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.
