Tyrannosaur Canyon

by Douglas Preston

  Wyman rose. "I'm sorry, Father."

  The abbot's gaze shifted to the numbers on the screen. "What you're doing must be important."

  Wyman said nothing. He wasn't sure it was important in the way the abbot meant. He felt ashamed. This was just the kind of obsessive work habit that had gotten him into trouble in real life, this compulsive focusing on a problem to the exclusion of all else. After Julie's death, he had never been able to forgive himself for all those times he worked late instead of talking to her, eating dinner with her, making love to her.

  He could feel the kindly pressure of the abbot's eyes on him, but he couldn't raise his own to meet them.

  "Ora et Labora, Prayer and Work," said the abbot, his gentle voice with an edge to it. "The two are opposites. Prayer is a way of listening to God, and work is a way of speaking to God. The monastic life seeks a strict balance between the two."

  "I understand, Father." Wyman felt himself coloring. The abbot always surprised him with his simple wisdom.

  The abbot laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad you do," then turned and left.

  Wyman saved his work, backed it up on a CD, and shut down the system. Putting the notebook and CD in his pocket, he returned to his cell and placed them in the drawer of his bedside table. He wondered: had he really gotten the spook trade out of his system? Is that what this was about?

  He bowed his head and prayed.

  Chapter 18

  TOM BROADBENT WATCHED Detective Lieutenant Willer pacing back and forth in his living room, the policeman's slow, heavy steps somehow conveying insolence. The detective wore a plaid sports jacket, gray slacks, and blue shirt with no tie, and his arms were short with bony, veined hands swinging at the end. He was about forty-five and no more than five-eight, with a narrow face, blade-like nose, and sagging black eyes rimmed in red. It was the face of a true insomniac.

  Standing behind him, notebook flopped open in his hand, was his sidekick, Hernandez, soft, plump, and agreeable. They had arrived in the company of a no-nonsense woman with iron-gray hair who introduced herself as Dr. Feininger, the Medical Examiner.

  Sally sat on the sofa next to him.

  "A human hair was recovered at the crime scene," Willer was saying as he slowly turned on his heel. "Dr. Feininger wants to find out if it came from the killer, but to do that we need to eliminate all others who were at the site."

  "I understand."

  Tom found the black eyes looking at him rather intently. "If you don't have any objection then, sign here."

  Tom signed the permission form.

  Feininger came around with a little black bag. "May I ask you to take a seat?"

  "I didn't know it was going to be dangerous," said Tom, with an attempt at a smile.

  "I'll be pulling them out by the roots," came the crisp answer.

  Tom sat down, exchanged a glance with Sally. He felt pretty sure there was more to this visit than getting a few hairs. He watched as the M.E. removed a couple of small test tubes from her black bag and some sticky labels.

  "In the meantime," said Willer, "there are a couple of points I'd like to clear up. Mind?"

  Here we go, thought Tom. "Do I need a lawyer?"

  "It's your right."

  "Am I a suspect?"

  "No."

  Tom waved his hand. "Lawyers are expensive. Go ahead."

  "You said you were riding along the Chama the night of the killing."

  "That's right."

  Tom felt the doctor's fingers in his hair, poking around, holding a large pair of tweezers in the other.

  "You said you took a shortcut up Joaquin Canyon?"

  "It's not really a shortcut."

  "That's just what I was thinking. Why'd you go up there?"

  "As I said before, I like the route."

  Silence. He could hear Hernandez's pen scritching on the paper, then the rustle of a page turned. The M.E. plucked one hair, two, three. "Done," she said.

  "How many more miles did you have to ride that night?" Willer asked.

  "Ten, twelve."

  "How long would that have taken you?"

  "Three to four hours."

  "So you decided to take a shortcut that was actually a long cut, at sunset, when you would have had at least three hours of riding in the dark."

  "It was the night of the full moon and I'd planned it that way. I wanted to ride home by moonlight – that was the whole point."

  "Your wife doesn't mind you coming home late?"

