of the faculty and the students as one Dr. Peter Arnott.”
Sowerby tilted his head. “Are you giving credibility to Dr. Kinnard’s testimony that there was a person named Peter Arnott? Dr. Masterson and Dr. Goldstien deny there even was such a man.”
“Of course,” said Clusser. “Peter Arnott does not exist.”
“Excuse me?” said Sowerby.
“If it will please the court,” said Agent Clusser, “I will point out that the FBI has a classified file on the man called Peter Arnott. We did not until recently. However, the man has been identified with one Gerard Jasper, a pseudonym for someone currently under investigation.”
Sowerby stopped breathing. Porter eyed his attorney closely, trying to discern his thoughts, his true motives, and whether or not he would continue with the outline in his hand.
Clusser didn’t wait for the Defense Attorney to speak. He turned to the judge. “Your honor, I have reason to believe this entire crime has been orchestrated by outsiders who may be involved in a number of illegal activities presently being studied by the FBI. I am not, however, able to reveal any more at this time in a public court. Nevertheless, I have brought an edited file on this ‘Peter Arnott’ which may evidence enough to show that the defendant has been caught in the crossfire of a highly organized criminal operation.
“A connection with Arnott may also implicate Stratford University or some of its colleagues to such a degree that I would assume Dr. Masterson and Dr. Goldstien might wish to…amend their testimonies based on clearer memories revived by photos of Mr. Arnott. And of course, Stratford will then have to reconsider the possibility that two of its students may have been…mistreated. I believe you will find there is not enough evidence to convict the defendant, but that crimes have been committed, and the perpetrators are still out there.”
“I…have no further questions,” said Sowerby, moving to his seat while glancing at the Prosecuting Attorney.
Judge Panofsky lifted his eyes to the Prosecution. “Mr. Comer, would you like to question the witness?”
Comer spoke with his assistant for a few seconds before standing. “Your honor, the State wishes to review the new information before deciding whether or not we have a case with which to continue.”
2:17 p.m. PST
Porter met Alred outside the courthouse, his eyes looking all about for the old man he knew only as Joseph Smith. He saw a newspaper salesman, bent with age and malnutrition, but dressed in a flashy orange vest so that both pedestrians and cars would spot him from far enough away to get their change ready. A woman with too much makeup and jewelry waited as her orange-brown chow sniffed a skinny fern held up by a wooden stick in a hole cut in the sidewalk. A quiet menagerie of folk passed the courthouse, people who had little else to do with their retired days.
“I got back as soon as I could,” she said, wiping her nose with her finger.
“It’s over, Alred,” said Porter with a sigh.
“Well, you’re on the outside, which is good. What did I miss?” The wind pushed at the back of her auburn hair.
Porter looked up at the long line of double doors on the granite building. Crows bellowed overhead. He thought he heard a child yelling somewhere, but hadn’t seen one. “Stratford made an official statement.”
“What.” Alred licked her lips.
“They admitted the responsibility for Ulman’s codex falling into our possession. They are willing to hear our dissertation arguments and give us our degrees based upon work accomplished.”
Alred nodded at the ground. “What about Dr. Kinnard? Will he be charged with-”
“No, the FBI is conducting a manhunt for Peter Arnott. All the blame has fallen on him.” He smiled a sigh, but knew things really hadn’t ended. There were too many loose strings. Would they still come after him? Would they kill him simply for the trouble he had become? Or would they run, hide for years before taking their revenge…just to be safe? They would get their doctoral credentials, but would they live free enough to use them?
“Porter…did we do the right thing?” she looked up at him with passion in her green eyes.
Porter beamed down at her. “I’ll tell you everything at Bruno’s. Meet me at five?”
She nodded, then reached into her pocket and handed him a small slip of paper as Clusser came up behind him.
As Alred marched down the concrete steps, the FBI agent sagged loudly, “You’re a lucky man, Porter!”
“Why didn’t you say anything about them?” Porter said with a bite in his voice.
“The court knows enough,” said Clusser, relaxed. “They’ve learned the FBI is searching and has reason to believe your case was only a fraction of the big game.”
“You let the whole issue skid by!” said Porter.
Clusser put his hand on Porter’s shoulder to steady him. “They will always exist, Porter. You know that. This little case wouldn’t touch them. If I gave the court too much information, it would only announce that one lone LDS man who works for the FBI has spotted them. Let me handle this.”
Porter threw his hands up. There was no more he could do about it. “What if the judge learns of our relationship.”
“He will,” Clusser said with a glow with no grin. “That will prove only that I had motivation to find you innocent. That’s not a crime, if the facts are present, and there are plenty.”
Clusser stuck out his right hand. “So long, John Porter, you’re a good man.”
Porter took his hand like a clamp, tears rising under his eyeslids. He hated partings. “Take care of that wife of yours. Easy come, easy go, they say!”
Clusser smiled. “You don’t know anything about the wiser sex.” He eyed Alred, almost around the corner of the office building beside the courthouse and into the parking lot.
“I still have time to learn,” said Porter, ignoring his gaze.
“Not by my standards!” said Clusser. As he strode down the steps in a different direction than Alred went, Porter had the terrible feeling their relationship would remain the same for years to come.
Porter realized he had no way to get home, and it was a long drive. But there was no worry. Porter started for the parking lot after Alred, who wouldn’t get to her car before he caught up. Nevertheless, he pushed his feet at high speed down the courthouse stairs while slipping his hands into his suit pockets.
“John Porter?” said a man with a microphone as Porter moved down the sidewalk, his eyes scanning ahead to make sure Alred’s car wasn’t pulling out of the lot too quickly.
Spinning to see the reporter, the student slammed into the old man selling newspapers.
“Mr. Porter, congratulations on your case! May we ask you a few questions?”
A cameraman appeared with a beautiful Japanese contraption hanging around his neck while his right shoulder was armed with a larger camera with a Channel 12 logo in blue and pink on the side.
Though slightly flattered, Porter asked forgiveness from the newspaper salesman, and looked back to the parking lot around the side of the building. “I’ve gotta get my ride,” said Porter as the news anchor started in with inquiries as to how he’d felt in the courtroom, and whether or not he truly believed the Mormons were right about the end of the world, and when exactly would that finale come, and-Porter really wasn’t listening.
The old man swore at them and moved away.
Porter kept walking as the jabbering reporter stepped in front of him, lowered the microphone as said, “Then one shot! Please, just a picture! Sandy, get over here!!!”
The cameraman came around in front of Porter and put the black machine up to his eye. The inquirer in a flashy yellow shirt stood beside Porter as the camera snapped three times.
“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 realize 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 Janes. But Janes 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.