The Kukulkan Manuscript Read online

  “No, Stratford is a fine school,” he said, repeating her definition of Berkeley.

  She stopped and stared at him for another moment, squeezing her eyelids tightly together. After contemplating the idea of finding another counselor to advise this John D. Porter, she tossed it aside with the hope that he was stupid enough to get himself thrown out of Stratford University despite her warnings.

  Looking back into his file, she said, “Well it seems to us that you have a problem with this university.”

  “When you say ‘us,’ I assume you mean the assessment department?” He crossed his right leg over his left, put his right elbow on the arm rest, and leaned his chin into his hand.

  “You don’t get a Ph.D. until after we say you do,” she said, pointing at him with her black pen.

  “Of course.” He smiled again.

  “You have been at this university for a long time, haven’t you Mr. Porter.”

  “I have been attending Stratford for close to seven years.”

  She nodded as she clarified, “One semester shy of seven years. You studied at Berkeley from 1982 to 1987, six years, and then at Chicago from ‘87 to ‘89. Why so long at Berkeley?”

  “Do you normally ask personal questions while assessing Stratford students?” Porter said, his eyes shifty.

  “I didn’t realize I was asking a personal question, Mr. Porter. If you would prefer not to answer—”

  “I took a two year leave of absence to serve as a missionary in Tokyo,” he said, staring at the fake rubber tree in the corner of her office.

  “Oh,” she said with one raised brow. “And you’d prefer not to talk about it. Bad experience?”

  “Not at all,” he smiled and cupped his right knee in his hands. “I don’t mind discussing my time in Japan, but it was a sacred occasion for me. A special moment in my life.”

  “I see,” she said without looking at the file. Her curiosity was taking her away from her actual duties of student assessment, but he seemed distracted by the subject as well. “You were a missionary. Campus Crusade?”

  “Mormon,” he said. The fire still danced in the back of his eyes, and the corners of his mouth lifted. She could tell he was attempting to ascertain her response.

  Her minister had given enough warnings about Mormons to squelch her curiosity. She looked back to the file. “You speak a little Japanese then?”

  He nodded, smiling as if recalling some mental secret. She had heard that the Mission Training Center in Utah was supposedly well known by the United States government as one of the best language training centers in the world. There were also rumors that the FBI loved to search Brigham Young University for returned missionaries who had served in foreign countries. Mormons had the reputation of learning languages better in two months at the MTC and two years in the mission field than the majority of military intelligence agents serving in the US. Mormons and the government—one of her minister’s biggest warnings in predicting the end of the world.

  He didn’t tell her just how good his Japanese was, but grinned, and she had suspicions. He was probably wondering if she knew any of the language and if she’d dare to speak to him.

  But his pride wouldn’t be gratified today in that way. According to his transcripts, Porter had not taken a single course in Japanese. “You’ve covered extensive courses in Near Eastern Languages, not to mention German,” she said, shuffling through the file. “Arabic, Aramaic, Egyptian, Hebrew…Spanish 101?” She looked up inquiringly about the last class since it stuck out as the only Spanish course he’d taken.

  “Four units,” he said. “I needed four more units at Berkeley to graduate.”

  She looked back down with a nod. “You’ve taken Hebrew 101 four times and both Arabic 101 and 102 twice.”

  “It’s too easy for me to forget one language as I study another,” he said, probably wondering about the problem she had referred to. “I knew I couldn’t take them for credit. I just wanted to restudy them for myself.”

  “It’s taken you a long time to review all these courses.” She said, looking up at him. He was thirty-three, a Mormon, and unmarried. She had known a couple of girl friends at Berkeley who were Mormons, but they had both surprised her by getting married before they were twenty-one. She’d scorned them for leaving school without their degrees and told them they would regret it. But when she’d bumped into one of them only a few years earlier, the friend had appeared happy and healthy. She learned that together, her two friends had more children than she had fingers.