  "No, his wife doesn't mind him coming home late," said Sally.

  Willer continued, not varying from his stolid tone. "And you heard the shots, went to investigate?"

  "Haven't we already gone through this, Detective?"

  Willer pushed on. "You say you found the man, dying. You administered CPR, which is how you got his blood all over your clothes."

  "Yes."

  And he spoke to you, told you to find his daughter – Robbie her name was? – to tell her what he'd found. But he died before he could say what it was he found. Am I correct?"

  "We've been over all this." Tom had not told, and had no intention of telling, that the prospector had a notebook or had mentioned a treasure. He had no confidence in the police's ability to keep it confidential, and news of a treasure would cause a stampede.

  "Did he give you anything?"

  "No." Tom swallowed. He was surprised at how much he hated lying.

  After a moment Willer grunted, looked down. "You spend a lot of time riding around up in that high mesa country, right?"

  "That's right."

  "Looking for anything in particular?"

  "Yes."

  Willer looked up sharply. "What?"

  "Peace and quiet."

  He frowned. "Where do you go, exactly?"

  "All over – the Maze, up over Mesa de los Viejos, English Rocks, La Cuchilla – sometimes as far as the Echo Badlands if it's an overnight trip."

  Willer turned to Sally. "You go with him?"

  "Sometimes."

  "I'm told that yesterday afternoon you went to the monastery up in the wilderness, Christ in the Desert."

  Tom rose. "Who told you that? Are you having me followed?"

  "Take it easy, Mr. Broadbent. You drive a distinctive truck and I might remind you that most of that road is visible from the top of Mesa de los Viejos, where my men are searching. Now: did you go up to the monastery?"

  "Do I have to answer these questions?"

  "No. If you don't, I'll subpoena you, and you'll need that lawyer we talked about, and then you'll be required to answer them under oath at police headquarters."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "It's a statement of fact, Mr. Broadbent."

  "Tom," said Sally, "take it easy."

  Tom swallowed. "Yes, I went up there."

  "What for?"

  Tom hesitated. "To see a friend of mine."

  "Name?"

  "Brother Wyman Ford."

  Scritch, scritch went the pen. As he wrote, Willer made a sucking noise through his teeth.

  "This Brother Ford a monk?"

  "Novitiate."

  "What you go up there to see him about?"

  "I wondered if he'd heard or seen anything related to the killing up in the Maze." He felt terrible lying again. He began to realize that the others may have been right, that he never should have kept back the notebook. But there was that damn promise.

  "And had he?"

  "No."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "Nothing at all. He didn't even know about it. He doesn't read the newspapers." If the cops went to see Ford, Tom wondered if he would lie about the notebook. It seemed most unlikely – he was, after all, a monk.

  Willer rose. "You going to stick around here for a while? Case we need to talk to you again?"

  "I don't have any traveling plans at the present time."

  Willer nodded again, glanced at Sally. "Sorry, ma'am, for the interruption."

  "Don't ma'am me," said Sally sha
rply.

  "No offense intended, Mrs. Broadbent." He turned to the M.E. "Got what you needed?"

  "Yes."

  Tom saw them to the door. As he was leaving, Willer paused, his black eyes fixed on Tom. "Lying to a police officer is obstruction of justice – a felony."

  "I'm aware of that."

  Willer turned and left. Tom watched them drive out, then came back in and shut the door. Sally was standing in the living room, arms crossed. "Tom–"

  "Don't say it."

  "I am going to say it. You're sinking in quicksand. You've got to give them the notebook."

  "Too late now."

  "No it isn't. You can explain. They'll understand."

  "The hell they will. And how many times do I have to repeat it? I made a promise."

  She sighed, uncrossed her arms. "Tom, why are you so stubborn?"

  "And you're not?"

  Sally flopped down on the sofa next to him. "You're impossible."

  He put his arm around her. "I'm sorry, but would you have me any other way?"

  "I suppose not." She sighed. "On top of all this, when I came home this afternoon, I got the feeling that someone had been in the house."

