The Kukulkan Manuscript (7 page)

So why was Kinnard giving Dr. Ulman’s find to Porter for study?

“A new Mesoamerican script?” said Porter.

“Ulman could read a little of the first set of characters on the page. Maybe the language is just an older version of characters common to the area, I don’t know; I don’t read any of those languages. But that was the writing Ulman
could
read to some degree.”

Porter blinked and thought he misunderstood.

“Ulman couldn’t read the second language on the page…” Kinnard said.

They both looked straight into each other. Porter felt the room warm around him. Perhaps it was his own blood pulsing faster just beneath his skin.

“…but…I thought
I
recognized letters of the second script,” said Kinnard. “
You
might be able to decode it, Porter.”

“But I…don’t know any ancient American languages.”

“Neither do I.”

April 1
3:00 p.m. PST

Erma Alred closed the door behind her. The room had far too many people in it for a casual discussion between Professor Masterson and herself as she had planned. But as the head of the Department of Ancient History and Anthropology at Stratford University, Dr. Masterson could do what he wanted.

“Good morning Ms. Alred,” Masterson said with a bloated smile as he stood to shake her hand, “Right on time as usual.”

Evidently the other four men in the room had come early, though she hadn’t the faintest idea why. They watched her as she shook Masterson’s hand. She eyed them closely, but also casually. She recognized a few faces, she thought, but couldn’t be sure.

Masterson raised a hand to the only empty chair around the rectangular table. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting down. The room smelled like old pipe smoke, memories of the professors who first ran Stratford University. Masterson’s cordiality confused her. Never before had he treated her with so much respect. She had come to the office hoping to discuss her proposal for her dissertation, which she’d been working on since last semester. She had plenty of time to change it, so she wasn’t pressured with that.

But Alred had learned that Masterson, who served as her supervising professor, was a difficult man to sway from his own stubborn opinions. He had plenty of ideas and was sick of being kicked around by other professors who thought they had more efficient or effective plans. Bitterness had swallowed him long ago and kept him boiling in a stomach of acidic antagonism. As he had told her many times, he hadn’t climbed his way to the top, he’d fought his way. He didn’t expect others to follow his example and rather hoped they didn’t.

Alred looked forward to working in a university back east, if at all possible, when her studies ended at Stratford. Masterson said he’d made up his mind to mold her into a killer in the field. She could go far in Mesoamerican scholarship, if she knew what she was doing.

Alred never worried much about her future. Having been raised by a fine instructor of mathematics, Alred found there was a logical side to everything. The anxieties of most people were unnecessary. Those who worried about relationships, for example, usually caused more problems fretting over negative possibilities than would have occurred naturally. Stress leads to self-fulfilling prophecies, Alred told her friends. Most people didn’t realize that. General ignorance and self-promoted apathy was the greatest problem in the world, she believed. Thus, Alred didn’t cope well with those who were always coming up with excuses. She just shook her head and wondered why people didn’t take control of their lives instead of letting others boss them around. Pro-activity led Alred to higher levels of success than most others would be able to enjoy.

Masterson turned quickly to the other men in the tight room. Indicating each with a relaxed hand, he said, “Ms. Alred, this is Dr. Goldstien, Dr. Arnott, Dr. Wilkinson, and Dr. Kinnard.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, maintaining the odd cordiality, and throwing out the idea that she would discuss her dissertation at all today. While pushing back a lock of red hair over her right ear with her fingers, she grumbled inside, but let the feeling pass.

Goldstien smiled—probably at how well Alred’s neatly kept fingernail polish, her lipstick, and the red hair blended in a singular color. It wasn’t a perfectly red shade, but rather a light auburn. She sensed he was one of those who were amused at how women were able to play with make-up to enhance what was already there; a typical low-class man who couldn’t get married or had been, but quite unhappily so. He liked her, and didn’t hide it well. But she figured Goldstien didn’t care if she knew it. He projected himself as one who found the rule prohibiting professors dating students a little juvenile and old-fashioned.

