Tyrannosaur Canyon

by Douglas Preston

  A silence ensued and Tom once again felt the awkwardness of his visit. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

  "Technically, on the grounds we're under a vow of silence," said the monk. "Shall we take a walk?"

  "Fine."

  The monk set out at high speed along a trail that wound down to the river from the shop and skirted the riverbank, Tom struggling to keep up. It was a beautiful June day, the orange canyon rims standing against the blue sky in a brilliant contrast of color, while above puffy clouds drifted along like tall ships at sea. For ten minutes they hiked, saying nothing. The trail ascended, terminating at the top of a bluff. Brother Wyman tossed back the skirt of his robe and sat down on the trunk of a dead juniper.

  Sitting beside the monk, Tom studied the canyon country in rapt silence.

  "I hope I haven't taken you from anything important," he said, still unsure how to begin.

  "I'm missing a terribly important meeting in the Disputation Chamber. One of the brothers swore at Compline." He chuckled.

  "Brother Ford–"

  "Please call me Wyman."

  "I wonder if you'd heard about the murder in the Maze two days ago."

  "I gave up reading the paper a long time ago."

  "You know where the Maze is?"

  "I know it well."

  "Two nights ago, a treasure hunter was murdered up there." Tom recited the story of the man, finding the body, the notebook, the disappearance.

  Ford was silent for a while, looking out over the river. Then he turned his head and asked, "So... where do I come in?"

  Tom removed the notebook from his pocket.

  "You didn't give it to the police?"

  "I'd made a promise."

  "Surely you gave them a copy."

  "No."

  "That was unwise."

  "The policeman investigating the case didn't inspire much confidence. And I made a promise!"

  He found the monk's steady gray eyes on him. "What can I do for you?"

  Tom held out the notebook but the monk made no move to take it.

  "I've tried everything I know to identify the man so I can give this to his daughter. Nothing's worked. The police haven't a clue and tell me it may be weeks before they find the body. The answer to the man's identity lies in here – I'm sure of it. Only problem is, it's written in code."

  A pause. The monk continued to gaze steadily at Tom.

  "I heard you were a code breaker for the CIA."

  "A cryptanalyst, yes."

  "Well? How about taking a crack at it?"

  Ford eyed the notebook but again made no move to take it.

  "Well, take a look," said Tom, holding it out.

  Ford hesitated, then said, "No, thank you."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I choose not to."

  Tom felt a surge of irritation at the high-handedness of the answer. "It's for a good cause. This man's daughter probably has no idea he's dead. She may be worried sick about him. I made a promise to a dying man and I'm going to keep that promise – and you're the only man I know who can help me."

  "I'm sorry, Tom, but I can't help you."

  "You can't or you won't?"

  "Won't."

  "Are you afraid of getting involved because of the police?"

  A dry smile creased the man's craggy face. "Not at all."

  "Then what is it?"

  "I came up here for a reason – to get away from just that sort of thing."

  "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

  "In less than a month I'm going to take my vows. Being a monk is more than wearing a habit. It's taking on a new life. That" – he pointed to the book – "would be a throwback to my old life."

  "Your old life–?"

  Wyman stared across the river, his craggy brows contracted, his lantern jaw working. "My old life."

  "You must've had a pretty rough time of it, to run away to a monastery."

  Ford's brow contracted. "Monastic spirituality is not about running away from something, but about running toward something – the living God. But yes, it was rough."

  "What happened? If you don't mind me asking."

  "I do mind. I guess I'm no longer used to the kind of prying inquisitiveness that in the outside world passes for conversation."

  Tom was stung by the rebuke. "I'm sorry. I'm out of line."

  "Don't be sorry. You're doing what you feel is right. And I think it is right. It's just that I'm not the man to help you."

  Tom nodded and they both rose, the monk slapping the dust off his robes. "About the book, I don't think you'll have much trouble with that code. Most homemade codes are what we call idiot ciphers – designed by an idiot, decipherable by an idiot. Numbers substituted for letters. All you need is a frequency table of the English language."