  In that way, Mormons seemed forever mysterious. They never lost that cheerful glow, at least not publicly. They faced the hot furnace of reality with hope and a faith she couldn’t understand. They gave up everything, only to end up with more than she could gain while sacrificing nothing. Meanwhile, she felt alone and afraid of the world. So she wanted to smile at the young man before her without the wedding ring. To find a Mormon his age and unmarried was something pleasantly unexpected. There had to be something really wrong with John D. Porter.

  Mrs. Welch looked back at the file and flipped to the end. She took a single sheet in her fingers, scraped her red nails against the page, and examined it. “John D. Porter,” she read his stylized signature at the bottom of the page. “Dated September seventh, 1989.” Her eyes drifted to the paragraph directly above the signature. She coughed into her hand and read the words:

  In compliance with the rules of the Stratford University Doctoral Program, I the undersigned do hereby agree to comply with all school regulations and stipulations of the abovementioned university. The attached contract has been assessed and accepted by the undersigned professor, who will be my advisor and supervisor during the duration of my stay at Stratford University. I understand that failure to comply with any of the above regulations and stipulations will be recognized by the assessment board of the aforementioned university as just cause for immediate dismissal from the university. If I am dismissed, all former contracts will become null and void upon announcement of my dismissal, and all credit work completed for the doctoral degree at the abovementioned university will be forfeited at the same time.

  Porter sunk a bit in his chair and knew he was in trouble, though he probably didn’t know in what way. No doubt, it was one of those paragraphs that he hated to read. He’d probably breezed over it quickly, said, “Yes, yes, of course,” and signed in order to rise to the next step of his schooling.

  Mrs. Welch smiled lightly as she watched him squirm. She leaned back in her chair, still holding the paper. “Do you recall signing this agreement admitting you into the doctoral program here at Stratford?”

  He opened his mouth, but must have been too busy pondering all the trouble he might be in. He’d violated no rule that could result in his dismissal from the university, but then, what student remembered all of the rules. He had been here for seven years, after all.

  “Is your advisor Dr. Kinnard?” she asked with a dart of her eyes to the second signature at the bottom of the page.

  “He is,” Porter said.

  She stood, pulling at the bottom of her blazer, and took a step to a shelf set up as neatly as her desk. She sniffed, realizing that his Old Spice scent clashed with her Liz Claiborne, displeasing her even more. She pulled a thin book from the row and sat back in her chair.

  He would recognize the book, though he most likely had not seen it, nor its equivalent, in a couple of years.

  “This is the Stratford Catalogue of Doctoral Studies,” she said, flipping to somewhere in the beginning.

  Surely, he felt humiliation coming on. She was obviously about to show him something in the first sections of the book which he ought to be very familiar with after working on his degree for almost seven years. He didn’t have the mission excuse this time.

  “I won’t read this to you, Mr. Porter,” she said, being kind. “But I will paraphrase it.”

  She turned the book around and flopped it down on her desk with the pages facing him. As she tapped twice
the page titled, “The Duration of Your Stay,” she said, “As students working on their Ph.D’s often need more time than other students, they are encouraged to relax and do their best at Stratford. This is a school of pride, Mr. Porter. I assume that is why you came here to finish your studies on the Near East. However, Stratford wants her students to graduate. Do you see how many years are allotted for doctoral candidates.”

  He looked through the mess of letters and found the answer at the bottom of the page. Mrs. Welch watched his heart sink into his stomach as he answered in a soft voice, “Seven years.”

  She sat again in her high-backed chair, confident that his silent cockiness had been squelched for good. “Seven years, Mr. Porter.” She waited a minute to let the poison seep deeper into his body, closer to his heart. “May I assume that you understand your problem now?”

  He read the page in the book as he nodded and thought to himself, sins of omission have always been my worst problem.

  “Mr. Porter?” she called his name as if they hadn’t been talking for the past ten minutes.

