Tyrannosaur Canyon

by Douglas Preston

  There was a long silence. Then Beezon asked, "And just what kind of dinosaur might that be?"

  Tom stretched his lips in a smile. "What else – but a T. Rex?"

  Beezon gave a nervous laugh. "I see. Surely you're aware that there are only thirteen tyrannosaur skeletons in the world and every single one is in a museum. The last one that came up for sale went for eight and a half million. We're not talking chump change."

  "And I am also aware that there may be one or two others for sale – quietly."

  Beezon coughed. "It's possible."

  "As for chump change, Mr. Kim will not even consider an investment under ten million. It's simply not worth his time."

  Beezon spoke slowly. "Ten million?"

  "That's the lowest limit. Mr. Kim is expecting to pay up to fifty million, even more." Tom lowered his voice and leaned forward. "You will understand, Mr. Beezon, when I tell you he is none too particular about how or where the specimen might have been found. What is important is that it be the right specimen."

  Beezon licked his lips. "Fifty million? That's a bit out of my league."

  "Then I am sorry to have wasted your time." Tom turned to leave.

  "Now hold on a minute, Mr. Broadbent. I didn't say I couldn't help you."

  Tom paused.

  "I might be able to introduce you to someone. If... well, if my time and effort is compensated, of course."

  "In the investment banking business, Mr. Beezon, everyone involved in a deal is remunerated to the extent of his contribution."

  "That's exactly what I was hoping to hear. As to the commission–"

  "We would be prepared to commission you with one percent, at the time of sale, for an introduction to the appropriate person. Satisfactory?"

  The calculation clouded Beezon's brow for only a moment and then a faint smile spread on his round face. "I think we can do business, Mr. Broadbent. Like I said, I know a gentleman–"

  "A dinosaur hunter?"

  "No, no, not at all. He doesn't like to get his hands dirty. I guess you might call him a dinosaur seller. He lives not far from here, in a little town outside Tucson.

  There was a silence.

  "Well?" said Tom, pitching his voice to just the right level of impatience. "What are we waiting for?"

  Chapter 12

  WEED MADDOX CROUCHED behind the barn, watching. Children were riding around the arena in circles, shouts mingling with laughter. He had been there an hour and only now did the gymkhana for retards or whatever it was seem to be winding down. The kids began to dismount, and soon they were helping to unsaddle and brush down the horses, turning them out one by one in a back pasture. Maddox waited, his muscles aching, all keyed up, wishing he had come at five instead of three. Finally the kids were shouting good-bye and the pickup trucks and soccer-mom SUVs were driving out of the parking area behind the house amid a lot of waving and shouting good-byes.

  He checked his watch. Four o'clock. Nobody seemed to have stayed on to clean up – Sally was alone. She wouldn't go out like she did last time. It had been a long day and she was tired. She'd go inside and rest, maybe take a bath.

  With that interesting thought in mind he watched the last SUV drive out of the driveway with a flourish of dust. The slow cloud drifted off and disappeared into the golden afternoon sunlight and all became quiet. He watched her cross the yard carrying an armload of bridles and halters. She was a knockout, dressed in western riding boots, jeans, and a white shirt, long blond hair streaming behind her. She came toward the barn and entered it, and he could hear her moving around, hanging up stuff, talking to the horses. At one point she was no more than a few feet from him on the other side of the flimsy wooden wall. But this was not the time; he needed to seize her inside the house where the confined space would deaden any noise she might make. Even though the nearest neighbors were a quarter mile away, sound did carry and you never knew who might be walking or riding around within earshot.

  He heard more activity in the barn, the horses blowing and pawing, the scraping of a shovel, more murmurings to the animals. Ten minutes later she emerged and went into the house by the back door. He could see her through the kitchen window, moving around, filling a kettle at the faucet and putting it on the stove, bringing out a mug and what looked like a box of tea bags. She sat at the kitchen table, waiting for the water to boil, flipping through a magazine. Tea and then a bath? He couldn't be sure, and it was better not to wait. She was where he wanted her anyway, in the kitchen. The making and drinking of the tea would take at least five minutes, giving him the opportunity he needed.

