Buried?
No. On sabbatical…of course, hidden from the world, trapped in his big house shrouded by empty night. Dr. Alexander Peterson, proudly writing his great archaeology text, no doubt centering on the newest and most outstanding of all Central American finds!
Still could be dead.
Albright glanced back.
The guy was closer.
Well what-d’-ya-know! Second wind!
Albright started jogging again, pounding the asphalt with cheap tennis shoes as he crossed to the end of the last block.
Down to the next stop sign, then left. Almost home.
He turned back.
The shadow jogged with him. Same pace? Just a little closer.
Albright made for the end of the block at top speed. It had been years since last his legs felt the strain of sprinting. They’d forgotten the correct coordination.
Throwing himself forward, feeling the killer puffing with poison white breath on the back of his ears, Albright let his mouth hang loose.
Had to get home!
He didn’t care if anyone saw him flying like an out-of-shape fool.
He hoped someone did!
He heard the feet slapping the ground behind him.
He felt the shadow overpower his mental energy; a ring wraith from Tolkien’s world, commanding his feet to stop.
Albright refused to listen.
Running mad. He pumped his fists from his hips to his cheeks.
The weight of his body bounced.
But I’m not that fat!
Toes pointed. Heels kicked against the thorns behind him.
The power of the sprinting shadow reached at him with giant hands.
The air chilled.
The hands grabbed Albright’s left forearm.
Albright screamed, but kept running.
The black beast, the murderer, the dark assassin had him, but didn’t.
His head swam with a white mist.
Albright didn’t stop screaming.
He turned the corner, ignoring the claws, the knives, stabbing his arm.
The shadow commanded the ground.
The curb lowered beneath Albright’s feet, then rose abruptly.
Concrete hooked Albright’s right toe.
The dark sky disappeared. white lightning flashed inside his eyes.
Albright rolled on his back, dropping into the gutter. His head roared with pain as if run over by a truck. He felt cold wetness in his hair.
The shadow stooped over him, breathless.
The streetlight behind the being created a halo of fire around the black hole in man shape. An alien. A spirit. An executioner. Death himself!
Talons tore at Albright’s left arm.
Albright grabbed his chest with his right hand, opened his mouth more widely than his watering eyes…and never closed it again.
April 18
8:33 p.m. PST
“Thanks for coming, Porter,” said Kinnard, looking out of his drapeless window into solid blackness. “I’ve gotta meeting I’m already late for, but I had to talk to you before you went home today.”
“If I had a phone in my office, you’d be to that meeting right now,” Porter said, casually taking a seat. The white walls of Kinnard’s room and the soft color of the bookshelves contrasted the window and the cherry wood desk. “I think you need an interior designer.”
“To make my office looked as stripped as your own?” Kinnard said, forcing a small smile. He moved to his chair, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “You won’t need a phone, Porter.”
“Well, I figure-”
“You won’t be in the office long enough.”
Porter’s playful grin froze. His eyes went dead.
Kinnard looked at him for a moment with sobriety in his telepathic words. But, of course, Porter couldn’t understand. “I suggest you simplify your dissertation. Cut all the corners you can.”
“I thought I was already doing that. I only have a month left,” said Porter, sensing an unrevealed weight in the room.
Kinnard felt a immense surge of emotion. He could see Porter’s predicament better than anyone else. Including Porter. He knew how much this doctoral candidate needed him. But what could Kinnard do? He didn’t have the strength to say what needed to be said, and he didn’t have the power to alter the situation.
Porter let his eyes drop as he waited. He scanned the scattered papers and books on Kinnard’s desk, as Kinnard shot him short glances. A bent copy of American Archaeology with a female figurine on the cover, rested on top of a number of other magazines. Stacks of unread research papers choked one corner of the table, threatening to topple and roll off. A copy of Newsweek, hidden just under Truman H. Campbell’s, The Atlantis Bridge: The Egyptian/ Mayan Family.
Porter picked up the book. “Not your regular reading,” he said to the professor of Near Eastern Studies.
“How is it going with Ms. Alred?” said Kinnard, straightening his briefcase in preparation to leave. In reality, he was just hiding the nervousness in his hands.
“You actually taking this seriously, Dr. Kinnard?” Porter said, lifting The Atlantis Bridge and flashing the glossed cover at his supervising professor.
“I don’t know what to take seriously anymore.”
With a shrug, Porter said, “As well as you probably would have guessed. I know it wasn’t your idea to put me with a partner. No one’s ever liked working with me!”
“That’s how it is?” Kinnard said.
Porter, who had pushed his way to a grin, let it slip away. He nodded.
“I’ve enjoyed working with you.” Kinnard pulled a stubborn file from his leather bag, tearing the card and warping the pages in the process.
“You know, you’ll subconsciously give those papers a lower grade because they’re hashed?” Porter said, eyeing the manila folder.
“Alred’s a great lady. Top of her class. Excellent woman,” said Kinnard, letting the folder hit the floor to his right. “You should marry her; tell her your middle name.”
“Always looking out for me,” Porter said.
Kinnard looked at him with sober eyes. His eyebrows high, his eyelids drawn together, he bit the inside of his bottom lip and said, “I don’t like this.”
“Still fighting with your wife.”
Kinnard sat and leaned back in his chair.
Porter lifted himself to the desk. “I’m kidding with you. Who wouldn’t feel the tension in this room?! It’s like cigar smoke from six card players trapped in an office the size of mine without a vent.”
Kinnard nodded and gazed at the edge of his desk.
“Don’t worry,” Porter said through the silence as heavy as iron. “I’ll get my dissertation done.”
“I’ve already left a message on Alred’s answering machine,” Kinnard said.
“I’ve heard of those contraptions! Setting up a date for me?” Porter said, sitting back again. The chair
