Tyrannosaur Canyon

by Douglas Preston

  Tom listened, his heart pounding.

  You hear me?

  He felt a rush of relief that fairly staggered him on his feet. Sally was alive – and evidently free. He listened intently, trying to locate the direction of the voice.

  You're dead, bitch.

  The words filled him with a rage so sudden that he lost his breath for a moment. He moved another twenty feet, walking back and forth, trying to get a fix. The sound seemed to be coming from below, as if through the very rock. But that was impossible. Some ten feet to his left he could see a web of cracks in the stone floor of the tunnel, where it had sagged and broken. He knelt, held his hand over one of the cracks. Cool air flowed out. He put his ear to the crack.

  There was the sudden crack! of a large-caliber gun, followed by a scream – a scream so close to his ear he jumped.

  Chapter 22

  WILLER AND HERNANDEZ sped northward on Highway 84, the lights of Espanola receding in the distance, the empty blackness of the desert wilderness mounting in front of them. It was almost midnight and Willer was beside himself that a half-wit like Biler had managed to waste so many precious hours of their time.

  Willer slid a butt out of his shirt pocket and inserted it between his lips. He wasn't supposed to smoke in the squad car but he was long beyond the point of caring.

  "Broadbent could be over Cumbres Pass by now," said Hernandez.

  Willer sucked in a lungful. "Not possible. They've logged all the vehicles coming over the pass and Biler's wasn't one of them. It hasn't gone through the roadblock south of Espanola either."

  "He could've ditched the car in some back lot in Espanola and gone to ground in a motel."

  "He could've, but he didn't." Willer gave the car a little more pedal. The speedometer inched up from 110 to 120, the car rocking back and forth, the darkness rushing past.

  "So what do you think he did?"

  "I think he went to that so-called monastery, Christ in the Desert, to see that monk. Which is where we're going."

  "What makes you think that?"

  Willer sucked again. Usually he appreciated Hernandez's persistent questions – they helped him think things through – but this time he felt only irritation. "I don't know why I think it but I think it," he snapped. "Broadbent and his wife are mixed up in it, the monk's in on it, and there's a third party out there – the killer – who's also up to his ass in it. They've found something in those canyons and they're locked in a life or death struggle over it. Whatever it is, it's big – so big that Broadbent blew off the police and stole a truck over it. I mean, Jesus, Hernandez, you got to ask yourself what's so important that a guy like that would risk ten years in Santa Fe Correctional. Here's a guy who's already got everything."

  "Yeah."

  "Even if Broadbent's not at the monastery, I want to have a little chat with that so-called monk."

  Chapter 23

  TOM RECOGNIZED, WITH a freezing sense of disbelief, that the scream came from Sally. He pressed his mouth to the crack. "Sally!"

  A gasp. "Tom?"

  "Sally! What's happening? Are you all right?"

  "My God, Tom! It's you–" She could hardly speak. "I'm stuck. He's shooting at me." Another sobbing gasp.

  "Sally, I'm here, it's okay." Tom shone the feeble light down and was shocked to see Sally's face wedged in the crack not two feet below him.

  Another boom! from the gun, and Tom heard the zing and rattle of a bullet in the rocks beneath.

  "He's shooting into the crack, but he can't see me. Tom, I'm trapped–!"

  "I'm going to get you out of here." He shone the light around. The rock was fractured already and it would just be a matter of breaking up and prying out the pieces. He cast around with the light, shining it up and down the tunnel, looking for a tool. In one corner was a pile of rotting crates and ropes.

  "I'll be right back."

  Another shot.

  Tom ran to the pile, threw off a rotten coil of rope, searched through a heap of rotting sacks of burlap. Underneath was a broken piece of miner's hand-steel. He grabbed it, ran back.

  "Tom!"

  "I'm here. I'm going to get you out."

  Another shot. Sally screamed. "I'm hit! He hit me!"

  "My God, where–?"

  "In the leg. Oh, my God, get me out."

  "Close your eyes."

