Peter didn’t even blink. “Ms. Alred will no longer research the Ulman find.”
The man at the end turned his head to Mr. Andrews.
Andrews nodded. “I concur. We had her followed to a West Federal Bank, where she does not possess an account. We concluded there to be a connection with the Ulmans but it seems to have led her nowhere. We found no reason to assume she learned anything of relevance. And she is repulsed with those things relating to the find.”
“You’re investigating behind my back?” Peter said, his face flushing, but his body unmoving. “You question my competence.”
“Not at all, Peter,” said the man at the end. “We only want to be sure nothing is overlooked. We need to be.” He looked down at the table. “And John Porter?”
“Porter seems furious,” said Peter, “but he has no more leads. He can run around and say all he likes, but he’ll become a disreputable scholar and lose himself in the back of libraries.”
Smith, across the table from Andrews, spoke without leaving his restful position. “Then why has Porter boarded a flight for Columbus…Ohio.”
The man at the end looked from Smith to Peter with hard eyes. “You thought this unworthy of mention?”
“I…didn’t see that it mattered where he went at this point. As long as he didn’t head for Central America.”
Andrews wrinkled his brow. “How did he find out about Dr. Peterson’s connection?”
Smith closed his eyes and opened them again as he spoke. “The April edition of the Archaeological Journal contains the article written by Alexander Peterson, aforementioned.”
“The April journal was catalogued as one of Porter’s possessions when we first closed in on him and the codex,” said Peter.
“Andrews,” said the man at the end, “make sure Dr. Peterson expects Porter’s appearance. We don’t want Porter catching any loose ends. Peter, I think your work is finished for the day. Go home and rest.”
Peter would do that, he said with an emotionless nod. He only wondered if he’d wake up the next day.
8:09 p.m. EST
The young lady closed the door and Porter was thankful; it must have been only ten degrees outside, and the Ohio wind was blowing harder than he thought it could when carrying snow. He’d already stepped in a gutter full of slush, so his right Rockport was soaked and the tips of his toes stung.
The house was very large, and undoubtedly more expensive than anything he could ever hope to own. Porter figured the structure had been built in the early part of the century before the depression. The wide staircase to the second floor suited a historian. From the high ceiling hung electric chandeliers of twinkling crystalline shapes. Ornate rugs depicting a deep forest of twisting trees and scrambling bush covered the entire entry hall. There were at least six doors Porter saw along the walls of the hall and at least two at the top of the stars. Paintings as tall as six feet, depicting Mesoamerican warriors, kings, and ball games, and mirrors at least five feet wide took up the rest of the brown wall space. Of course the elaborate carpets were predominantly red.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Oh,” Porter said with a fake laugh, “John. Peterson will know who I am. You work here?”
“My father does,” she smiled, young and pretty but as skinny as a mortal girl could become. She was literally a skeleton with an epidermis layer, one of those girls who saw fashion models as both unreachable and ideal examples of female figures, but tried to attain their supposed weight anyway. The anorexic result was unfortunate. Porter couldn’t help looking at the skinny poles with tendons and knobs halfway up which she used for legs as she climbed a few steps. The site repulsed him. Porter felt like a child with a cut on his hand that would heal if he’d leave it alone…and of course he couldn’t. He kept looking at the white corn stalks contrasting the candy-apple red carpet on the stairs and kept wincing until she looked back.
“Better wait there,” she said. “You’re not another student from the University, are you? Dr. Peterson’s already sent a number of them away. He is on sabbatical, you know. That’s why he’s not in his Columbus house.”
“No,” Porter said with a smile. “I’m from out of state. Only here for a few days.” He looked up the staircase at the bookshelves all along the top landing walls, trying to read the titles, which were too faraway. How could any professor afford all of this?!? Porter had no idea, but thought it best not to ask.
“So he is expecting you?” said the young lady with sky blue circles around her pupils and frosted brown hair. She’d be gorgeous if she put on a little weight, he thought.
“These students come unannounced?” Porter said.
“He shows them away when they call. They think he’ll help them out if they appear in person.” She pointed at him with a needle for a finger. “John?”
“That’s right.” Porter watched her go up the stairs and pass left and through a door he hadn’t seen.
He had no intention of waiting for the professor. If scholars had one thing in common, he figured, it was a degree of selfishness if the product was new enough. Ulman’s sure was! And Peterson probably wouldn’t be that keen on sharing it all with an eccentric Latter-day Saint.
Cutting quickly through one doorway, Porter started scanning for stairs. “Where would I study if I lived in this house?” he said. It had to be on the second floor. Maybe the third. This house was bigger inside than it looked. Places this size always had more than one staircase.
Weaving past other servant and doing his best to act as if he was a guest, and hoping his calm silence worked, Porter went up the stairs in the east wing and slid with quiet feet through the halls. Unless Peterson was prompt, Porter expected to have a couple of minutes to find what he needed and get out. If the professor was working on his book, he’d either tell the young lady to get rid of the visitor, or he’d come after ten minutes of making ‘John’ wait. Porter was betting on the latter.
Porter peeked in rooms and dodged mumbled conversations made by shadows striding by him without seeing anyone else until he poked his head into what had to be a den.
Closing the door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar so he could hear anyone coming up the hallway, Porter scanned the room. Beautiful Victorian wood curled under every table and over every bookshelf. There was plenty of light from the brass lamps hanging about. A fire cooked the Ohio air, giving it a sweet incense odor and filling the study with blankets of warmth.
“I’d fall asleep in here!” Porter whispered to himself. His eyes examined the heavy desk in the center of the room. Massive. Bright lights beamed over the piles standing in perfect order. Rolls rested together like sacred scrolls waiting to be opened by the pious. Two stacks of hand-typed pages stood on the right side. Three books hid beneath a fourth Porter found open and unfinished. They were handwritten journals.
He drew closer and saw the words: Kalpa, and KM-1, and buried site. Porter remembered the article Peterson had written for the Archaeological Journal, “The New Mesoamerican Mystery: Guatemala’s Hidden Treasure.” He took one of the scrolls made of modern paper and pulled off the rubber band.
The air in his lungs evaporated, and he stopped breathing.
It was a hand-drawn map.
It had to be Ulman’s site in Highland Guatemala. A small scale at the bottom implied the enormity of the find. The buildings, the towers, the canals, the streets…it was hard to fathom. Porter’s brain seemed to roll inside his head as dizziness set in.
He shut his mouth, closed the roll and grabbed the others, jamming them all under his arm. He’d examine every detail once he was safe. His eyes glanced at the door, still unmoved.
He looked at typed pages, tempting him. His eyes darted to the journals, which he closed and gathered in a scramble.
Porter came around to the front of the desk, knocking the black leather chair aside.
The fire popped behind him, and he spun to face it.
Nothing but hungry flames. Again he smelled the sweet wood burning.
He looked back at the claw-footed desk, at the dark wood drawers running down the front.
Good antique contraption. No working locks.
He checked the door. No one.
One of the rolls fell from under his arm.