  "What's that?"

  "A list of the most to least common letters in the English language. You match that list up with the most to least common numbers in the code."

  "Sounds easy enough."

  "It is. You'll crack that code in a jiffy, I bet."

  "Thanks."

  Ford hesitated. "Let me take a quick look at it. I might be able to crack it on the spot."

  "You sure you don't mind?"

  "It won't bite me."

  Tom handed it to him. Ford leafed through it, taking his time with each page.

  Five long minutes passed.

  "Funny, but this is looking a lot more sophisticated to me than a substitution code." The sun was descending into the canyons, suffusing the arroyos in a bright golden light. Swallows flitted about, the stone walls reverberating with their cries. The river tumbled by below, a whisper of water.

  He shut the book with a slap. "I'll keep the book for a few days. These numbers are intriguing – all kinds of weird patterns in there."

  "You're going to help me out after all?"

  Ford shrugged. "It'll help this girl learn what happened to her father."

  "After what you told me I feel a little uncomfortable about this."

  He waved a large hand. "Sometimes I get a little too absolutist about things. There's no harm in giving it a quick try." He squinted at the sun. "I better be getting back."

  He grasped Tom's hand. "I admire your stubbornness. The monastery doesn't have a telephone, but we do have an Internet connection via satellite dish. I'll drop you a line when I crack it."

  Chapter 13

  WEED MADDOX REMEMBERED the first time he had blown through Abiquiú on a stolen Harley Dyna Wide Glide. Now he was just another asshole in khakis and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt driving a Range Rover. He was really coming up in the world. Beyond the town of Abiquiú the road followed the river, past green alfalfa fields and groves of cottonwoods, before climbing out of the valley. He took a left on 96, drove over the dam and up along the southern side of the valley, in the shadow of Pedernal Peak. In another few minutes the left-hand turn to the Broad-bent place appeared, with a hand-painted sign on a weathered board: Cañones.

  The road was dirt, not well maintained. It paralleled a small creek. There were some small horse ranches on either side, forty to eighty acres, with cute names like Los Amigos or Buckskin Hollow. The Broadbent place, he'd heard, had a strange name, Sukia Tara. Maddox slowed at the gate, passed it, continued on for another quarter of a mile, and parked the car in a thicket of gambel oaks. He got out and eased the door shut. Strolling back to the road, he made sure the car wasn't visible. Three o'clock. Broadbent would probably be gone, at work or out. They said he had a wife, Sally, who ran a riding stable. He wondered what she looked like.

  Maddox slung the rucksack over his shoulder. First thing, he thought, was to reconnoiter the land. He was a firm believer in reconnaissance. If no one was home he'd search the place, get the notebook if it was there, and get out. If the little woman was home that would make things easier. He had yet to find the person who wouldn't cooperate with the business end of a gun grinding the back of their mouth.

  Leaving the road, he hiked alon
g the bank of the creek. A thread of water appeared, then disappeared among white stones. Cutting to the left, he passed through a grove of cottonwoods and brush oaks before coming up behind Broadbent's barn. Moving slowly, being careful not to leave footprints, he climbed through a triple-strand barbed-wire fence and edged along the back wall of the barn. Crouching at the corner, he parted the rabbitbrush to get a view of the back of the house.

  He took it in: a low adobe, some corrals, a couple of horses, a feeding area, a watering trough. He heard a high-pitched shout. Beyond the corrals there was an outdoor riding arena. The wife – Sally – held a lunge line dallied around her elbow, with a kid riding on a horse, going around and around in circles.

  He raised his binoculars and she leapt into focus. He watched her body turn with the horse, front, side, back, and around again. A breeze caught her long hair and she raised a hand to brush it from her face. Jesus, she was pretty.

  He moved his view to the kid. Some kind of retard, a mongoloid or something.

