Porter listened, the chill biting the tips of his ears.
“The Book of Mormon has been describing that same historical scene for over one-hundred and fifty years, hasn’t it.”
Porter couldn’t say anything. In disbelief, he stood in the dark, wondering what more this man knew but wasn’t saying. The facts were accurate. “And you’re…not…a Mormon?”
The thin man in the Italian suit shook his head. “If I were a Latter-day Saint because of what I know, wouldn’t I share that information with my fellow Mormons?” The wind pulled at his buttoned coat. “Knowledge is a dangerous thing. People will kill to keep some things buried. Becoming a Mormon…could slay me, Mr. Porter. You can understand why I work in the shadows.”
Porter shook his head, his eyes growing weak. His heart beat like a tiger’s in a chase. “No…no, I can’t. You know about archaeology proving the validity of what the LDS church has said for so long…but you remain separate from the faith?”
“It is faith, Porter. I realize what you’re saying and how you feel. But archaeological evidence should never be the basis for a man’s belief in a divine being or choice of religion. You can own a rock with ancient writings on it, but no one can own a real god.”
A car rolled slowly behind Porter, catching Smith’s eyes.
Porter turned around but it sped up and was gone.
“You said the Mormons possessed the truth,” said Porter. “You mean the Book of Mormon?”
The old man nodded. “For a long time, I’ve known the book wasn’t written by Joseph Smith as enemies of your church often claim.”
“How’s that?” Porter said.
Smith’s eyes turned into black slits in the dark. “Do you really think Ulman’s codex…is the first one found in Central America proving the authenticity of your beliefs?!”
Porter touched his throat in silence. His eyes glazed over. He stopped breathing. But this time he didn’t pass out. He snapped back, licked the wind against his mouth, and said, “Why are you telling me all this?”
The old man reached into his coat.
Porter could see the shine on the black semiautomatic pistol with the silencer extension.
“My life is near an end.” Smith held his cane in his free hand. “I think it’s time to shift the balance of power.”
“Do you need the pistol to do it?” Porter said, his voice possessing twice the force, but already buried in a grave.
“No, Mr. Porter.” The old man smiled. “Only you.”
There was a flash.
One bang of solid thunder. A second immediate echoing BANG followed.
Porter spun with the impact of the bullets.
There was no pain. Even when his head hit the ground, creating a blinding light inside his eyes.
Then the candle went out.
CHAPTER TWENTY — THREE
May 1
1:03 a.m. PST
Porter opened his eyelids, the fuzzy world rocking left and right. Nothing he did helped him to focus, so he tried to keep his eyes shut.
They opened again.
There was too much talking.
Faces looking down and then leaving him.
The motors of cars.
Something over his nose.
A constant hiss coming from just outside his mouth.
He couldn’t move.
Beeping sounds.
He needed to cough, but as soon as he started the voices intensified, the scrambling increased.
What were they saying?
The light disappeared.
A blinding whiteness followed, and Porter blinked and thought he saw green exit signs, monitors, and ceiling tiles. Where was he?
He smelled plastic and…mild chemicals? He wanted to cry, especially when he thought he smelled his own bowel discharge.
More faces appeared, then disappeared. Hands brushed his shoulder. Moved his arms. He thought he heard someone talking to him. Something about St. Mary’s Hospital. “Where do you hurt.” Some question about previous medical problems.
Something tugged at him slightly, and Porter tried to lift his head to see what was happening.
They were cutting the clothes from his body.
He wept, realizing his nakedness, and tried to move to cover himself, but they held him down.
The air blew warm over his body, but the tips of his toes and fingers felt chilled.
He saw another monitor, then shut his eyes as they moved him onto what had to be a hospital gurney.
Porter hated hospitals. He despised them when he was the patient, at least, which really hadn’t ever happened until now.
Someone moved his arm. He glanced at the IV as they set it. Nausea rippled through him, and Porter slammed his eyes shut.
He looked down when he realized they were poking a second time for a new IV and again to draw blood.
A new voice materialized, more forceful than the rest, but slow and in control. “What’s his pressure?”
Someone answered.
“Good evening Mr. Porter, glad to have you with us. What’s his heart rate?”
Another sound from another side.
“What’s his rhythm?”
The world spun, and Porter realized he’d stopped crying. He couldn’t start again, though he wanted it.
He shuddered when a number of the beings around him went to his left side and log-rolled him onto his right.
Pain jolted his insides, and he needed to cough again badly. He needed to rest. He was hurting, but couldn’t understand where or why. He just wanted to sleep.
“Get respiratory here stat!”
“Putting in the foley,” said a different voice.
It was all nonsense. The words meant nothing. Porter only They were doing something below the belt, and he felt a burning sensation and knew he was being utterly violated.
He had to trust the hands of the doctors. Porter hoped he’d pass out. This had gone on too long already.
Someone put gentle clips on his fingers, but he couldn’t look anymore.
“I want a med. blood panel and a type and cross for four units!” A woman disguised as an Egyptian mummy in bright-colored cloth looked down at him.
They moved him but he didn’t care, he didn’t pay attention anymore. Would he die? If so, why?! Because of the man in the shadows, the man who spoke of truth and reality and knowledge? Because Porter was important to the stranger? It was hopeless to understand.
Porter listened to the hiss from the plastic mask over his mouth and nose. It was soothing…goodness amid the chaos.
“I want X-ray for a stat C-spine, chest and abdomen. Move your legs sir,” said the dominant voice, a woman with power-how exciting!
But Porter didn’t realize she spoke to him.
“Move your legs,” she said again, touching his skin with her cold rubber-laced fingers.
He lifted one leg, only slightly. Then the other and coughed.
“Move your arms. I’ve got two entrance wounds. Looks like close range, left-upper quadrant, one or two exit wounds.”
Porter shut off his ears. She wasn’t talking to him anymore.
Porter felt more liquid in his lungs and had to cough again. Weakness crushed him, and he thought for a moment they were slowly packing gold-bullion on his chest. Breathing grew difficult under the pressure. He wanted to tell them to get off, but “He’s becoming more tachypneic!” said a different voice with serious concern in his tone.
Porter opened his mouth to draw more air.
“I hear a lot of wheezes.”
“Respiratory give another treatment,” said the doctor. “Get me a gas!”
“O2 stat’s falling.”
“Specifics!”
“Only 86.”
Porter felt fingers poking up his abdomen, something jabbed at his rectum, other hands shoving in points along his chest wall.
What was it?!? he worried. Don’t ask questions! he told himself.