  "How so?" Tom said, alarmed.

  "I don't know. Nothing was stolen or moved. It was just a creepy feeling – like I could smell some stranger's B.O."

  "You sure?"

  "No."

  "We should report it."

  "Tom, you report a break-in and Willer will be all over you. Anyway, I'm not sure at all – it was just a feeling."

  Tom thought for a moment. "Sally, this is serious. We already know the treasure is worth killing for. I'd feel better if you broke out that Smith & Wesson of yours and kept it handy."

  "I wouldn't go that far, Tom. I'd feel silly walking around with a gun."

  "Humor me. You're lethal with a gun – you proved that in Honduras."

  Sally rose, slid open a drawer under the phone, took out a key, and went to unlock a cabinet in the den. A moment later she came back with the gun and a box of .38 cartridges. She opened the cylinder, pushed five rounds into the chambers, snapped it shut, snugged it into the front pocket of her jeans. "Satisfied?"

  Chapter 19

  JIM MADDOX HANDED the car keys and a five-dollar bill to the pimply-faced attendant at the curb and walked into the lobby of the El Dorado Hotel, his new Lucchesi snakeskin boots making a pleasing creaking sound. He paused to look around, giving his jacket a little tug. On one side of the large room was a roaring fire, and on the other an old faggot sat at a grand piano, playing "Misty." At the far end stood a bar done up in blond wood.

  He sauntered over to the bar, hung his laptop on the back of the chair, eased himself in.

  "Coffee. Black."

  The bartender nodded, returned with a cup and a bowl of spicy peanuts.

  He took a sip. "Say, this is a bit stale, think you could manage a fresh pot?"

  "Of course, sir. My apologies." The bartender whisked away the cup, disappeared in the back.

  Maddox dipped his fingers into the peanuts, tossed a few in his mouth, watched the people coming and going. They all looked like him, dressed in Polo shirts and sports jackets and nice corduroy or worsted slacks, people who lived their lives on the straight and narrow, two cars in the garage, two point four kids, living off corporate paychecks. He leaned back, tossed in a few more, and bit down. Funny how many attractive middle-aged women – like that one crossing the lobby with the tan slacks and sweater and pearls with her little black handbag – went all wobbly thinking about a tattooed, pumped-up, prison Jeff doing hard time for rape, murder, or assault. He had a lot of work to do tonight, at least twenty new cons to write up and post. Some of the letters were so illiterate he had to make it all up from scratch. No matter: the subscriptions were still rolling in, the demand for cons growing steadily. It was the easiest money he'd ever made in his life, and what amazed him was that it was legal, all of it handled by credit card through an Internet billing company; they took their cut and the rest was wired to his bank account.

  If he'd known how easy it was to make money honestly, he could've saved himself a shitload of grief.

  He crunched up a few more peanuts and pushed away the dish, mindful of his waistline, as the bartender arrived with a fresh cup. "Sorry it took so long, and my apologies again."

  "No problem." He sipped the coffee – very fresh. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome, sir."

  Weed Maddox turned his thoughts to the problem at hand. The notebook wasn't in the house. That meant that Broadbent either had it on him or had hidden it off-site, maybe in a safe-deposit box. Wherever it was, Maddox knew he wasn't going to get it now by theft. He felt a swelling of irritation. Broadbent was up to his ass in it in one way or another. Maybe as a rival – maybe even as Weathers's partner.

  Maddox could almost hear Corvus's Brit voice ringing in his head – The note book. There was only one way: he had to force Broadbent to give it up. What he needed was leverage.

  What he needed was her.

  "First time in Santa Fe?" the bartender asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  "Yeah."

  "Business?"

  "What else?" Maddox grinned.

  "Are you here for the laparoscopic surgery conference?"

  Christ, he probably did look like a doctor. A Connecticut doctor on a medical junket, all expenses paid by some pharmaceutical giant. If only the bartender could see the tattoo that covered his back from nape to butt. He'd shit his pants…

  "No," said Maddox pleasantly, "I'm in human resources."

