Before the door closed, a tall man walked by and looked in. His dark eyes shot fiery darts.
CHAPTER TWELVE
April 18
10:23 p.m. EST
Albright would die if he didn’t run. That’s what the doctor said, at least.
He panted in the dark, wishing he’d been exercising as much as his physician recommended. It would be easier then, wouldn’t it?
Only circling three blocks.
Halfway around, he knew he’d do the same as always: stop running and start walking!
His lungs were filled with smoking acid, as was his heart. He could smell the burning. He lifted his fists higher, hoping it would relieve some of the stress on his body. He didn’t know anything about proper running form.
Just to the next stop sign, he told himself, then walk.
He’d heard on television that whether one ran or walked, one would burn the same amount of calories. He supposed it would be the same with his cardiovascular system; he’d burn the energy, sweat a couple liters, and keep his pulse rate high. He couldn’t say his heart wasn’t going!
It was under thirty degrees, but warm for an Ohio night in April. Thunderheads hid in the dark overhead, but the pavement his feet beat upon looked dry as concrete in a desert under the yellow street lamps. All the snow had disappeared, but there would probably be more by midnight tomorrow.
So why was he sweating?
Didn’t exercise but once in a week.
He could see the stop sign…relief!
Wiping away the sticky moisture on his face with his gray sleeve, Albright slowed to a gentle stride. His arms fell to his sides. His lungs sagged, waiting for his heart to rest.
He had a good excuse for not running. He’d been out of the country. The doctor couldn’t expect Albright to run in the mountains of Guatemala!
But why tell his physician he ran every night? For more Fenfluramine and Phentermine! They were supposed to lower his appetite. It wasn’t easy shaking thirty years of carefully acquired excess weight! Besides, he wasn’t supposed to get more than two weeks of the prescription at one time (which he did take regularly, and couldn’t do without), and Albright was going into his second month.
Nice doctor. He got his check.
Running fingers through his wet hair, he held his breath as a blue Chevy passed, vomiting invisible smog.
He’d left the Kalpa site in a hurry to get back to the states. It was very peculiar, he thought, passing the stop sign. Peterson had taken off the day before him, and Albright had no idea what had happened to Ulman…though he had suspicions.
A colorless Ford Taurus with bright lights rounded the corner.
With a snarl, Albright lifted a hand to protect his eyes.
He dropped it and listened to the car pull to the curb and die some twenty feet behind him.
So why had the University requisitioned KM-1, Dr. Albright’s codex?
Made him too famous, he figured.
That was fine. His first article was published, and a more thorough paper would be finished tomorrow morning.
It wasn’t illegal, his possession of KM-1. Not mostly.
He’d passed through channels…bribed, his way, that is. Wasn’t too hard to obtain the necessary paperwork. Easier to purchase than he’d thought it would be!
But the University had frowned on his measures and said they would keep it, “For legal purposes.”
Right.
Okay. Albright had plenty of notes and a complete set of photographed facsimiles of the manuscript and a great deal of the ancient library where KM-1 had been found. He’d already made plans for the publication of a set of volumes tentatively entitled The Hidden Library of Ancient Kalpa. But Dr. Peterson argued that they could not yet conclude that modern day Kalpa had any relation to the lost city, so the title would have to be amended after they’d learned more.
Peterson had decided to focus on the site itself, which to Albright’s knowledge still didn’t have an accurate mnemonic distinction. But Albright suspected that Dr. Peterson had smuggled a manuscript of his own into North America. His colleague was not beyond such actions, when necessary. Not that all professors of Archaeology and Ancient History would do such things, but…no one had found something so feasibly controversial as they had.
Or Ulman, rather.
Whatever. It didn’t really matter anymore.
Albright suspected Ulman had never left Guatemala.
There were reasons.
Was Dr. Ulman’s body rotting under a bush crawling with Mesoamerican spiders? Most likely. Unless the larger animals had gotten him.
Albright shook his head. He shouldn’t think about it.
Death.
He’d read in the Tribune that a Stratford University professor of History had been murdered. Why would anyone want to kill old Dr. Wilkinson? No taste for his archaic clothes? The paper said it may have been done by a convicted felon named Raymond Polaski, presently sought by the authorities. Red hair, short beard, blue eyes, Caucasian, medium weight, withered left hand, 35–40 years of age. Why did Albright remember the description so well?
Albright gazed behind him.
A shadow leaned against the stop sign he’d passed seconds before. A yellow light behind the figure solidified his silhouette. The phantom looked at Albright, but didn’t move. Albright thought he saw breath release like cigarette smoke into the cold air.
The professor turned away.
Now growing paranoid, Albright thought. Need a good ten hour nap!
Why would someone kill the professor? Angry student? It wasn’t unheard of.
Ulman was dead.
Wilkinson executed.
Where was Peterson?
Okay, Albright admitted to himself. KM-1 and the site might be worth murder…to some people.
Albright’s heart pounded. But for all the wrong reasons.
How would he get the manuscript back from the University? He thought of three ways to steal it. None of them would work. He wouldn’t make it as a criminal. There had to be a bureaucratic way.
He looked back.
Death moved in perfect stride with Albright’s feet.
It’s nothing.
A withered hand? Of course not. But the shadow’s flanges rested within coat pockets. There were no eyes either.
Albright kept walking, his feet involuntarily doing double-time as the ghost followed.
Sweat trickled into his right eye and stung as if two parts alcohol.
Albright wiped it away and thought about Peterson. Where was he anyway?!
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.