Tyrannosaur Canyon

by Douglas Preston

  Tom whistled.

  Dearborn laid down his teacup, his face taking on a thoughtful look. "I had this feeling..."

  "Yes?"

  "A feeling that Stem Weathers was looking for something more that just a T. Rex. Something to do with the K-T boundary itself. But exactly what, I couldn't say..."

  His voice trailed off and he poured himself another cup of tea.

  "Poor Stem. And poor Robbie. I don't envy you, having to break the news."

  He drained the cup, ate one final scone, dabbed his face, and wiped the tips of his fingers with his napkin.

  "Now it's your turn to talk, Thomas. Tell me what Stem Weathers found. Naturally, you can count on my discretion." His eyes glowed.

  Tom slipped the computer-plotted drawing from his pocket and unfolded it on the tea table.

  Slowly, inexorably, but with huge momentum, the great bulk of Harry Dearborn rose from his chair in silent astonishment.

  Chapter 16

  MADDOX STOOD ABOVE the woman, who lay on the bed, her blond hair spread out on the pillow like a halo. She had just begun to stir, gave a moan – and finally her eyes opened. He said nothing, watching the look in her eyes go from confusion to fear as it all came back.

  He raised the gun so she could see it. "No monkey business. You can sit up, but that's it."

  She sat up, wincing as she did so, the manacles around her wrists and ankles clinking.

  He gestured around. "So... what do you think?"

  No answer.

  "I worked hard making it nice for you."

  He had spread a small tablecloth on the cable spool to make a table, put some fresh flowers in a jam jar, and had even hung a signed, limited edition print that he had taken from the cabin. The kerosene lantern threw a yellow glow across the room, which was pleasantly cool compared to the late-afternoon heat outside. The air was fresh, too – no mine vapors or poisonous gases.

  "When's Tom coming back?" Maddox said.

  No answer. The blond looked away. This was starting to piss him off.

  "Look at me."

  She ignored him.

  "I said, look at me." He raised his gun.

  She turned her head slowly, insolently, and looked at him. Her green eyes blazed with hatred.

  "Like what you see?"

  She said nothing. The look on her face was so intense that Maddox found it a little disconcerting. She didn't look afraid. But she was afraid, he knew that. She was terrified. She had to be. And with good reason.

  He stood up and gave her his winning, lopsided smile, holding out his arms. "Yeah, take a good look. I'm not so bad, right?"

  No reaction.

  "You're going to see a lot of me, you know that? I'm going to start off by showing you the tattoo on my back. Can you guess what it is?"

  No reaction.

  "It took two weeks to make, four hours a day for fourteen days. A prison buddy of mine did it, a real genius with the needle. You know why I'm telling you this?"

  He paused but she said nothing.

  "Because that tattoo is the reason I'm here with you today. Now listen carefully. I want that notebook. Your husband has it. When he gives it to me, I let you go – simple. But to do that, I need to get in touch with him. He got a cell phone? Give me the number and you could be out of here in a few hours."

  Finally she spoke. "Look him up in the phone book."

  "Aw, now why do you have to be a bitch about it?"

  She said nothing. Maybe she still thought she had some kind of say in the situation. He would have to show her otherwise. He would break her like a young filly.

  "See those shackles on the wall? They're for you, in case you hadn't guessed."

  She didn't turn.

  "Take a good look at them."

  "No."

  "Stand up."

  She remained seated.

  He carefully pointed the gun at her ankle, aimed just to the left, fired. The noise was deafening in the enclosed space, and she jumped like a deer. The bullet had gone through the mattress and tufts of stuffing came drifting down.

  "Darn. Missed."

  He aimed again. "You'll limp for the rest of your life. Now stand up."

  She stood up, her cuffs jingling.

  "Shuffle over there where those manacles are set in the wall. You're going to take off your cuffs and put those on."

  Now he could see fear leaking through on that arrogant face of hers, despite her efforts to control it. He aimed the gun. "It might even kill you if it nicks an artery."

  No answer.

  "Are you going to do what I say or do I have to shoot you in the foot? Last warning and I'm not kidding."

  Once again, he was serious, and she realized it.

  "I'll do it," she said in a smothered voice. Water was leaking out of her eyes.

  "Smart girl. Here's how. The same key goes to both sets. Switch off your ankles first, one at a time. Then your right wrist. I'll do your left myself." He tossed her the key. She bent down and picked it up, awkwardly unlocked the manacles around her ankles, and followed his instructions.

  "Now drop the key."

  He ducked in, retrieved it. "I'm going to do your left wrist." He stepped over to the table, placed the gun down on it, went over, and shackled her left wrist. Then he tested the manacles to make sure they had all latched properly.

  He stepped back and picked the gun off the table. "See that?" He pointed to his thigh. "You winged me, you know that?"

  "Too bad it wasn't centered and about four inches higher," said Sally.

  Maddox laughed harshly. "We got a real comedian here. The sooner you get with the program, the quicker this'll be over. Your husband, Tommy, he's got the notebook. I want it." He aimed the Glock at her foot again. "Give me his number and we can get the ball rolling."