  Chapter 20

  THE E-MAIL TOM received the next morning went:

  Tom,

  I "deciphered" the journal. You are not going to believe this. I repeat: you are not going to believe this. Come up to the monastery a.s.a.p. and prepare to have your mind blown.

  Wyman

  Tom had left the house immediately. Now that his Chevy was approaching the last mile of washboard road to the monastery, his impatience had reached a feverish pitch.

  Soon the bell tower of the monastery rose above the chamisa, and Tom pulled into the parking lot, a dust cloud rolling back over him as he got out. In a moment Brother Wyman came flying down from the church, his robes flapping behind him, like a giant bat on the wing.

  "How long did it take you to crack the code?" Tom asked as they climbed the hill. "Twenty minutes?"

  "Twenty hours. I never did crack the code."

  "I don't get it."

  "That was the whole problem. It wasn't a code."

  "Not a code?"

  "That's what threw me. All those numbers in neat rows and columns, I kept assuming it had to be a code. Every test I ran on the numbers indicated they were not random, that they were highly patterned – but to what end? It wasn't a prime number code; it wasn't any kind of substitution and transposition code or any other cipher I could think of. I was stumped – until it occurred to me that it wasn't a code at all."

  "Then what is it?"

  "Data."

  "Data?"

  "I was a complete idiot. I should've seen it right off." Wyman broke off as they neared the refectory, putting a finger to his lips. They walked inside, down a hall, and into a small, cool whitewashed room. An Apple laptop sat on a crude wooden table underneath a disturbingly realistic crucifix. Ford peered around guiltily and carefully shut the door.

  "We're not really supposed to be talking in here," he whispered. "I feel like the bad boy at school, smoking in the John."

  "So what kind of data was it?"

  "You'll see."

  "Did it reveal the man's identity?"

  "Not exactly, but it will lead you to him. I know that much."

  They pulled chairs up on either side of the computer. Brother Wyman raised the screen, turned it on, and they waited while it booted up. As soon as it was running, Ford began typing rapidly. "I'm connecting to the Internet via a broadband satellite connection. Your man was using a remote se
nsing instrument and copying the data into his notebook."

  "What kind of instrument?"

  "It took me a while to figure it out. Treasure hunters and prospectors commonly use two devices. The first is a flux gradiometer proton magnetometer, which is basically an incredibly sophisticated metal detector. You walk along the ground and it measures tiny variations in the local magnetic field. But the data output, measured in milligauss, doesn't look like these numbers at all.

  "The second device is a ground-penetrating radar or GPR. It's a machine that looks like a perforated dish with a cluster of bow-tie antennae. It basically fires pulses of radar at the ground and records the echo. Depending on the type of ground and how dry it is, the radar can penetrate as deeply as five meters before being reflected back up. You can get a rough 3D image of something hidden in the ground or in certain types of rock. It lets you see voids, caves, old mines, buried treasure chests, metal-bearing veins, ancient walls or graves – that sort of thing."

  He paused to catch his breath, and went on in a rapid undertone. "It turns out the numbers in your notebook were the data stream from a very sensitive, custom-built ground-penetrating radar. Luckily it had a standard output mimicking a Dallas Electronics BAND 155 Swept FM, so that the imagery could be processed by off-the-shelf software."

  "This treasure hunter was serious."

  "He certainly was. He knew exactly what he was doing."

  "So did he find a treasure?"

  "He certainly did."

  Tom could hardly stand the suspense. "What was it?"

  Wyman smiled, held up his finger. "You're about to see a radar image of it, mapped using the GPR. That's what all those numbers in the notebook were all about: a careful mapping of the treasure in situ in the ground."

  Tom watched as Ford connected to a Website maintained by the Boston University Department of Geology. He drilled down through a series of highly technical hypertext pages dealing with radar, satellite imagery, and Landsat, before arriving at a page entitled:

  BAND 155 SWEPT-FM GPR PROCESSING AND ANALYSIS WITH