  He turned his attention back to the house. Next to the back door was a picture window opening into the kitchen. They said in town that Broadbent was loaded – big time. He'd heard that Broadbent had grown up in a mansion surrounded by priceless art and servants. His old man had died a year ago and he'd supposedly inherited a hundred million. Looking at the house, you'd never know it. There was no sign of money anywhere, not in the house, the barn, the horses, the dusty yard and gardens, in the old International Scout sitting in the open garage or the Ford 350 dually sitting under a separate car port. If Maddox had a hundred million, he sure as shit wouldn't live in a dump like this.

  Maddox set down his pack. Taking out his sketchbook and a freshly sharpened number two artist's pencil, he began sketching as much as he could of the layout of the house and yard. Ten minutes later, he crawled around behind the barn and through some brush to get a fresh angle to sketch the front and side yards. Through a pair of patio doors he studied a modest living room. Beyond was a flagstone patio with a Smoky Joe barbecue and some chairs, bordered by an herb garden. No swimming pool, nothing. The house looked empty. Broadbent, as he had hoped, was out – at least his '57 Chevy was gone from the garage and Maddox figured he'd never let anyone drive that classic except himself. He'd seen no sign of a handyman or stable hand, and the nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away.

  He finished his sketch and examined it. There were three sets of doors to the house: a back door to the kitchen, a front door, and the patio doors leading to the side yard. If all doors were locked – and for planning purposes he assumed they would be – the patio doors would be the easiest to get into. They were old and he'd opened quite a few in his day with the pair of shims he carried in the rucksack. It would take less than a minute.

  He heard a car, crouched. A moment later it appeared coming round the back of the house, a Mercedes station wagon, and parked. A woman got out and walked over to the arena, shouting and waving at the kid on the horse. The kid waved back, yelled some unintelligible expression of joy. The horse slowed and Broadbent's wife helped the kid off the horse. The kid ran over to the woman, hugged her. The lesson was finally over. They chatted for a while and then the kid and his mother got in the car and drove off.

  The wife, Sally, was left alone.

  He watched her every movement through the binoculars as she led the horse to a hitching post, unsaddled it, and groomed it, bending over to brush the belly and legs. When she was done, she led the horse to a corral and turned it loose, threw a few flakes of alfalfa into a feeder, and then headed toward the house, slapping bits of alfalfa off her thighs and butt. Was there another lesson in the works? Not likely – not at four o'clock.

  She went in the back door to the kitchen, letting the screen door bang. A moment later he saw her pass by the picture window, go to the stove, and start making coffee.

  It was time.

  He took one last look at the sketch before shoving it into his rucksack. Then he began pulling out his equipment. First he slipped the green surgical booties over his shoes, the hair net over his hair, then the shower cap. Over that he slid a stocking. After that he put on the plastic Wal-Mart raincoat, the kind that came in a small packet and cost four dollars. He slid on a pair of latex gloves and took out his Glock 29, 10mm Auto, 935 grams fully loaded with ten rounds in the magazine – a very slick firearm. He wiped it down and shoved it in his pants pocket. Finally he took out an accordion of condoms, tore off two, and tucked them into his shirt pocket.

  He'd leave no DNA at this crime scene.

  Chapter 14

  DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT WILLER slid out of the cruiser and tossed his cigarette butt onto the asphalt in front of him. Walking over it with a twist of his toe, he entered the back entrance to headquarters, passing through a slate-and-Plexiglas lobby. He swung through the glass doors of homicide, walked down the hall past a potted ficus and into the briefing room.

  His timing was good. Everyone had arrived, and the murmur of voices fell as he entered. Willer hated meetings but in his line of work they were unavoidable. He nodded to his deputy, Hernandez, a couple of others, pulled a foam cup out of the stack and filled up on coffee, laid his briefcase on the table, sat down. For a moment he focused on only his coffee, took a sip – freshly made for a change – then set down the cup. He opened the briefcase, took out a sheaf of papers marked MAZE, and slapped them on the table with just enough vigor to get everyone's attention.

  He opened the folder, laid a heavy hand on it, looked around. "We all here?"

