But it was grueling work, not only because the dense script was extremely difficult to decipher, but because portions of the book had faded, or been worn away. Most of it, it was true, was still remarkably well preserved and vibrant, the colors leaping off the page, the metallic gold glinting in the light. But after nearly a thousand years, nothing could be expected to remain entirely intact and undamaged.
Elvis came back with two caffè lattes and what looked like a grocery bag filled with sandwiches, fruit drinks, yogurt cups, cookies, and who knew what else. “I think I went a little crazy,” he said.
Beth couldn’t have cared less. Elvis was considered the boy genius of the Getty’s computer world, and whatever it took to keep his motor running was well worth it. And it was nice to hear his boyish enthusiasm as she showed him page after photocopied page of the ancient book and explained what it all meant. Or at least what she thought it all meant.
Even the catchwords, she’d noticed, were a little strange. The text occasionally seemed to end a little short, or run a little long, all in order, as best she could surmise, to make sure that certain words appeared naturally at the bottom of the page. And although they weren’t the words she might have expected to land there, she had the distinct impression that the scribe had gone to some trouble to see that they did.
While Elvis went about eating with one hand and maneuvering icons all over the screen with the other, Beth began to look idly at the list of preliminary catchwords, in the order that they showed up in the book so far. And something funny struck her. The first two catchwords, which closed out the first quire, neatly matched up to the three words that closed out the second one. They started to make a sentence, which, roughly translated from the medieval Latin, said, Brought here / to this land.
“Huh,” she said, under her breath.
But Elvis, sitting right next to her at the desk, said, “Huh what? I do something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong,” Beth said. “I just noticed something kind of funny.”
“Share,” Elvis said, taking another big bite out of a sandwich that smelled like it had pesto in it.
“Could you make a quick list of all the catchwords we’ve translated so far, in the order they appear?”
“Not a problem.”
His fingers flew across the keyboard, and a minute later he said, “It’s printing out now. Want me to go get it?” The printers were in a central station down the hall, something Beth usually found to be a total nuisance. But right now, if it meant getting away from that blast of pesto, she’d happily walk a few steps.
“You eat. I’ll go.”
She got up and went out into the hall. She could hear Mrs. Cabot haranguing someone in an office down the hall. Why, she thought, did God create bureaucrats? Ducking into the printer room, she found her sheet, still warm, waiting on top of a stack of other, legal-looking documents in the tray. She didn’t have to study them to know what they were about. The word “provenance” jumped out three times on the top page alone; the Getty, like all major museums, had to be scrupulously careful about where its acquisitions came from, and whether or not the seller, or donor, had legal title in the first place.
Fortunately, The Beasts of Eden was just a loan, in for conservation and study, the way you might bring in a car for a thirty-thousand-mile tune-up. So that was one paperwork blizzard Beth had not had to slog through. Not yet.
Elvis had printed out each set of catchwords on a separate line, first in Latin, then with the English translation (these would have to be refined later on) right after it.
Reading down the page, Beth could easily put them all together, and what they said, as she stood there between the sleek machines, which had already begun to work on other jobs that had been remotely transmitted, was either a fantastic coincidence or a game of some sort.
Or—a third possibility, and one she should not rule out—a startling discovery that had waited almost a thousand years to be made.
Right now, reading through just what they had so far, the combined catchwords said: Brought here / to this land / honored guest / now prisoner / laboring in obscurity / my name to sleep (or was it really “to vanish”?).
Beth just stood there, reading the words over and over again, as if to convince herself that they really did fall together in such a neat and logical order. And as she did, the notion of a coincidence was discarded altogether. Which left the other two alternatives: On the one hand, it might be just a little prank. Monks and scribes were prone to such things, often including what was called a colophon at the end of a manuscript, in which they thanked their patron, boasted about what arduous work they’d done, and sometimes hinted that they hoped to be handsomely paid. In some Italian manuscripts of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the scribes went so far as to suggest what they were planning to use the money for—wine and women.
But this message, cobbled together from catchwords, was nothing like that. It wasn’t boastful, it wasn’t light-hearted, it wasn’t meant to be read by anyone but an initiate—a fellow writer, who knew his Latin. Beth knew that many manuscripts were produced, as this one might well have been, for patrons who could not themselves read the actual text. The book was a treasure, a measure and sign of their wealth and sophistication, and if it was read, it was read to them by an educated retainer. The Beasts of Eden, created for a rich and powerful Eastern dynasty, was even more likely to have been such a work.