Alred avoided further eye contact with Goldstien. She could feel his gaze easily enough, and sat with determination on her face. But again, she wasn’t worried. Her passive guardian—her Uncle Alan—had enrolled her in a martial arts class at an early age. She’d grown up with the reputation of beating up the boys in her Junior High school. Alred had the peace of mind of knowing she could break a man twice her size, were he to try something, no matter how dark it was and no matter what alley they were in.

With his big smile, Masterson sat down, slapped his hands on the ends of the armrests, and sighed. He looked happy, and Alred knew it was all a front. She suspected everyone else saw the same picture, but couldn’t be sure. She scanned her eyes over the other three men.

Dr. Arnott smiled with his thin lips, but it really did look fake. His eyes sagged and looked too much at the table. The fingers of his left hand played against the knuckles of his right as he rested both elbows on the lightly varnished wood.

Dr. Wilkinson, dressed in a brown suit dating to the early nineteen-seventies, kept his eyes on Masterson. It was obvious he was waiting for something.

Dr. Kinnard stared seriously at the table, and as far as Alred could determine, he hadn’t looked up since she’d entered.

Underneath, they all trembled with seriousness, she thought, and the subject obviously dealt with her.

“How are things?” said Masterson.

It felt as awkward as it sounded.

Alred decided to get right to the subject and spoke honestly. “I thought we were going to discuss my dissertation.”

Masterson nodded. “That’s the plan.”

“With all due respect,” she said, “what do these gentlemen have to do with my thesis. Am I in trouble?” She knew she wasn’t, but felt slightly agitated and didn’t want to admit it. She was used to being in control of her life, and this situation was highly irregular.

Masterson continued to nod. Then quite suddenly, he leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands together. “Ms. Alred, we’ve come up with a great idea for your dissertation.”

“I was…was under the assumption that the student chose the subject of her final argument,” she said. Her face remained relaxed, though all her muscles grew firm.

“Oh, absolutely!” Masterson said.

Alred knew he was lying and recognized that everyone else in the room had a better grasp on the truth than she did. They’d obviously planned this meeting from start to finish. She’d made the appointment, and they’d set it all up. Question was, what were they pushing for?

Without losing the smile, Masterson said, “You have complete control over your dissertation. All we would like to do is present an option.”

Alred wanted to squint at him, to scowl, but she relaxed her face and remained outwardly unmoved by his words. “An option,” she said. Was it really a choice, or a threat? Did she have control, or were they really saying,
If you want to get your doctorate at Stratford, you will complete this project!

Masterson’s smile did not sit well with him, probably because he rarely smiled. He was a kingpin in scholarship, and Alred was smart enough to recognize it. Masterson made the rules, knew he did, and liked it. His options were not alternatives, but demands. Those possessing wisdom learned to do as he said. He’d been the Chair of the Department of Ancient History and Anthropology for far too long, and there was no way he’d let anyone else in his seat.

Alred inwardly confirmed to herself, I’ve lost all control over the end of my academic career.

Her muscles started to feel unusually tense, but she tried not to show it. She kept her hands under the table so no one would catch her scratching her fingernails together. She sat like a rabbit before headlights, without motion, without breath, as the explanation continued. She even fought the urge to look at the shielded window in the corner of the south side of the empty room

Masterson lifted a hand, indicating the end of the table, “Dr. Kinnard?”

Kinnard lifted his head slowly and began immediately. “Ms. Alred, you studied under…Professor Ulman for how long?”

Alred pulled her head back. “I’ve worked with him since I came to Stratford two and a half years ago. He’s an excellent man.” What was this, some sort of secret board of inquiry?

Looking back at the tabletop, Kinnard swallowed, and his face hardened. His eyes appeared to be closed, but were only squinting behind his glasses. Both his hands locked together in a firm grip. Alred almost thought he looked like he was about to scream out in rage. “Dr. Ulman…has disappeared.”

Alred waited in silence for a moment, then said sincerely, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I understand you were close,” Kinnard said, shooting a sharp look at her.