  Tom jammed the steel wedge into the crack, picked up a loose rock and slammed it down on the wedge, slammed it again and again. The fractured rock began to loosen. He dropped to his knees and began scrabbling and pulling out the pieces with his hands. The rock was rotten and now that one piece had been removed the work went a lot quicker. All the while he talked to Sally, telling her over and over that she was okay, that she'd be out of there momentarily.

  Another shot.

  "Tom!"

  "You bitch! You 're dead as soon as I reload."

  Tom pried a piece of rock out, threw it aside, pried out another and another, cutting his hands on the sharp edges, working furiously. "Sally, where did he hit you–?"

  "My leg. I don't think it's bad. Just keep going!"

  Another shot. Tom hammered the rock, slamming the hand-steel in again and again, prying out more rocks and enlarging the hole. He could see her face.

  Now the rock was coming out fast.

  Crack! Sally jumped.

  "For God's sake keep going!"

  The tip broke off the wedge and he swore, turning it around and prying with the other side.

  "It's big enough!" Sally cried.

  Tom reached down, took her hand, and pulled as she pushed from below, scraping up through the broken rock, more buttons popping off her shirt. It wasn't enough; her hips stuck.

  "You 're dead meat!"

  Tom drove the hand-steel into the rock, splitting off a chunk of brittle quartz. With complete indifference he noted he had exposed a vein of gold the miners had somehow missed. He tossed it away, pried out another.

  "Now!"

  He grabbed her under the arms and pulled her free. Another shot sounded from below.

  She lay on the ground, filthy, wet, her clothes torn.

  "Where are you hit?" He searched her frantically.

  "My leg."

  Tom ripped off his own shirt and wiped away the blood, finding a series of shallow cuts on her calf. He picked out some fragments of stone from a ricochet.

  "Sally, it's okay. You'll be fine."

  "That's what I thought."

  "Bitch!" The scream sounded hysterical, unbalanced.

  Another pair of shots. A stray bullet ricocheted through the crack and imbedded itself in the ceiling.

  "We've got to block this hole," Sally said.

  But Tom was already rolling rocks over. They jammed them into the crack, hammering them down. In five minutes it was blocked.

  Suddenly his arms were around her, squeezing tightly.

  "God, I thought I'd never see you again," said Sally with a sob. "I can't believe it, I can't believe you found me."

  He held her again, hardly believing it himself. He could feel her heart beating wildly. "Let's go."

  He helped her up and they ran back down through the tunnels, Tom shaking the flashlight from time to time to keep it alive. They climbed up the shaft and in another five minutes had exited the shaft house.

  "He'll be coming out the other shaft," said Sally.

  Tom nodded. "We'll go around the long way."

  Instead of going back over the ridge, they ran into the darkness of the trees at the bottom of the ravine, and there they stopped to catch their breath.

  "How's your leg? Okay with walking?"

  "Not bad. Is that a gun in your belt?"

  "Yeah. A .22 with one round." Tom looked back over the silvered hillside, his arm supporting Sally.

  "My truck's at the gate."

  "He'll be ahead of us," said Sally.

  They set off down the ravine. It was dark in the tall pines, and the carpet of needles under their feet was soft and crackle
d only slightly, the sounds of their passage covered up by a night breeze sighing through the treetops. Tom paused from time to time to listen and see if the kidnapper was following, but all was silent.

  After ten minutes the gulch leveled out into a broad dry wash. Ahead and slightly below shone the lights of the cabin. All seemed quiet, except that the kidnapper's Range Rover was gone.

  They skirted the edge of the old town, but it seemed deserted.

  "You think he panicked and took off?" Sally asked.

  "I doubt it."

  They bypassed the cabin and moved swiftly through the trees, paralleling the dirt road. The truck was now less than a quarter mile ahead. Tom heard something and stopped, his heart pounding. It came again – the low calling of an owl. He pressed her hand and they continued on. In a few more minutes he saw the faint outline of the chain-link fence running through the trees.

  He gave her a leg up.

  She grasped the chain link and he lifted, the fence rattling in the quiet. In a moment she was over. He followed. They ran along the outside of the fence line and in a few moments Tom saw the gleam of moonlight off his stolen truck, still parked where he had left it near the locked gate. Except now the gate was wide open.

