Purple old woman.
He listened to the music, a cheap rendition of Vivaldi’s “L’inverno”, saw the digital number soar quickly upward, skipping ten floors at a time, and glanced at the three lightly gossiping secretaries with brown curls in the right corner.
Everything was fine.
He sighed silently at peace.
He looked down at his hands again. They weren’t shaking, which was good. He moved his mouth, licking his lips. No stuttering motions. Excellent.
Holding his breath, he peered at the black leather briefcase in his right hand, held slightly away from his pant leg as if it carried the Ebola virus.
He imagined the elevator cable snapping.
He pictured the car rushing at the ground.
He saw himself in an ambulance, just about to die, realizing the whole world as everyone knew it would shake and perish if he passed away.
He’d never been so important…
Closing his eyes slowly, and opening them just as slow, he was back in the elevator car. And all was well.
Bong!
The door split in two and disappeared into the walls.
“Excuse me,” he said with the voice of a shadow as he pushed his way through the small crowd.
He walked down two halls and opened a door.
The secretary looked up, but he didn’t hear her if she spoke.
He went straight into the conference room as if he owned the place, though he’d only been there one other time.
He fought the urge to check the hour, the minutes, the seconds…
The room was long with florescent lights recessed into the ceiling. Portraits of important people lined the room in expensive frames. Large windows covered one of the two long walls, but hid behind thin white drapes. The oblong oval table seated at least fourteen people, but he chose to remain standing.
From the high-backed chairs, the faces turned to greet him. No smiles. Only gray eyes. Fine leather portfolios and expensive computer notebooks were open in front of them all, and papers filled many of their wrinkled hands. Each wore a tie that could have fed an Ethiopian child for ten years.
The talking stopped like a sudden cold current.
“Good of you to join us,” one of the old gentlemen said.
Putting his Ebola-virus briefcase on the table without a word, he inserted a small key. The case popped open. Then, round the table he went, passing out one manila envelope to each person in the conference room. He was the youngest man present, but didn’t want anyone to notice it. His face remained as stern as everyone else’s. As he lifted each envelope, he made sure it did not quiver in the air. Not once did he breathe through his mouth.
One elderly man stood as the circle began to open their packages. In a raspy voice he said, “I assume you’ve all read the brief and understand the nature of the codex.” He shot the younger man a look as the briefcase locked with a snap.
Silent and listening, the young man waited at the far end of the table. He wore a face without emotion. The smell of lemon spray scented the air.
“You have before you a similar paper written by a Dr. Dennis Albright of Ohio State University,” the old man said as everyone but the young man standing at the opposite end of the table scanned the words in the file. “News of the find seems to have spread to a greater degree than we realized.” He looked up at the young man and said, “Peter.”
With his fingers firmly attached to his briefcase so he wouldn’t flinch, Peter said in as bland a voice as he could manage, “It appears that Dr. Ulman sent a codex to another professor, a Dr. Troy Kinnard of Stratford University. Within four days, Professor Kinnard passed the ancient record on to a student by the name of John D. Porter.”
“And what do you know about this Mr. Porter?” the old man said, still standing.
“Everything,” Peter said. “Mr. Porter has been at Stratford for almost seven years. His focus is Ancient Near Eastern studies, and he is praised for his research. He is single, lives alone in a dusty apartment adjacent to the University grounds, has a small hole of an office on campus, and is a member of the Mormon church.” Peter waited a minute, looking over everyone’s grim stare. “Mr. Porter was evidently in need of a dissertation topic and has chosen Professor Ulman’s find on which to focus. He’s both bound and driven by a time limit. If he doesn’t complete his written dissertation and present the argument to Stratford by the twenty-first of May, he will fail to gain his doctorate and will be evicted from the institution. That means he will be working fast.”
“Current developments?” the old man asked, though he already had a pretty good idea, and Peter was aware of it.
Nevertheless, Peter spoke as if he were the only one understanding the situation. “John Porter has now been joined by a young lady, another student at Stratford University. Her name is Erma Alred, and she also is renowned in what she does. Liberal, intelligent, lives alone, has no religious affiliation and is unlikely to join any church whatsoever.
“Alred was Dr. Ulman’s prized student for a little more than a year and a half, until he went to Guatemala. An archaeology student specializing in ancient America. She is a hard-nosed woman with a mighty flame inside, so she won’t be pushed around by Porter. She’s wise and intelligent enough not to be taken advantage of.
“The two students together, complemented by Porter’s pressing time schedule, will mean quick and efficient work on their part. But they will formulate separate opinions. While Ms. Alred has an excellent reputation and is destined for success in her field, Porter is making a questionable name for himself. He’s clever but eccentric.”
Waiting a moment as Peter stood motionlessly, breathing through his nose, the old man at the far end of the oval redwood let his associates mull over the information before speaking. “Gentlemen…I think it is time we inform other interested parties.”
Quickly, Peter said, “I have already prepared a meeting.”
All the bones in the room chilled in silence as thought-filled eyes looked on the young man.
But Peter stood like a work of marble in very expensive attire. His skin was cold and white. His dark hair, short, slightly receding, was sprayed into immobility. He paused, letting the world push its stressful hands past him, and looked calmly to the old man standing on the other side of the table.
Unmoved by the words, the elderly figure was little more than a reflection of Peter set far in the future.
The air hung icily throughout the room, but no one shivered.
“Good,” the old man said at last. “We have no time to waste. We all have work to do now…so I suggest we adjourn until this evening.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
April 11
9:07 p.m. PST
The glass door slapped against the door frame when it closed, and for a second Alred was sure the pane would break and rain razor-sharp shards all over her back.
A few heads turned then turned away, but the owner, a thin old man who she assumed was Bruno, called from behind a counter in his gruffest voice, “Don’t worry about it! Been meaning to get it fixed anyway.”
She looked back at the door, which was fine.
Walking into the depths of the cafe, Alred found herself a booth away from the bar. From here she could see most of the restaurant, but wouldn’t easily fall in the path of everyone else’s eyes. Bruno came to her quickly, wiping his hands with a yellowed rag. “What can I get you?” he said with enthusiasm.
“Coffee,” she answered, taking papers out of her bag. She opened a copy of LOGOS, The Journal of Archaeology, which Porter had called her about. “Better read Dr. Albright’s paper,” he’d said, and there had been no