  Porter continued bobbing his head and looked up. The fire in his eyes had turned to a struggling smoke, and the corners of his lips remained flat. His eyebrows relaxed with innocence and vulnerability. She had the knife and was about to stab him dead. Of course, he already knew how the wound would feel.

  She went on. “You do not seem to have had any difficulties in your classes, but to our knowledge, your dissertation has yet to be completed. The last day for all papers and presentations is…May 21.”

  He continued to nod, and his eyes lowered to the desk.

  “You have the remainder of this semester to finish it,” she said, dropping the fluff, “then your seven year stay will be up, and the conditions of your final agreement paper, which you signed, will go into effect. Do you have any questions?”

  “Yes,” his gray eyes fluttered. “Do I have the opportunity to apply for an extension?”

  “That’s taxes and loans, Mr. Porter. I believe the contract is clear.” No emotion escaped her eyes, but she obviously enjoyed this. It was her ball-game now.

  Slowly, he continued to nod, looking at her desk. “I have two months?”

  She leaned forward. “Mr. Porter, if you do not complete your dissertation and present it by the twenty-first of May, you will not earn your Ph.D.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  March 21

  5:51 p.m. EST

  Slamming the book down, Ulman shouted, “This is my find!!!” his throat trembling.

  Something was burning. A sharp scent of black smoke thickened the air. Maybe the chimney had been obstructed.

  Peterson smiled, pulling the long muscles in his face into view, his eyes thinning. “Of course it’s your discovery,” Peterson said in a voice as calm as sand dunes but as dry as papyrus. “You found it, and no one’s going to take it away from you.”

  Ulman didn’t look convinced. His eyes continued to bulge from his red face, and his lips puffed moisture. “You can’t come here and act as if you’re running things!” He waved his hands around.

  Peterson remained unconcerned and unbothered by the professor’s hysteria. Native Indians pushed past him, speaking Spanish faster than he ever could. The work would progress no matter what Ulman was thinking. Over a table covered with quick notes and ruddy maps drawn with bleeding pens, Professor Albright stood with two other assistant locals dressed in brightly patterned outfits, who did their best to ignore the high-strung English conversation. Numerous tables filled the room, each piled with materials relevant to the study. Rain bombarded the outer walls of the small building, and Ulman seemed strangely determined to be louder than the thunder.

  “This is my site, and I didn’t invite you!”

  “You wrote Dr. Albright. He called me.” Peterson walked around the table, stretched forth his bassoon-length arms, and put an aging hand on Ulman’s shoulder. “My friend,” he said in the British accent he never lost despite his time in the states. “You have no need to worry. We are only here to assist you in this magnificent work. It isn’t every day that science has such a wonderful opportunity to look through the doors of hidden history!”

  Ulman’s red cheeks filled with air which then seeped from his pierced lips. He stormed over to Albright, while Peterson watched him closely.

  Alexander Peterson didn’t mind Ulman’s excitement, nor did he criticize the man for his quick defense. It was very understandable that Ulman would rather work alone on the project, but there was no way he could uncover the city on his own. Actually, Ulman had not really invited Albright in his memo, but merely said, “Oh, Dennis! You really must see what I have found! It changes everything we thought we knew about Mesoamerican archaeology!” Ulman’s caffeine-fired enthusiasm had become his undoing.

  Nor did Peterson and Albright actually intend to steal the discovery of the century from their colleague. Dennis Albright taught as a professor of Mesoamerican studies at Ohio State University, and had been looking for a reason to get away. What better excuse was there than word of a new dig in Central America.

  Peterson technically was already on sabbatical. Carving out his new book, Dispelling the Myths of the History of the Ancient Yucatan, had grown tedious and dry after a few months. In his slow voice, Albright had read him Dr. Ulman’s memo, and Peterson’s head filled with new ideas for his literary creation.

