The Codex

by Douglas Preston

  The Broadbents began walking off the bridge.

  81

  Hauser stood in the middle of the bridge, his mind having accepted the fact that a sharpshooter—no doubt that blond woman who had come with Tom Broadbent—had him in her crosshairs. A useless old hunting rifle, the soldier had told him. Right. She had placed a bullet at his feet at 350 yards. To think that she now had him in her sights was an unpleasant and yet oddly thrilling feeling.

  He looked at the bottle tied to the cable. The distance from where he was standing to the bottle was less than one hundred feet. The sharpshooter was shooting from more than three hundred yards. The bridge was swaying in the updrafts. It would be a difficult shot, hitting a target moving through three dimensions. An almost impossible shot, in fact. In ten seconds he could reach the bottle, tear it off the cable, and drop it in the abyss. If he then turned and ran back toward the far end of the bridge, he would be a moving target rapidly going out of range. How likely would it be that she could hit him? He would be running fast along a swaying bridge—again moving in three spatial dimensions relative to her firing point. She would not be able to draw a bead on him. On top of that she was a woman. Obviously she could shoot, but no woman could shoot that well.

  Yes, it could all be done quickly, before the Broadbents escaped, and she would never hit him or the canister. Never.

  He crouched and sprang toward the can of white gas.

  Almost instantly he heard the snick! of a bullet in front of him and then the report. He kept going and reached the can just as the second report reached his ears. Another miss. This was too easy. He had just put his hand on the can when he heard a pop! and saw a brilliant blossoming of light erupt in front of him with a whoosh, followed by a searing heat. He staggered back, waving his arm, surprised to see blue flames crawling all over him, his arms, his chest, his legs. He fell and rolled, thrashing around, beating at his arm, but he was like a blazing Midas and everything he touched seemed to turn to fire. He kicked, shrieked, rolled—and then suddenly he was like an angel, soaring on wings of air, and he closed his eyes and allowed the long, cool, delicious fall to happen.

  82

  Tom turned just in time to see the fiery human meteor that was Hauser streaking into the bottomless chasm, flickering dimly and silently as it hurtled down through layers of mist before disappearing, leaving nothing behind but a faint trail of smoke.

  The entire midsection of the bridge where Hauser had been standing was on fire.

  “Get off the bridge!” Tom cried. “Run!”

  They ran as best they could, supporting their father, advancing toward the four soldiers, who quickly retreated to terra firma but remained blocking the far end of the bridge. The soldiers looked confused, uncertain, guns raised, liable to do anything. Hauser’s last order had been to let the Broadbents pass—but would they?

  The leader of the group, a lieutenant, raised his weapon and cried, “Halt!”

  “Let us pass!” Tom cried in Spanish. They kept coming.

  “No. Get back.”

  “Hauser ordered you to let us pass!” Tom could feel the bridge trembling. The burning cable was going to go at any second.

  “Hauser is dead,” said the lieutenant. “I am now in charge.”

  “The bridge is burning, for God’s sake!”

  A smile crept up on the teniente’s face. “Yes.”

  As if on cue the whole bridge jerked, and Tom and his father and brothers were thrown to their knees. One of the cables had parted, sending a shower of sparks into the abyss, while the bridge whipsawed under the sudden release of tension.

  Tom struggled to his feet, helping his brothers raise their father.

  “You must let us pass!”

  The soldier answered with a burst of fire just above their heads. “You die with the bridge. That is my order! The White City is ours now!”

  Tom turned; smoke and flames streamed from the bridge’s midsection, fed by the updraft from below. Tom saw a second cable start to unravel, spilling burning bits of fiber into the air.

  “Hang on!” he cried, gripping his father.

  The cable parted with a violent lashing, and the entire deck of the bridge fell away like a curtain dropping. They clung to the two remaining cables, struggling to hold on to their weakened father. The bridge was whipsawing back and forth like a spring.

  “Soldiers or no soldiers,” said Tom, “let’s get the hell off this bridge.”

  They began edging along the two remaining cables, their feet on the lower one, their hands on the upper one, helping Broadbent along.