  She gave him a cell number.

  "Now you're going to get a real treat."

  He grinned, stepped back, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  "I'm going to show you my tattoo."

  Chapter 17

  THE USUAL HUSH prevailed in the reading room of the Amsterdam Club. The only sounds were the genteel rustle of newsprint and the occasional clink of ice in a glass. The oak-paneled walls, the dark paintings, and the heavy furniture gave the place a feeling of elegance and timelessness, reinforced by the fragrance of old books and leather.

  In one corner, ensconced in a deep chair, illuminated in a pool of yellow light, sat Iain Corvus, sipping a martini and perusing the latest copy of Scientific American. He flipped the pages, not really reading, before tossing the magazine on the side table with impatience. At seven o'clock on a Saturday evening the reading room was beginning to empty, with the members going in to dinner. Corvus had no appetite for either food or conversation. It had now been seventy-two hours since Maddox had last been in contact with him. Corvus had no idea where he was or what he was doing, and no way to contact him safely.

  He shifted in his chair, recrossed his legs, and took a good belt from the martini. He felt the welcome spread of warmth in his chest, rising to his head, but it gave him no comfort. So much depended on Maddox; everything depended on Maddox. His career was at a crisis point, and he was at the mercy of an ex-con.

  Melodie was working late in the Mineralogy lab, doing further analysis on the specimen. She had proven to be a phenomenal scientist, achieving far more than he'd anticipated. Indeed, she'd done so well that a small worry had begun to creep into his mind – that she might prove to be a more awkward person to share the glory with than he'd originally assumed. He had perhaps made a mistake turning over such an important and groundbreaking analysis to her alone, without at least involving himself enough to justify seizing the credit.

  She had promised to call him at eleven with the latest results. He checked his watch: four hours.

  What she had discovered was already more than sufficient to present to the tenure meeting. It was a godsend. It would be impossible to deny him tenure and watch the most important dinosaur s
pecimen of all time walk off with him to another museum. No matter how much they disliked him, no matter how much they felt his publication record was inadequate, they wouldn't let that specimen go. It was a stroke of luck beyond all luck – but no, thought Corvus, it wasn't luck at all. Luck, someone said, was when preparation met opportunity. He had prepared well. He'd heard the rumors more than six months ago that Marston Weathers was on the track of something big. He knew the old gobshite was in northern New Mexico hoping to score an illegal dinosaur on BLM land – public land. Corvus had realized that here was a perfect opportunity: to expropriate a dinosaur from a thief and recover it for science. He would be performing a valuable public service – as well as doing himself a good turn.

  Corvus had been more than a little disturbed when he learned Maddox had actually killed Weathers, but when he got over the initial shock he realized that it had been the right decision all around – it vastly simplified matters. And it removed from circulation a man who had been responsible for the theft from public land of more irreplaceable scientific specimens than anyone else, living or dead.

  Preparation. That fellow Maddox hadn't just fallen into his lap. Maddox had contacted him because of who he was, the world's authority of tyrannosaurid dinosaurs. When Corvus had the idea that Marston Weathers was the key to getting his hands on a first-rate specimen, he had realized just how useful Maddox could be – if he were out of prison. Corvus had taken a personal risk getting that done, but he was helped by the fact that Maddox's conviction was for aggravated manslaughter instead of murder two – he'd had a bloody good lawyer. Maddox had a record of good behavior in prison. And finally, when Maddox's first shot at parole came up, the dead victim had no relatives or friends to pack the hearing and tell their tale of victimhood. Corvus himself had spoken at the hearing, vouching for Maddox and offering to employ him. It had worked and the parole board had released him.

  Over time Corvus realized that Maddox himself was a man with rare qualities, a remarkably charismatic and intelligent individual, a smooth talker, good-looking, presentable. Had he been born under different circumstances he might have made a rather decent scientist himself.

  Preparation meeting opportunity. So far Corvus had played this one perfectly.

  He really should calm down and trust Maddox to carry through on the assignment and get the notebook. The notebook would lead him straight to the fossil. It was the key to everything.

  He glanced impatiently at his watch, polished off his martini, and picked up the Scientific American. His mind was now calm.

  Chapter 18

  IN THE DIM light of the kerosene lantern, Sally Broadbent watched the man take off his shirt. She could feel the cold steel around her wrists and ankles; she could smell the dampness of the air, hear the dripping of water somewhere. She seemed to be in some kind of cave or old mine. With a coppery taste in her mouth and an aching head, she felt as if it were happening to another person.

  Sally did not believe that the man would let her go after he got the notebook from Tom. He would kill her – she could see it in his eyes, in the careless way he showed his face and revealed information about himself.

  "Hey, what do you think of this?"

  He was facing her, now shirtless, a lopsided grin covering his face, slowly popping his pecs and biceps.

  "Ready?"

  He held his arms forward, his back hunched. Then all in a rush, he swung around and turned his back to her.

  She gasped. There, completely covering his back, was the tattooed image of a charging Tyrannosaurus rex, claws raised, jaws agape, so real it almost seemed to be leaping from his back. As he flexed his muscles the dinosaur actually seemed to move.