  "Think so," said Hernandez.

  Nods, murmurs all around.

  Willer took a noisy sip, set the cup down. "As you know, ladies and gentlemen, we got a killing up in the Chama wilderness, in the Maze, that's attracted a lot of press attention. I want to know where we stand and where we're going. If anyone's got any bright ideas I want to hear them."

  He looked around the room.

  "First, let's have the M.E.'s report. Dr. Feininger?"

  The police pathologist, an elegant-looking, gray-haired woman in a suit who looked out of place in the dingy briefing room, opened a slim leather folder. She did not rise to speak, and her voice was quiet, dry, just a touch ironic.

  "Ten and a half quarts of blood-soaked sand containing most of the five point five quarts of blood found in a typical human body were recovered from the site.

  No other human remains have been found. We did what tests we could – blood type, presence of drugs, and so forth."

  "And?"

  "Blood group O positive, no drugs or alcohol detected, white blood cell count apparently normal, blood serum proteins, insulin, all normal. The victim was a male in good health."

  "Male?"

  "Yes. Presence of the Y chromosome."

  "You do any DNA testing?"

  "Yes."

  "And?"

  "We ran it against all the databases, no matches."

  "What do you mean, no matches?" broke in the D.A.

  "We have no national DNA database," the M.E. said patiently, as if talking to an idiot – which, Willer figured, she probably was. "There's usually no way to identify a person from his DNA, at least not yet. It's useful only in comparisons. Until we find a corpse, a relative, or a spot of blood on a suspect's clothing, it's useless."

  "Right."

  Willer took a swig of coffee. "That all?"

  "Give me a body and I'll tell you more."

  "We're working on it. K-9?"

  A nervous, carrot-haired man hastily squared some papers: Wheatley, from Albuquerque.

  "We took six dogs up to the area in question on June fourth–"

  Willer interrupted. "Two days later, after there'd been a hard rain that got all the washes running, swept the Maze free of tracks or scent trails." Willer paused, staring aggressively at Wheatley. "I mention that for the record."

  "It's a remote area, hard to get to." Wheatley's voice had ridden up a notch.

  "Go on."

  "On June fourth, wi
th three handlers from the Albuquerque K-9 tracking division, the dogs picked up a scent..." He looked up. "I've got maps here if you want to–"

  "Just give the report."

  Picked up a possible ground scent at the scene. They followed it up the canyon and up onto the rim of Mesa de los Viejos, where it was noted that there was insufficient ground cover to hold a good scent–"

  "Not to mention that half inch of rain."

  Wheatley paused.

  "Proceed."

  "The dogs were unable to maintain tracking. Three subsequent attempts were made–"

  "Thank you, Mr. Wheatley, we get the picture. And now?"

  "We've got the dogs on cadaver-sniffing duty. We're working a grid, starting from the crime scene and using GPS to cover the canyon floors. We're working simultaneously deeper into the Maze and down toward the river. Next we'll go up on top."

  "Which brings us to the river search. John?"

  "The river's low and slow. We've got divers going into all the deep holes and snags, working downstream. So far nothing – no personal effects or remains. We're almost at Abiquiú lake. It doesn't look likely the perp disposed of the body in the river."

  Willer nodded.

  "Scene-of-Crime?"

  It was Calhoun from Albuquerque, the best guy in the state. At least they'd lucked out on the forensics. Calhoun, unlike the K-9 team, had gotten his ass up to the site at first light.

  "We did a complete particle and fiber search, which was a real bear, Lieutenant, given that we're basically working in a dirty sandbox. We picked up anything that looked artificial within a hundred feet of the killing. We also sifted a second site, 220 yards to the northeast, where it appears a burro was standing – we found his droppings. We also looked at a third point on the bluffs above."

  "A third point?"

  "I'll get to that in a minute, Lieutenant. The killer covered things up pretty good, erased his tracks, but we got a fair amount of hair, artificial fibers, dried foodstuffs. No latents. Two M855 rounds."