  He worked quickly, slipping on the plastic booties, the plastic raincoat, the hair net, shower cap, and stocking. He checked the Glock 29, popped out the magazine, and slapped it back in place. As a last step he unfolded the map of the house and gave it a final scrutiny. He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

  Maddox moved around to the other side of the barn, where she couldn't see him from the kitchen window. Then he straightened up, walked easily across the yard, in through the gate leading to the patio, and then quickly flattened himself against the side of the house, with the patio doors on his right. He peered into the living room and saw it was empty – she was still in the kitchen – and he swiftly inserted a shim into where the door latched, worked it through to the other side, then pulled it down. The door latch released with a loud click; he slid the door open, ducked inside, shut it, and flattened himself behind an angled wall where the hall led from the living room to the kitchen.

  He heard the chair scrape in the kitchen. "Who's there?"

  He didn't move. A few soft tentative footsteps into the hall to the living room. "Is someone there?"

  Maddox waited, controlling his breathing. She would come in and see what made the noise. He heard several more hesitant steps down the hall, which paused as she evidently halted in the entryway to the living room. She was just around the corner, close enough that he could hear her breathing.

  "Hello? Is someone there?"

  She might turn and go back to the kitchen. She might go for the phone. But she wasn't sure... She'd heard a noise, she was standing in the doorway, the living room looked empty... it could have been anything – a falling twig hitting the window or a bird flying into the glass. Maddox knew exactly what she was thinking.

  A low whistle started from the kitchen, climbing in shrillness. The kettle was boiling.

  Son of a bitch.

  She turned with a rustle and he heard her footsteps receding down the hall to the kitchen.

  Maddox coughed, not loudly, but distinctly, as a way to bring her back.

  The footsteps halted. "Who's that?"

  The whistle in the kitchen got louder.

  She suddenly came charging back into the living room. He leapt out at the same time that he saw, to his complete shock, that she had a .38 in her hand. She whirled and he dove at her legs at the same time the gun went off; he hit her hard and dropped her to the carpet. She screamed, rolled, her blond hair all in a tangle, her gun bouncing across the carpeted floor, her fist lashing out and dealing him a stunning blow to the side of the head.

  The yellow-haired bitch.

  He struck back wildly, connecting with his left somewhere in a soft place, and it was just disabling enough to get himself on top of her, pinning her to the floor. She gasped, struggled, but he lay on her with all his weight and pressed the Glock to her ear.

  "You bitch!" His finger almost – almost – pulled the trigger.

  She struggled, screamed. He pressed down harder, lying on top of her, pinning her flailing legs in a scissor grip between his. He got himself under control. Christ, he'd almost shot her, and maybe he would still have to.

  "I'll kill you if I have to. I will."

  More struggling, incoherent sounds. She was unbelievably strong, a wildcat.

  "I will kill you. Don't make me do it, but so help me I will if you don't stop."

  He meant it and she heard that he meant it and stopped. As
soon as she was quiet he slid around with his leg, trying to snag the .38, which lay on the rug about ten feet away.

  "Don't move."

  He could feel her under him, hiccuping with fear. Good. She should be afraid. He had come so close to killing her he could almost taste it.

  He got his foot on the .38, pulled it to him, picked it up, shoved it in his pocket. He pushed the barrel of the Glock into her mouth and said, "We're going to try this again. Now you know I'll kill you. Nod if you understand."

  She suddenly twisted hard and gave a vicious kick backward to his shins, but she had no leverage and he checked her struggling with sharp, wrenching constriction of his arm around her neck.

  "Don't fight me."

  More struggling.

  He twisted the barrel hard enough to make her gag. "It's a gun, bitch, get it?" She stopped struggling.

  "Do what I say and nobody'll get hurt. Nod if you understand."

  She nodded and he loosened his grip, slightly.

  "You're coming with me. Nice and easy. But first, I need you to do something."

  No response. He pushed the barrel deeper into her mouth.

