He didn’t bother looking at Red Rover.
But as he pushed at the concave-bending door with the tip of his silencer, Goodwill heard the hammer of a pistol clicking in Red Rover’s swaying hands.
Oh, the drivers were getting a show now, weren’t they! Some adventurous citizen was likely to turn his car on Goodwill if they could see his own gun from a far enough distance. But what were the chances of that? Goodwill imagined everyone’s fingers going to their cellular phones now. If not to summon extra cop cars, then at least to inform their friends! They’d probably wonder if they’d see all this on America’s Most Wanted this Saturday.
But no time!
Goodwill saw the microphone from the radio hanging limply by the accelerator.
At least Porter was trapped.
“I’m talking to you, Sunshine! And you’ll listen because I still am an officer and can take you down right now!!!”
Goodwill smiled and lowered his weapon. The grin faded as his eyes turned cold on Red Rover. “Put that away. We have work to-”
Red Rover let his gun sag to his side as he pointed at his head. “This isn’t a war wound you know! I expect compensation for-”
Beside the forty-mile-an-hour traffic, Goodwill’s Colt Delta Elite made almost no sound as it jolted twice in his quick hand.
Red Rover fell, silenced forever.
No time.
Goodwill pushed himself into the bus as traffic slowed to thirty-five-it was amazing no one collided!
He balanced his pistol at breast level and kept his sharp eyes on Golb, who still didn’t move. Rising into the bus, he looked back at the empty seats. Porter was either out-cold, dead already, or playing hide and seek. But then, what else could the poor boy do?
With his eyes turned down the length of the short bus, Goodwill pushed his fingers just under the corner of Golb’s jaw. He barely felt a pulse. The man would live; no need to kill him. His story would be obscured by shock and unconsciousness. Golb might not have even seen the Mustang.
“John Porter!” said Goodwill finally to the hollow bus. “This gun can shoot clean through these seats so you might as well show yourself. If I wanted to kill you, there is nothing you could do about it. Better come quietly.”
The words were true. But then, Goodwill had every intention of murdering John D. Porter. And the assassin would be back in his Mustang before Sting was finished.
CHAPTER TWENTY — SEVEN
11:49 a.m. PST
Porter had already been in the courtroom for far too long. He baked in the hot lights from above while sweat rolled along his backbone and into the gray slacks of his suit, which Clusser had been kind enough to bring him.
Pushing an index finger and a thumb beneath his glasses to rub his eyes, the judge looked just as comfortable as Porter.
The courtroom was modern and shining as if just built. The dark wood still held its unweathered original lacquer. The ceiling was so high it took effort to realize it was even there. The odor of perspiration and roses hung on the air.
Porter’s hands trembled before him, so he smashed them together and glued them to the tabletop. For some reason, his head continued to bob downward as the debate continued. He had to force his chin into the air repeatedly. This would only make him look guilty, no doubt, and that was the last thing he wanted.
His bullet wounds ached only slightly, though he’d been taking Tylenol for some time now. Porter had refused the Vicodin the doctor ordered because he knew it would hinder the workings of his mind. Desiring to be fully attentive with regard to everything, Porter decided to live with the greater discomfort so any further attempt to kill him would fail.
He expected the attempt, unless his enemies thought it best he rot in prison. Surely a Customs crime such as this would not put him away for life, even if he was found guilty.
But his mind wondered anyway.
Porter hadn’t quite understood the ride to the courthouse. He remembered being led to the back of a small bus. The door was opened, the driver was a given a thumbs up by the officer holding Porter’s right elbow, then he was led quickly back into the building as the bus pulled away. Clusser’s partner, another FBI agent in a classic suit of dark blue with near-invisible pin stripes, had told Porter from the beginning of the trip that he was to remain silent. They never took the handcuffs off his wrists sitting on his lap-never even bothered to loosen them, though Porter was sure Clusser would have, had Porter been permitted to ask.
On the way to the Federal courthouse, the two agents seemed overly intent on eyeing the mini-bus and wrecked cop car on the left side of the freeway where vehicles were causing a traffic jam. Porter thought he saw the agents stare at each other with deep telepathic eyes at that time. If it wasn’t for the rear view mirror, Clusser, who was driving, never would have told Porter there had been a phone call the night before-an “unrecorded” threat on Porter’s life. The more peculiar part of the experience was the way Clusser smiled into the mirror with that same fake expression he’d always given Porter when they served together in Japan. The unfeeling grin had one meaning: his last words were lies. In Japan, he’d used the performance in jest. But Porter knew Clusser was telling him the call wasn’t real or had been fabricated by someone to save his life.
So why had the bus looked so much like the one Porter was to have boarded, but only had been taken to and from? Porter suspected that the bus, the call, and his private trip to the courthouse in the back of an FBI-mobile had all been instigated by Clusser to save Porter’s life.
It had been a long ride with no more words. But Porter wished he were back in the car now.
A microphone stared at Porter from the table before him.
The jury, sitting like lost statues watching a funeral, didn’t matter at all.
Sitting up in his high-backed chair, the Honorable Judge Carole Panofsky, a heavyset man with a Jewish/New York accent, gazed repeatedly at Porter as though the student were little more than another file in his briefcase. The judge’s opinion was irrelevant also.
How many times had Porter testified to individuals concerning the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and the restored church of Jesus Christ and they would not hear? The truth wasn’t in question today.
How often had Porter seen the inside of a courtroom with all its holy proceedings? In movies, hundreds. On TV, thousands…probably more.
It was all a game, like most things in life. Play your pieces right and…
The best lawyer would always Porter pinched away his swelling pessimism, squeezing his eyes shut. It had been a rough semester-to say the least. Graduation was an issue he might as well never ponder again… But that pain refused to wander.
In this corner, representing the United States Government, stood the Prosecuting Attorney, Ed Comer. Six foot, six inches, Comer smiled with the flat gaze of death. His motions went smoothly, and his voice hardly rippled, even when Porter gave him the run-around.
Well, what else was Porter to do! Tell them he’d found The Book of Mormon written in the original text?!? Unless they translated it no one would be able to tell otherwise! And everyone knew that translators argued endlessly as to the correct meanings in ancient documents. Frankly, Porter didn’t know what he had anymore. KM-3 wasn’t the issue, and no one seemed to know a thing about it. The trial dealt primarily with Porter’s apparent theft of other stolen artifacts, possession of archaeological objects owned rightfully by the government of Guatemala. Porter didn’t believe the Central American country had anything to do with this investigation, but they really were leaving him in the dark.
Answer this question.
What about this?
How do you explain that?
That’s how it went. It was confusing and there was little more so far. No one wanted to know the real facts behind all the commotion. Porter wished they’d just let him talk!