  The teniente and his three soldiers advanced two steps. “Get ready to fire!” They dropped to a stable firing position and took aim.

  Tom and his family were now only twenty-five feet from land, and the soldiers would be firing at them from almost point-blank range. He knew they had no choice but to keep going toward the men who were about to kill them.

  The third cable parted like a spring, sending a recoil through the bridge that almost knocked them all off. The wreckage of the bridge hung from the single remaining cable, swinging back and forth.

  The teniente pointed his gun at them. “You die now,” he said in English.

  There was a hollow thud, but it was not from his gun. A surprised look came into the teniente’s face, and it was as if he were bowing down before them, a long arrow sticking out of the back of his head. This struck momentary confusion in the other five soldiers, and in that moment a bloodcurdling yell went up from the edge of the forest, followed by a huge shower of arrows. Tara warriors poured out of the jungle and raced across the flat area, leaping and shrieking, firing arrows on the fly. The remaining soldiers, caught by surprise on the flank, out in the open, threw down their guns in a panic to flee and were instantly transformed into human pincushions, struck with dozens of arrows simultaneously; they staggered about wildly like drunken porcupines before falling to the ground.

  A moment later Tom and his brothers had reached land just as the final cable parted in a great cloud of sparks. The two blazing ends of the bridge swung lazily toward the canyon walls and crashed into them with a shudder and a cascade of burning debris.

  It was over. The bridge was gone.

  Tom looked ahead and saw Sally stand up out of the brush in front and run toward them. They moved toward her, helping their father along, aided by Tara warriors. In a few moments they had reached her. Tom folded her in his arms and they hugged, while Hairy Bugger, now safe in Tom’s pocket again, squeaked his displeasure at being squeezed in the middle.

  Tom looked back. The two pieces of bridge were hanging over the chasm, still burning. A half dozen men had been left trapped in the white city. They stood on the edge of the precipice, staring at the dangling wreckage. The mists began to rise and, bit by bit, the silent, stupefied figures vanished.

  83

  The hut was warm and faintly perfumed with smoke and medicinal herbs. Tom entered, followed by Vernon, Philip, and Sally. Maxwell Broadbent was lying in a hammock with his eyes closed. Frogs peeped outside in the peaceful night. A young Tara medicine man was grinding herbs in one corner of the hut, under the watchful eye of Borabay.

  Tom laid a hand on his father’s forehead. His temperature was climbing. The gesture caused his father to open his eyes. His face was drawn, his eyes glittering with fever and the light of the fire. The old man mustered a smile. “As soon as I get better, Borabay’s going to show me how to go spearfishing the Tara way.”

  Borabay nodded.

  Broadbent’s restless eyes moved over the company, seeking reassurance. “Eh, Tom? What do you say?”

  Tom tried to say something but couldn’t quite get the sounds out.

  The young medicine man stood up and offered Broadbent a clay mug filled with some murky brown liquid.

  “Not another of these,” Broadbent muttered. “This is worse than the cod liver oil my mother used to force down my throat every morning.”

  “Drink, Father,” said Bor
abay. “Good for you.”

  “What is it?” Broadbent asked.

  “Medicine.”

  “I know that, but what kind of medicine? You can’t expect me to swallow something without knowing what it is.”

  Maxwell Broadbent was proving a difficult patient.

  Sally spoke. “It’s Una de gavilan, Uncaria tomentosa. The dried root is an antibiotic.”

  “I suppose it can’t hurt.” Broadbent took the mug, swallowed. “We seem to have an excess of doctoring going on here. Sally, Tom, Borabay, and now this young witch doctor. You’d think I had something serious.”

  Tom glanced at Sally.

  “The things we’re going to do together when I get better!” Broadbent said.

  Tom swallowed again. His father, seeing his discomfort—nothing ever escaped him—turned to him. “Well, Tom? You’re the only real doctor around here. What’s the prognosis?”

  Tom tried to muster a smile. His father looked at him for a long time and then settled back with a sigh. “Who am I kidding?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Tom? I’m already dying of cancer. You can’t tell me anything worse than that.”