  "Cool, huh?"

  She stared.

  "I said something." His back was still turned, and he was popping one set of back muscles after another, making the T. Rex move first one claw, then another, then its head.

  "I see it."

  "When I was in prison, I decided I needed a tattoo. It's a tradition, know what I mean? It's also a necessity – it says who you are and defines your alliances. Guys without tats usually end up somebody's bitch. But I didn't want the usual death's head, grim reaper crap. I wanted a tattoo that stood for me. A tattoo that told everyone I wasn't going to be anyone's bitch, that I was my own man, that I didn't owe allegiance to anyone. That's why I chose a T. Rex. Nothing meaner's ever lived on this planet.

  "But then I had to find the design for it. If I turned my back loose on some idiot, I'd end up with Godzilla or some prison Jack's moronic idea of what a T. Rex might look like. I wanted the real thing. I wanted it scientifically accurate.''

  He gave a massive flex, the back muscles swelling grotesquely, the jaws of the T. Rex seeming to open and close.

  "So I wrote to the world's expert on T. Rex. Of course, he didn't answer my letters. Why would a guy like that correspond with a convicted murderer in Pelican Bay?"

  He chuckled softly, flexed again. "Take a good look there, Sally. There's never been a more accurate depiction of a T. Rex – not in any book, not in any museum. All the latest scientific research is in there."

  Sally swallowed, listened.

  "Anyway, after a year of no answer, all of a sudden this dinosaur expert wrote me back. We had quite a correspondence. He sent me all the latest research, even stuff that hadn't been published. He sent me drawings in his own hand. I had a real tattoo expert do it for me. As the T. Rex came to life, whenever I had a question my dino man on the outside would answer it. He made time for me. He was really into it, making sure this T. Rex was the real thing."

  Another rolling flex.

  "We got to be friends – more like brothers. And then – you know what he did?"

  Sally worked her mouth, managed to say, "What?"

  "He sprung me from the slam. I was doing ten to fifteen, aggravated manslaughter, but he vouched for me at my hearing, gave me money and a job. So when he asked me for a favor, I wasn't in a position to refuse. You know what that favor was?"

  "No."

  "To get that notebook."

  She swallowed again, fought against a fresh wave of fear. He would never be telling her this unless he planned to kill her.

  He stopped flexing, turned back around, picked up his shirt, pulled it on. "You see now why I'm going to so much trouble? But I've got to go make a phone call. I'll be back."

  Then he turned and walked out of her little prison-room.

  Chapter 19

  AS THE CAR neared Tucson, Tom tried his cell phone again and found there was finally coverage. He checked his watch. Half past five. He'd been with Dearborn longer than he thought. He was going to have to hustle to make his six-thirty flight.

  He dialed his home number to check in on Sally. The phone rang a few times and the answering machine kicked on. "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."

  The beep followed and Tom hung up the phone, surprised and suddenly concerned. What was this about being out of town unexpectedly? Why hadn't she called him? Maybe she did call – his cell phone was out of range at Dearborn's place. He quickly checked his phone but it had registered no missed calls.

  With a growing sense of unease he dialed his home number again, listened to the message more carefully. She didn't sound normal at all. He pulled over to the side of the road and redialed this time listening very closely. Something was terribly wrong. Tom felt his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He pulled back on the interstate with a screech of rubber. As he accelerated, he dialed the Santa Fe Police and asked for Detective Willer. A frustrating two transfers later the familiar stolid voice answered.

  "It's Tom Broadbent."

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm out of town and I just called home. Something's not right at my house. My wife should be there but she's not, and she left a message on the answering machine
that makes no sense. I think she was forced to leave that message. Something's happened."

  A silence, and then Willer said, "I'll go out there right now and take a look."

  "I want you to do more than that. I want you to pull out all the stops and find her."

  "You think she's been kidnapped?"

  Tom hesitated. "I don't know."

  A pause. "Anything else we should know?"

  "I've told you what I know. Just get out there as quickly as possible."

  "I'll take care of it personally. Do we have permission to break in, if the door's locked?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "When are you getting back to town?"

  "My flight from Tucson's landing at seven-thirty."

  "Give me your number, I'll call you from the house."

  Tom gave his cell phone number and hung up. A feeling of powerlessness and self-reproach washed over him. What a fool he'd been, leaving Sally by herself.

  He accelerated, laying the pedal to the metal, blasting down the asphalt at over hundred. No way could he miss this flight.

  Fifteen minutes later his cell phone rang.

  "Am I speaking to Tom Broadbent?"

  It wasn't Willer. "Look, I'm waiting for an important–"

  "Shut up, Tommy boy, and listen."

  "Who the hell is–?"

  "I said shut up."

  A pause.

  "I got your little lady. Sally. She's safe – for now. All I want is the notebook. You follow? Just answer yes or no."

  Tom gripped the phone so hard as if to crush it. "Yes," he finally managed to say.

  "When I get the notebook, you get Sally back."

  "Listen, if you even so much as–"

  "I'm not going to say it again. Shut the hell up."

  Tom heard the man breathing heavily into the other end of the phone.