  "Where the hell is he?" Sally whispered.

  Tom squeezed Sally's shoulder and whispered, "Keep to the shadows, head down at all times, and get in the truck as quietly as possible. Then I'll start the engine and drive like hell."

  Sally nodded. She crept around to the passenger side, crouching below the level of the cab; Tom eased open the door and climbed in the driver's side. In a minute they were in the cab. Keeping his head below the level of the windows, Tom fished out the keys, inserted them in the ignition. He pressed down the clutch and turned to Sally.

  "Hold on tight."

  Tom threw the switch and the truck roared to life. He jammed it into reverse and gunned the engine, the truck backing up while he spun the wheel. In that same moment a pair of bright headlights went on from a turnaround at the edge of the woods. There was a sudden thwang! thwang! of heavy-caliber rounds hitting steel, and the interior of the truck exploded in a storm of shattered glass and plastic.

  "Down!"

  Throwing himself sideways on the seat, he rammed it into first and floored it, the truck fishtailing onto the road, spraying a shower of gravel. Jamming it into second, he accelerated as he heard more rounds hitting the car. The wheels were spinning, and the back of the truck slewed back and forth. He raised his head up but could see nothing: the windshield was a spiderweb of shattered glass. He punched his fist through it, ripped out a hole big enough to see out of, and continued accelerating, the back fishtailing as they tore down the dirt road.

  "Stay on the floor!"

  He made the first turn and the shooting temporarily stopped, but he could now hear the roar of a car engine behind them and knew the shooter was coming after them – and a moment later the Range Rover skidded around the corner, its headlights stabbing past them.

  Thwang! Thwang! more shots came from behind, hitting the roof of the cab, showering him with broken bits of plastic from the roof light. The truck was now moving fast and he jerked the wheel sideways and back, making them a weaving target. He felt the rear suddenly fishtailing and vibrating and he knew that at least one of the rear tires had been shot out.

  "Gas!" Sally screamed from the floor. "I smell gas!"

  The tank had been hit.

  Another thwang! followed by a dull shuddering whoosh. Tom instantly felt the heat, saw the glow from behind.

  "We're on fire!" Sally screamed. She had her hand on the door handle. "Jump!"

  "No! Not yet!"

  He steered the truck around another curve in the road, and the firing ceased for a moment. Up ahead, Tom saw where the road skirted the edge of the cliff. He gunned the engine, accelerating straight for it.

  "Sally, I'm taking it off that cliff. When I say out, jump. Roll away from the wheels. Then get up and run. Head downhill toward the high mesas. Can you do it?"

  "Got it!"

  He gunned the engine, the cliff approaching. He grabbed the door handle and half opened the door, keeping the accelerator floored.

  "Get ready!"

  A beat.

  "Now!"

  He threw himself out, hitting the ground and rolling, regained his feet running. He could see Sally's dark figure on the far side, scrambling to her feet, just as the flaming truck disappeared over the cliff, the engine screaming like a diving eagle. There was a muffled roar and a sudden orange glow from the bottom of the cliff.

  The Ranger Rover slamming on its brakes just in time, skidding to a stop at the cliff edge. The door opened. Tom had a glimpse of a shirtless man leaping out, a handgun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Tom ran toward the steep slope just beyond the cliff, but the man had spotted Sally and was running after her, gun drawn.

  "Hey, you son of a bitch!" Tom screamed, angling toward the man, hoping to draw him off, but the man kept on after Sally, rapidly gaining ground as she limped from her leg wound. Fifty feet, forty... any moment he'd be close enough to put a bullet through her.

  Tom pulled his .22. "Hey, you bastard!"

  The man coolly dropped to one knee and unshipped the rifle. Tom stopped and braced himself in a three-point stance, aiming with the .22. He'd never hit the man, but the shot might distract him. It was worth his last shot – it was Sally's only chance.

  The man snugged the gun against his cheek and took aim. Tom fired. Instinctively, the man dropped to the ground.

  Tom ran at him, waving the revolver like a madman. "I'll kill you!"

  The man rose back up and took aim, this time at Tom.