  “Well,” Tom began, “the bullet perforated your peritoneal cavity. You’ve got an infection, and that’s why you have a fever.”

  “And the prognosis?”

  Tom swallowed again. His three brothers and Sally were all looking at him intently. Tom knew his father would settle for nothing less than the plain, unadorned truth.

  “Not good.”

  “Go on.”

  Tom couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.

  “That bad?” said his father.

  Tom nodded.

  “But what about these antibiotics this medicine man’s giving me? And what about all those marvelous remedies in that codex you just rescued?”

  “Father, the kind of infection you have, sepsis, can’t be reached by any antibiotic. Nothing short of major surgery will fix it, and now it’s probably too late even for that. Drugs can’t do everything.”

  There was a silence. Broadbent turned and looked up. “Damn,” he said at last, to the ceiling.

  “You took that bullet for us,” said Philip. “You saved our lives.”

  “Best thing I ever did.”

  Tom laid his hand on his father’s arm. It was like a hot stick. “I’m sorry.”

  “So how long do I have?”

  “Two or three days.”

  “Christ. That short?”

  Tom nodded.

  He lay back with a sigh. “The cancer would have gotten me in a few months anyway. Although it would have been damned nice having those months with my sons. Or even a week.”

  Borabay came over and laid his hand on his father’s chest. “I sorry, Father.”

  Broadbent covered the hand with his. “I sorry, too.” He turned and looked at his sons. “And I can’t even look on the Lippi Madonna one more time. When I was in that tomb, I kept thinking about how if I could only look on that Madonna again, everything would be all right.”

  They spent the night in the hut watching over their dying father. He was restless, but the antibiotics were, at least for now, holding the infection at bay. When dawn broke the old man was still lucid.

  “I need some water,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  Tom left the hut with a jug, heading for the nearby stream. The Tara village was just waking up. The cooking fires were being lit, and the beautiful French copper- and nickel-clad pots and pans and tureens were making their appearance. Smoke spiraled into the morning sky. Chickens scratched in the dirt plaza, and mangy dogs prowled about, looking for scraps. A toddler came teetering out of a hut, wearing a Harry Potter T-shirt, and took a pee. Even among a tribe this remote, Tom thought, the world was reaching in. How long would it be before the White City yielded up its treasures and its secrets to the world?

  As Tom walked back carrying the water, he heard a sharp voice. The old crone, the wife of Cah, had come out of her hut and was gesturing toward him with a crooked hand. “Wakha!” she said, gesturing.

  Tom paused warily.

  Wakha!

  He took a cautious step toward her, half expecting to have his hair yanked or his balls groped.

  Instead the woman took him by the hand and pulled him toward her hut.

  Wakha!

  He reluctantly followed her bent form into the smoky hut.

  And there, in the dim light, propped up against a post, stood the Madonna of the Crapes by Fra Filippo Lippi. Tom stared at the Renaissance masterpiece and took an uncertain step toward it, transfixed, hardly believing it could be real. The contrast between the shabby hut and the painting was too great. Even in the dark it fairly glowed with internal light, the golden-haired Madonna, barely a teenager, holding her baby, who was stuffing a grape into his mouth with two pink fingers. A dove floated above their heads, radiating gold leaf.

  He turned to the old lady in astonishment. She was looking at him with a huge grin on her wrinkled face, her pink gums gleaming. She went over to the painting, picked it up, and thrust it in his arms.

  Wakha!

  She gestured for him to take it to his father’s hut. She went behind, giving him little pushes with her hands. “Teh! Teh!”

  Tom walked into the damp clearing with the painting cradled in his arms. Cah must have kept back the painting for himself. It was a miracle. He stepped into the hut and held the painting out. Philip glanced over, let out a cry, and fell back. Broadbent stared at it, his eyes widening. At first he said nothing, and then he lay back in his hammock, a look of fright on his face.

  “Damn it, Tom! The hallucinations are starting.”

  “No, Father.” He brought the painting close. “It’s real. Touch it.”