  A nod.

  Her whole body was trembling in his arms.

  "Now I'm going to release you. No sound. No screaming. No sudden moves. I'll kill you fast if you don't do just what I tell you."

  A nod and a hiccup.

  "You know what I want?"

  A shake of the head. He was still lying on top of her, his legs entwined around hers, holding her tight.

  "I want the notebook. The one your husband got from the prospector. Is it in the house?"

  Shake of the head.

  "Your husband has it?"

  No response.

  Her husband had it. That much he was sure of already. "Now listen to me carefully, Sally. I'm not going to screw around. One false step, one scream, one bullshit trick, and I'll kill you. It's that simple."

  He meant it and once again she got the message.

  "I'm going to get off you and step back. You will go to the telephone answering machine over there on the table. You will record the following message: 'Hi, this is Tom and Sally. Tom's away on business and I'm out of town unexpectedly, so we won't be able to get back to you right away. Sorry about the missed lessons, I'll get back to everyone later. Leave a message, thanks.' Can you do that in a normal voice?"

  No response.

  He twisted the barrel.

  A nod.

  He removed the gun barrel and she coughed.

  "Say it. I want to hear your voice."

  "I'll do it."

  Her voice was all shaky. He got off her and kept the gun trained on her while she slowly got up.

  "Do what I said. I'm going to check the message on my cell as soon as you're done, and if it isn't right, if you've pulled some kind of stunt, you're dead."

  The woman walked over to the phone machine, pressed a button, and spoke the message.

  "Your voice is too stressed. Do it again. Naturally."

  She did it again, and a third time, finally getting it right.

  "Good. Now we're going to walk outside like two normal people, you first, me five feet behind. You won't forget, even for an instant, that I've got a gun. My car is parked in a grove of scrub oaks about a quarter mile up the road. You know where those trees are?"

  She nodded.

  "That's where we're going."

  As he pushed her across the living room, he became aware of a sensation of wetness on his thigh. He looked down. The plastic raincoat was torn and a tuft of material stood out from the pant leg. There was a dark patch of blood, not a lot, but still it was blood. Maddox was astonished because he had felt nothing, and still felt nothing. He scanned the rug but saw no evidence that any of the blood had dripped to the floor. He reached down with a hand, explored, feeling the sting of the wound for the first time.

  Son of a bitch. The blond had winged him.

  He marched her out of the house and across a brushy flat and alongside the creek, soon arriving at the hidden car. Once in the cover of the scrub oaks he took a pair of leg cuffs out of his rucksack and tossed them at her feet.

  "Put them on."

  She bent over, fumbled with them for a while, snapped them on.

  "Put your hands behind your back."

  She obeyed and he spun her around and snapped on a pair of handcuffs. Then he opened the front passenger door. "Get in."

  She managed to sit and swing her feet in.

  He took off his knapsack, took out the bottle of chloroform and the diaper, poured a good dose.

  "No!" he heard her scream. "No, don't!" She swung her feet up to kick him but she had little room to maneuver, and he had already lunged in on top of her, pinning her manacled arms and mashing the diaper into her face. She struggled, cried out, writhing and kicking, but in a few moments she went limp.

  He made sure she had breathed in a good dose, then got in the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. She lay slumped on the seat in an unnatural position. He reached over, hefted her and propped her up against the door, put a pillow behind her head and drew a blanket up around her, until she looked like she was peacefully asleep.

  He powered down the windows to get the stench of chloroform out of the car, and then pulled off stocking, shower cap, booties, hair net, and raincoat, balling them up and stuffing them inside a garbage bag.

  He started the car, eased out of the grove, and drove down the dirt road to the highway. From there he crossed the dam and drove north on Highway 84. Ten miles up the road, he eased onto the unmarked Forest Service road that ran up into the Carson national forest, to the CCC Camp at Perdiz Creek.

  The woman lay against the door, eyes closed, blond hair all in a mess. He paused, looking at her. Damn, he thought, she was good-looking – a real honey-haired beauty.