  "I'm coming for you!" Tom cried, still charging.

  The man squeezed the trigger – as Tom threw himself to the ground and rolled sideways.

  The man looked back toward where Sally had been – but she was gone. He threw the rifle over his shoulder, drew his handgun, and came running after Tom.

  Tom scrambled to his feet and ran downhill, sprinting for all he was worth, leaping over boulders and fallen trees, glad that the man was now chasing him. The beam from the man's flashlight roved crazily over his head, flickering through the low branches of the trees. He heard a double crack! crack! of a handgun, the sound of a round smacking a tree to his right. He dove forward, rolled, was back on his feet and leaping diagonally down the hillside. The man was about a hundred feet behind.

  The light beam stabbed past him. Two more shots whacked trees on either side. Tom leapt, wove, dodged, zigzagged among the trees. The hill was getting steeper and the trees thicker. The man behind was keeping up, even gaining. He had to keep drawing him off, to get him well clear of Sally.

  He deliberately slowed, cutting to the left, farther from Sally. More bullets ripped past him, tearing a piece of bark off a tree to his right.

  Tom kept running.

  Chapter 24

  WEED MADDOX SAW he was steadily gaining on Broadbent. He'd stopped three times to fire, but each time he was too far away and the pause only let Broadbent regain the ground he had lost. He had to be careful; Broadbent had some kind of small-caliber weapon, no match for his Glock, but still dangerous. He had to take care of him first, and then do the woman.

  The hill got steeper, the trees thicker. Broadbent was now running down a sloping draw with a dry watercourse at the bottom. He was fast, damned fast, but Maddox was gaining. His training in the Army, his exercise regimen, his running and yoga, all this was the payoff. Broadbent wasn't going to escape.

  He saw Broadbent veer to the left. Maddox cut the corner with a diagonal, gaining even more ground. Another few minutes and the son of a bitch would be lying at his feet, his head open like a purse. Broadbent kept dodging, trying to put trees between him and his pursuer. The hill was plunging downward ever steeper, the draw becoming a ravine. Maddox was now only seventy, eighty feet behind. The game was almost over; Broadbent in spite
of all he could do was being funneled between two ridges, like being closed in a vise. Fifty feet and closing.

  Broadbent disappeared behind some thick trees. A moment later Maddox rounded the trees and saw an outcrop looming ahead – a cliff – about two-hundred-yards wide, forming a "V" where the dry wash went over. He had Broadbent trapped.

  He halted. The man had vanished.

  Maddox swept his light from one end to the other. No Broadbent. The crazy bastard had jumped off the cliff. Or he was climbing down. He stopped at the edge, shining his light down, but he could see almost the entire curving face and Broadbent was nowhere to be seen, not on the cliff or at the bottom. He felt a surge of fury. What had happened? Had Broadbent turned and run back uphill? He swept the light up the hill, but the slopes were empty, no movement at all through the trees. He went back to the cliff face, playing his light across it, searched the rocks below for a body.

  About fifteen feet from the cliff stood a tall spruce. He heard the crack of a branch and saw the lower branches on the opposite side moving.

  The son of a bitch had jumped into the tree.

  Maddox whipped his rifle around and knelt, aiming for the disturbance. He squeezed off one shot, a second, a third, firing at the movement and sound, to no effect. Broadbent was climbing down on the far side of the trunk, using it as cover. Maddox considered the gap. Fifteen feet. He would need a major running start to bridge that gap, which would mean climbing back uphill. And even then it was a hell of a risk. Only a man facing a life or death situation would attempt it.

  Maddox sprinted along the edge of the cliff looking for a better shooting angle for when Broadbent exited the base of the tree. He knelt, aimed, held his breath, and waited for him to appear.

  Broadbent dropped out of the lowest branch just as Maddox fired. For a moment Maddox thought he'd nailed him – but the bastard had anticipated the shot and had rolled as he hit the ground, then was up and running again.

  Shit.

  Maddox slung the rifle over his shoulder and looked around for the woman, but she was long gone. He stood at the edge of the cliff, beside himself with fury. They had escaped.