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 levity in his voice. She wasted no time tracing down the table of contents.
But she looked around as Bruno left.
The cafe had the air of being safe, like the kitchen of one’s childhood home. Sure that she’d heard of the place from other students, Alred wished she’d found it earlier in her career at Stratford. There seemed to be a number of individuals from the University, but at this hour, most sat tired and relatively quiet, save those laughing over hot mugs and dinner at the bar.
Booths tightly lined the walls of Bruno’s cafe, which bent like three halls around the kitchen in the center. Tables filled all the extra floor space. Red and white checkered cloths draped over every tabletop, and the floor was a simple gray color with a battered shine. Rafters could be seen in the brown ceiling, and the walls were also wood brown without insulation. Evidently, the kitchen produced enough heat in the winter time that no fiberglass padding was needed. The warmth and smell of cooking smoked the inside of the cafe, and it was hard for Alred not to think of her mom.
She hated being reminded about her parents. Alred shoved the thought away.
During the warmer months, there was probably a fan above Bruno’s kitchen to vent the hot air and delicious aroma outside.
Happy not to return to a chilled apartment, she preferred to be hugged by the cafe and its friendly fever. Bruno brought the coffee and asked her if she wanted something else. She shook her head, and the old man ran off, yelling at someone who only laughed in return.
Alred’s eyes found the beginning of the essay Porter said she had to read: THE MESOAMERICA MIDDLE-EAST CONNECTION
Codex KM-1 and Related Finds by
Dr. Dennis Albright, Ohio State University
She squinted, attempting to understand how this Dr. Albright could have come upon their project. If others scholars were involved, especially those with their Ph. D’s, her dissertation would quickly lose importance.
After reading the title three or four times, Alred finally decided she couldn’t push through it. She couldn’t do any of it. Or rather, it was possible, but she didn’t see the project with Porter as being as profitable as Masterson had described.
Her mind wandered to Professor Ulman.
What did they mean when they said Ulman had disappeared? People didn’t vanish. There was no logic to this. Why would Ulman choose invisibility after making such a fantastic discovery, after working in Guatemala for so long? Alred couldn’t come up with any reason at all, but wrinkled her brow and pressed her knuckles to her lips. She stared at the patrons of the cafe for a while, as irrational thoughts darted through her head.
She had to focus.
How many others were involved in Dr. Ulman’s Guatemalan discovery? If Dr. Albright was able to write a paper on the find already, he must have had detailed knowledge of Ulman’s work long before she’d learned of it.
The thought of murder flashed like a memory from a movie in her mind. Could someone have killed Professor Ulman? She didn’t want to consider that absurd possibility. After all, who would do it? Another scholar? Dr. Albright?
Staring again at the title before allowing her eyes to gaze out the window, Alred drank her coffee and ordered another.
Two more coffees later, she ordered an ice tea.
Alred had turned to other articles in the journal and fell entranced in their ideas until there weren’t any more.
The snuggling heat of the cafe and the thoughts that continued to jumble her head at every pause made her very uncomfortable. She pictured Ulman running for his life from thugs hired by jealous scholars, and other such nonsense. She knew it was all absurd, but she was exhausted. Every time she looked down at Albright’s article with the silly title insinuating early transoceanic contact between two separate worlds, her mind began to run away. She watched her favorite professor passing through customs, only to be mugged, kidnapped, tied, gagged, and thrown over a bridge. She shook her head and imagined him getting inside his car, turning the ignition, and “Something else to drink,” Bruno said, wiping a glass with what looked like the same rusty towel he’d been using for over an hour.
“Water,” she said, trying to ignore the washcloth.
She went to the bathroom. She had to stretch before attacking this essay. Her blood had slowed too much, and she looked at her watch: 10:12.
When she returned, the water waited for her next to her magazine. She took a sip and set the glass down before noticing…words, quickly scrawled next to the title of Albright’s paper.
In blue pen the letters read,
Can you believe this?!! Figure it out Alred!
Alred stopped thinking.
She read the words again without realizing she was holding her breath.
Standing quickly, Alred looked around the cafe. She scanned over everyone’s face as fast as she could.
Looking down, she read the short sentences again. Again. Again. She touched the words. The blue ink came off on her dry index finger.
She jumped to the front door and pushed it open.
“Hey!” Immediately Bruno was behind her in the doorway as she took three steps into the dark wind. “Not thinking about taken off before pay’n, are you little lady?”
Alred looked through the blackness, but didn’t find anyone. Few cars pushed by the cafe on the two-lane road. Three empty automobiles waited against the curb, one of those across the street in front of an out-of-business donut shop. Yellow lamp lights painted everything a dirty orange color.
She kept her feet still, so as not to panic the old man, but her eyes went through every car window, ducked under every tree pushing out of squares chopped in the sidewalk, cut left and right through the shadows, searching…
“Little lady?” Bruno said, watching her wisely.