  Together, they offered their assistance to Dr. Ulman—in person. Having procured funds from Ohio University, the two professors rented a run-down building up the hill on the far outskirts of Kalpa, Guatemala, hired some local help, and magnified Ulman’s study ten times. The find was located a stone’s throw away from the small Indian village from which they obtained the help.

  It shouldn’t have been raining, for the rainy season had ended. Peterson listened as the water smashed against the roof. He had learned that Highland Guatemala, especially at Kalpa’s elevation of 7,000 feet, was cool year-round, but dry and otherwise bearable during the winter season. The surrounding Cuchumatanes rose above the ground, tall and beautiful. The mountains would be so much better looking without the cumulonimbi, Peterson thought, those giant clouds creating darkness in the day and growling like ancient gods through the night. Peterson couldn’t figure out why it was pouring so much. Rains usually came and went between May and November. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were messing with something protected by a higher influence. And he wasn’t thinking about the mountains.

  Years of experience in the Bible Belt had taught Peterson to decide one way or another concerning religion. While he never bashed on the faiths surrounding him at the time, he had made the scientific decision that God didn’t exist. But ever since he’d set his resolve, the subconscious fear that something might exist beyond his temporal vision had fueled his fear of the dark, his dread of solitude, his anxiety when contemplating the unknown and the illogical.

  He knew that the finds here would turn some religious heads.

  Maybe there was no divine connection to the showers. Peterson shook his head and laughed at himself for thinking like a superstitious native. The smile didn’t stay.

  “I’ll call in the law!” he heard Ulman say.

  Peterson allowed himself a short laugh. “Dr. Ulman, we are not a threat to your work here.”

  Ulman spun around and licked his lips. “No?! You’ve been here four days and you’ve already sold an article on the place.”

  “No—”

  “I saw you typing it in the room there!” Ulman shrieked accusingly. “I saw you mail the stupid envelope!”

  “I am writing a book!” Peterson said. “I’ve been working on it for months now.”

  “You carried your great scholarly opus to an archaeological dig?”

  “There’s no digging going on here,” said Dr. Albright.

  Ulman swung around and pointed a stubby finger. “Ah! Didn’t I say you were in this together? You want everything I’ve found! And I trusted you!”

&n
bsp; “Calm down, Dr. Ulman,” Peterson said as the rain beat harder on the roof. “Do you honestly think I’ve written about this site already?”

  Ulman’s voice dropped in pitch, then slowly rose, as he turned on Peterson. His hands shook violently, and his eyes filled with tears. “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you wrote your mother. Go ahead! Tell me she lives in an office suite in New York or works for the Archaeological Journal!”

  “You’ve been poking around my materials,” Peterson said, his eyebrows bending down.

  But Ulman’s voice rose to a hysterical scream, and he started stalking toward the skinny professor while Peterson backed just as quickly away. “Your materials?!? The mail only comes up from Guatemala City once every two weeks! You asked me about that specifically two days ago! Tell me why! I’ve kept my eyes on you two thieves! Go ahead! Tell me, Dr. Peterson, that you haven’t already informed the world about my discovery!!!”

  Peterson ran into the wall behind him, imitating a freshly hammered doornail. Ulman pushed his face so close that his stale cheese breath was distinct from the rotten smell of the wooden building. But instead of attacking as Peterson expected, Dr. Ulman slid by him, passing through the portal to Peterson’s right and out into the rain.

  Sighing, Peterson looked around him. The entire room had grown still. Every eye waited on him until he grinned and looked at the ground. “Dr. Ulman doesn’t seem to understand the eclectic nature of our business.”

  Albright sagged as well. They both knew Peterson’s words were lies. But that wouldn’t change the future.

  * * *

  Ulman felt the rage fighting inside him like a million baby spiders struggling to push out of their giant egg sack. The rain was cold, and his hot skin turned the liquid to steam. He was going back to his hut near the site, and he’d walk the whole way even though it was dark. He’d been traveling by foot among the black mountains long before these fly-infested robbers had come to take his glory. He insisted that he didn’t need their help.