  Chapter 13

  "THEY SAY IT used to be a bordello," Beezon said to Tom as they stood in the dirt turnaround in front of a shabby old Victorian mansion, which rose incongruously from a desert sprinkled with palo verde, teddy bear cholla, and ocotillo.

  "Looks more like a haunted house than a whorehouse," said Tom.

  Beezon chuckled. "I warn you – Harry Dearborn's kind of eccentric. His brusqueness is legendary." He clomped up onto the porch and lifted the ring on the big bronze lion doorknocker. It fell once, with a hollow boom. A moment later a rotund voice inside said, "Come in, the door is unlocked."

  They entered. The house was dark with most of the drapes drawn, and it smelled of mustiness and cats. It looked like a traffic jam of dark Victorian furniture. The floors were laid with overlapping Persian carpets, and the walls were lined with oak display cases of rippled glass, mineral specimens crowding their shadowy depths. Standing lamps with tasseled shades stood here and there, throwing pools of feeble yellow light.

  "In here," came the deep rumble of the voice. "And don't touch anything."

  Beezon led the way into a sitting room. In the middle, a grossly fat man was imbedded in an oversized armchair of flowered chintz, antimacassars resting on the armrests. The light came from behind, leaving the man's face in shadow.

  "Hello, Harry," said Beezon, his voice a little nervous. "Long time, eh? This is a friend of mine, Mr. Thomas Broadbent."

  A large hand emerged from the darkness of the chair, made a vague flicking motion toward a pair of wing chairs. They both sat down.

  Tom studied the man a little closer. He looked remarkably like Sidney Greenstreet, dressed in a white suit with a dark shirt and yellow tie, his thinning hair combed carefully back, a neat and tidy man despite his corpulence. His broad forehead was as smooth and white as a baby's and heavy gold rings winked on his fingers.

  "Well, well," Dearborn said, "if it isn't Robert Beezon, the ammonite man. How's business?"

  "Couldn't be better. Fossils are going mainstream as office decor."

  Another dismissive gesture, a raised hand and a barely perceptible movement of two fingers. "What do you wa
nt with me?"

  Beezon cleared his throat. "Mr. Broadbent here–"

  He stopped Beezon and turned to Tom. "Broadbent? You aren't by chance related to Maxwell Broadbent, the collector?"

  Tom was taken aback. "He was my father."

  "Maxwell Broadbent." He grunted. "Interesting man. Ran into him a few times. Is he still alive?"

  "He passed away last year."

  Another grunt. A hand came out holding a huge handkerchief, dabbed away at the fleshy, slabbed face. "I'm sorry to hear that. The world could use a few more like him, larger than life. Everyone's become so... normal. May I ask how he died? He couldn't have been more than sixty."

  Tom hesitated. "He... he died in Honduras."

  The eyebrows rose. "Is there some mystery here?"

  Tom was taken aback by the man's directness. "He died doing what he loved doing," he said with a certain crispness. "He might have asked for better, but he accepted it with dignity. No mystery there."

  "I am truly shocked to hear it." A pause. "So, what can I do for you, Thomas?"

  "Mr. Broadbent here is interested in purchasing a dinosaur–" Beezon began.

  "A dinosaur? What in the world makes you think I sell dinosaurs?"

  "Well..." Beezon fell silent, a look of consternation on his face.

  Dearborn extended a large hand to him. "Robert, I want to thank you most sincerely for introducing Mr. Broadbent to me. Excuse me if I don't rise. It seems Mr. Broadbent and I have some business to discuss, which we should prefer to do in private."

  Beezon stood and hesitatingly turned to Broadbent, wanting to say something. Tom guessed what it was.

  "About that agreement we made? You can count on it."

  "Thank you," said Beezon.

  Tom felt a pang of guilt. There wouldn't, of course, be any commission.

  Beezon said his good-byes and a moment later they heard the thump of the door, the whine of the car engine starting.

  Dearborn turned to Tom, his face creasing into the semblance of a smile. "Now – did I hear the word dinosaur? What I said is true. I don't sell dinosaurs."