She suddenly felt as if she were being accused of some odious crime involving her favorite professor, the one she’d wished had become her supervisor of studies, but had already taken on too many graduate students. Smoothly, she clarified, “We worked on one of his books together,
Ancient Man in Modern Mesoamerica
. It’s due to come out in five more months.”

Kinnard didn’t nod.

Alred looked at everyone before saying, “How are you connecting me with professor Ulman?”

“Ulman and I were good friends,” Kinnard said. “He praised your work. Said you were quick and possessed a strong initiative.”

“What’s happened to him?” Alred said, not realizing she was leaning slightly forward.

“We don’t know,” said Masterson. “But we are sure there is nothing to be concerned about.”

“Do you have any idea where he is?” Kinnard asked Alred.

“If you’re not worried,” she said, looking back and forth at the two professors, “why are you asking me where he is?” She tried to keep her voice controlled, and succeeded, but her actions revealed her concern.

Masterson’s smile faded momentarily, but quickly returned. “Dr. Kinnard is more concerned than the rest of us.” He hit Kinnard with a glance, which Alred assumed she was supposed to miss, and it looked as if Masterson was doing his best to send some dark kind of telepathic message to the muscular professor opposite him at the table. Masterson resumed his smile.

Kinnard seemed to ignore the gesture. “What is your knowledge of Ulman’s current whereabouts, Ms. Alred?”

“Am I being accused of something? I thought we were discussing my dissertation,” she said.

“You’re not being accused of anything, dear,” Goldstien said with a grin, revealing his poor dental work. Like an actor making sure he was sticking to his lines, he looked at Arnott, but only for a moment.

“Ms. Alred, are you aware of Dr. Ulman’s most recent project?” Masterson said with gray eyebrows smashing his bald forehead into wave after wave of wrinkles. “Did he send you any letters? Memos?”

“I believe Dr. Ulman has been working on something he found in Highland Guatemala,” she said, a little hostility in the back of her throat. “He wrote me sometime last semester, but I had assumed he was too busy to write me a second letter. We are not working on his new project together.”

“Did Dr. Ulman invite you to join him in Central America?” said Kinnard.

“No.”

“Did Dr. Ulman send you anything other than a letter. Say, some artifacts, anything he may have found in Guatemala?” Masterson said.

“That would be illegal,” said Alred.

“But did he send you anything other than a letter?” Goldstien said.

“No,” she said, but she could tell by the look in Masterson’s darting eyes that he didn’t believe her. “Why do I get the impression that I’m being interrogated?”

“We don’t mean to give you that feeling,” Wilkinson said over a cough as Kinnard put his face in his hands and sagged.

“You’re accusing me of a crime, aren’t you,” Alred said, her muscles hardening.

“Not at all,” Kinnard moaned from behind his hands.

“Why are you so suspicious?” said Goldstien with a big grin, repulsive to look at.

“I’m not being suspicious,” she said, her eyes rigid in her head as she turned it from side to side. She did her best to keep her voice calm, but there was too much energy in her lungs. “I came here to discuss a dissertation proposal with Professor Masterson, only to find you four in the room circling me like vultures. Now, what do you want.”

Masterson leaned back in his chair, at ease in the room. “Ms. Alred…I didn’t mean for these questions to get you all rallied up.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but instantly sensed her forward-leaning position, the tension in her face, her tightened eyes, and realized that everyone would recognize all of these signs for what they were. She relaxed and allowed the steam to rush out of her overheated muscles.

“We just wanted to know how suited you would be for the project we’re about to suggest,” said Masterson. “It is unorthodox enough to be exciting and give you the opportunity to make quite a name for yourself. It is also something we thought you might find particularly interesting since it is based on Dr. Ulman’s recent discovery. Unfortunately, little is known about the find so far, except for what letters he has sent to the states. We were hoping…that you already had your hands in the work; that Ulman had informed you of his theories. It would have provided you with a greater advantage than starting with nothing.”

“I see,” she said.

“Ulman sent me…some artifacts,” said Kinnard.