  “No, don’t touch it!” cried Philip.

  Broadbent reached out a trembling hand and touched the painted surface anyway.

  “Hello,” he murmured. He turned to Tom. “I’m not dreaming.”

  “No, you’re not dreaming.”

  “Where in the world did you get this?”

  “She had it.” He turned to the old woman, who stood in the doorway, a toothless grin on her face. Borabay began asking her questions, and she spoke at length. Borabay listened, nodding. Then he turned to his father.

  “She say her husband greedy, keep back many things from tomb. Hide them in cave behind village.”

  “What things?” Broadbent asked sharply.

  They spoke some more.

  “She not know. She say Cah steal almost all treasure for tomb. He fill boxes with stones instead. He say he not want to put white man treasure in Tara tomb.”

  “Wouldn’t you know it,” said Broadbent. “When I was in the tomb, there were some crates that seemed hollower than they should be, almost empty. I couldn’t get them open in the dark. That’s what I was doing in the tomb just before Hauser showed up, checking to see if I could solve the mystery. That damned tricky old Cah. I should have known. He planned this whole thing from the start. Christ, he was as greedy as I was!”

  Broadbent cast his eyes back on the painting. It reflected the light of the fire, the flickering glow playing over the Virgins young face. There was a long silence as he looked at it. Then he closed his eyes and said, “Bring me a pen and paper. Now that I have something to leave you, I’m going to make out a new will.”

  84

  They brought a pen and a roll of bark paper to Maxwell Broadbent.

  “Shall we leave you?” asked Vernon.

  “No. I need you here. You too, Sally. Come. Gather around.”

  They came and stood around his hammock. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, my sons. And—” he looked at Sally, “my future daughter-in-law. Here we are.”

  He paused.

  “And what fine sons I have. Pity it took me so long to realize it.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t have a lot of wind left, and my head feels like a pumpkin, so I’ll keep this short.”

  His e
yes, still clear, traveled around the room. “Congratulations. You did it. You earned your inheritance, and you saved my life. You showed me what a goddamn fool of a father I’ve been—”

  “Father—”

  “No interruptions! I have some parting advice.” He wheezed. “Here I am on my deathbed, how can I resist?” He took a deep breath. “Philip, of all my sons, you’re the one most like me. I’ve seen, in these past years, how the expectation of a large inheritance has cast a shadow over your life. You’re not naturally greedy, but when you’re waiting for half a billion dollars, it has a corrosive effect. I’ve seen you living beyond your means, trying to play the rich, sophisticated connoisseur in your New York circle. You’ve got the same disease I had: needing to own beauty. Forget it. That’s what museums are for. Live a simpler life. You have a deep appreciation for art, and that should be its own reward, not the recognition and fame. And I’ve heard you’re one hell of a teacher.”

  Philip nodded curtly, not altogether pleased.

  Broadbent took a couple of ragged breaths. Then he turned to Vernon. “Vernon. You’re a seeker, and now I finally see just how important that choice is for you. Your problem is that you get taken in. You’re an innocent. There’s a rule of thumb here, Vernon: If they want money, the religion’s bullshit. It doesn’t cost anything to pray in a church.”

  Vernon nodded.

  “And now Tom. Of all my sons you’re the most different from me. I never really understood you. You’re the least materialistic of my sons. You rejected me a long time ago, perhaps for good reasons.”

  “Father—”

  “Quiet! Unlike me, you’re disciplined in the way you live your life. I know what you really wanted to do was become a paleontologist and hunt dinosaur fossils. Like a fool, I pushed you into medicine. I know you’re a good vet, although I’ve never understood why you’re wasting your tremendous talents doctoring grade horses on the Navajo Indian reservation. What I’ve finally understood is that I must respect and honor your choices in life. Dinosaurs, horses, whatever. You do what you want with my blessing. What I have also come to see is your integrity. Integrity was something I never really had, and it upset me to see it so strongly in one of my sons. I don’t know what you would have done with a big inheritance, and I expect you don’t know, either. You don’t need the money and you don’t really want it.”