“Do you know a man by the name of Gerard Jasper?” said Clusser looking at his fingers.
“You realize how long I’ve been in here?!?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“I’m getting buried alive in bureaucratic sand! Pounding on the inside of my coffin won’t help at all after a few more days. Don’t you think this trial is going to court a bit too fast?”
“What do you know about the legal system, Porter. If you want help, you’ll give me answers. I want to know what you think happened to the man you wrote me about, Christopher Ulman. I want to know where this ancient document, KM-2, is hidden.”
Porter’s face flushed. “I don’t have it anymore. It’s back in Stratford’s possession.”
Clusser ran his fingers through the butched curls of raven hair hugging his slightly balding head, which tilted to the right. He grimaced and sighed together. “You remember Koishi-san? Tall Japanese? Skinny as a starving man? Do you recall that last day he met with us, how through his cigarette-stained teeth he told us in his own language, ‘ Even if I find the truth, I will not change? ’”
“Yeah, Koishi,” said Porter, his mind drawn back to Japan behind closed eyes.
“I never understood that,” said Clusser. “Why would anyone choose to dodge the facts when they know they are valid and will have the greatest impact on their temporal lives?”
“I couldn’t figure him out myself.”
With solid eyes holding his old missionary companion in place, Clusser said in his naturally deep voice, “Well I don’t have a clue as why you would do the same stupid thing!”
Porter pulled his head back. “I’ve never heard you talk this way.”
“I’ve never been so worried about a friend as helpless as yourself! I know it’s not your nature, but I want you to listen to me, Porter.”
“School’s changed me, Clusser,” said Porter, his voice weak but serious. He looked at the dark tabletop between his fingers.
“I hope so. You’re in real trouble.”
“You said not to worry about it.”
“Someone shot you with two. 40 caliber Smith and Wesson, 180 grain, jacketed round nose bullets from less than ten feet away and then disappeared. Was it a punk?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. My guess is, you were meant to live.”
Porter’s mouth opened, but there was no power to fuel his voice box.
“You’re hiding the codex. You know I recognize your motives. I’ve read the articles about Dr. Ulman’s find. I’ve even examined your incomplete doctoral thesis.”
“How did you get that?!” Porter said, his head popping like a jack-in-the-box.
“You probably think you’re doing our church a service, but you’ve forgotten the Twelfth Article of Faith,” said Clusser, putting his hands together.
“Why memorize them if you’ve always got ‘em with you,” said Porter. “What are you insinuating.”
“You memorize everything else, Porter,” Clusser said with disappointment on his face. “I’m talking about the article that says, ‘We believe in…obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.’ You think the prophet would sanction your possession of KM-2 in violation of our legal system? Everyone knows you have it.”
Drained of hope and power, Porter sagged into the back of his chair. He said nothing and fought back the wetness behind his eyelids. He sniffed the musky scent of Clusser’s cologne on the lukewarm air. Porter didn’t recall Clusser ever wearing any form of scent. He’d changed. “You’re…with them.”
Clusser lifted his chin and squared his jaw. “If you mean the law? Yes.”
Porter sat quietly. The room otherwise smelled slightly of coffee left by the former occupants.
“But that’s not what you’re thinking,” said Clusser.
Porter leaned forward and whispered. “I…was…shot, Clusser. Do customs agents normally do that?!”
Clusser looked into his briefcase, withdrew a file, and pulled out a picture. “Let me ask you again. Do you know this man?”
It was a candid photo. Porter recognized the face. Clean, hair perfectly set in place, untouched by the bad weather around him. Icy eyes making the blue-gray sky behind him look sunnier. The man wore a long overcoat of some suede-like material, navy in color. A suit underneath with a solid burgundy tie against a pressed white shirt.
“You never said anything about him. Friend of yours?” Porter’s last words bit with a bitter tone.
“Gerard Jasper,” said Clusser.
“No…this guy’s name is Arnott.”
Clusser’s face lost all emotion and regained it again…in about a millisecond. “ Peter Arnott?”
“I guess. He works at Stratford University.”
Clusser smiled his white teeth. He tilted his head again, but there was no glow in his eyes. “No he doesn’t. Is this the man who shot you.”
Porter waited, of course well-aware of the answer. “No.”
“Then who did.”
Porter paused. “I don’t know his name.” He couldn’t very well say he was shot by Joseph Smith! It was obviously a pseudonym.
“You’ve gotta work with me on this, Porter!”
“I’m going to be tried for an international crime in a Federal court, right? For what, stealing Ulman’s merchandise.”
“You got it. Look…by law you have the right to say nothing here without legal counsel-”
“Clusser, I need your help! I told you, the University took KM-2 away from me!” Porter said, leaning into his friend’s face.
“Stratford strictly states that you, John D. Porter, are in possession of the codex.” Clusser stopped with his mouth open. His probing eyes dug deep into Porter’s brain, scanning for the facts Porter couldn’t explain.
Porter half-hoped Clusser would find what he needed and say nothing. But the throbbing silence ached. Clusser stared until Porter moved to speak for the sake of killing the quiet and salvaging their friendship.
But Clusser’s words were faster. “You don’t trust me anymore.”
“Only because you refuse to believe me when I’m telling you the truth,” said Porter, sitting back slowly.
Clusser swished his tongue in his closed mouth. “You think I’m with those who tried to kill you. I’m not. But unless you help me figure out what’s happening here, one thing’s for sure: your middle initial stands for Dead-meat. Either in the courtroom…or outside it.”
“Thanks for the confidence,” said Porter, folding his arms.
“They don’t want you alive, Porter.” Clusser added, “You were involved in the incident at the library, weren’t you.”
“How did you-”
“The librarians made a list of the odd conglomeration of books you’d left on a table. It’s amazing the police didn’t trace them to you.”
“I never checked them out.”
“How many students at Stratford would have a mixture of Mayan, Hebrew, and Egyptian texts and dictionaries spread open in one place? It was in the report, but never followed for some reason.”
“I can give you one. They didn’t want the police involved.” Porter crossed his legs under the table, then loosened his limbs as he realized he was hugging himself-a common sign of insecurity and an attempt at psychological self-defense.
“The night librarian was given three hundred-dollar bills by an unrecognized man to step out for a coffee. The librarian came forward with the guilt-ridden truth. So if you were the only one in the library…you broke the window to get off the second floor. It was your blood the officers typed.”
“And you can’t see why I’m in here now? They want to destroy all evidence of Ulman’s find.”
“And they killed Dr. Ulman,” Clusser said for him.
Porter nodded.
Leaning forward, Clusser said, “The nebulous they won’t hold up in court, Porter.”
“If they got into Stratford, who’s to say they wouldn’t gain control of the codex after the judge is through?”
“So you do have KM-2.”
“No! I’m saying a ‘what-if!’” Porter was slipping up. He needed help, but was afraid to open his mouth anymore. He wiped his face with both hands. “What does Arnott have to do with all this, then.”