But what did the rest of the catchwords say and how would they complete the message?
Beth turned on her heel and hurried back to her office. Elvis had polished off the sandwich and was working on an oatmeal cookie the size of a Frisbee.
“I’ve brought the letter catalogue up to date,” he said. “Go ahead—ask for a letter, any letter.”
“Not now.”
Elvis looked hurt. The danger, Beth thought, of working with kids . . .
“I need you to bring up the list of catchwords.”
“We just did that.”
“No, not just the ones we’ve already deciphered and catalogued; I want the ones that are still remaining. All of them in the exact same order that they show up in the quires.”
“Aren’t we kind of getting ahead of ourselves? Didn’t you say that the way to do this—”
“Forget what I said, okay? This is more important.”
Suddenly Elvis looked stoked. “Hey, you look like you’re on to something.”
Beth didn’t reply; she was riffling through the pile of photocopies on her desk, removing all the sheets that had, as a result of completing a quire, been embellished with two or three catchwords in the lower right corner.
“Aye, aye, Captain Kirk.” Elvis crammed the rest of the cookie into his mouth and began to correlate the printouts Beth handed him with the same images on the computer screen. Then he highlighted the catchwords and moved them onto the master list. “You know that you’re only going to have the Latin for these, right? We haven’t completed the lexicon or the graphemical database yet, so we can’t do the simultaneous translation.”
“That’s okay,” Beth said, still not looking up from her work. “I’ll muddle through somehow.”
Elvis went back to his keyboard. “That is so cool,” he said under his breath. “You’re a total babe and you can read ancient Latin.”
Even in the midst of this potentially huge discovery, the words “total babe” were not entirely lost on Beth.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CARTER DIDN’T KNOW who needed it more—Del or himself—but a few solid hours of hiking in the Santa Monica Mountains felt like just the right ticket.
Although they’d both always enjoyed going out on digs in remote places all over the world, Del was the one who couldn’t abide city living. When he wasn’t cooped up in a lecture hall or delivering a paper to a symposium somewhere, Del was out in the woods, hunting, fishing, bird-watching. He had a separate meat freezer up in Tacoma, just to store the meat and game he shot—sometimes with a bow and
arrow—on his various expeditions.
Today, the hiking conditions were quite different—eighty-five degrees or so, with an overcast sky and only the faintest breeze.
“You’re sure you want to hike in this weather?” Carter had asked, and Del had said, “You bet!” without a moment’s pause. “If I don’t get out of this city and into a little wilderness soon, I’m going to pop my gourd.”
Carter wasn’t sure if the hiking trails up into Temescal Canyon would really qualify, but it was the closest thing he could offer. He picked up Del at the fancy Wilshire Boulevard high-rise where he was staying with his sister—she’d married a movie studio executive—and as they drove off, Del visibly shuddered. “You know they’ve got a guy there who parks your car for you? And another one who brings up your groceries? And a concierge—a concierge!—to take your deliveries and your dry cleaning?”
“I bet the place is even air-conditioned,” Carter said with a smile.
“Damn straight it is,” Del replied, “but I slept out on the balcony last night.”
Carter wondered what on earth Del’s brother-in-law must make of him.
As they pulled into the canyon parking area, Carter was glad to see just a few other vehicles—a Pontiac, a couple of SUVs, a private patrol car—parked there. Del wouldn’t go for lots of people blocking the trails, and, frankly, neither would he. He wasn’t crazy about getting stuck, as he had recently, behind a bunch of teenagers, bopping along to their iPods and swigging from cans of Red Bull. He paid five bucks for the parking pass, and as he stuck it on his dashboard, Del shook his head sadly.
“You have to pay just to leave your car here?” he said. “Up in Washington, we pull it off the road and go.” He slung his nylon backpack onto his shoulder. “How do you stand it, Bones?”
“It’s called civilization,” Carter said, “and I made my peace with it long ago.”
Carter grabbed his own pack, which held nothing more than some Gatorade, some sunscreen, his wallet, and his keys, and they headed off across the picnic area, then up onto the trail. Carter went first, and he could hear Del taking deep breaths behind him, savoring the fresh air and the tang of the dry sage scrub. They crossed a narrow wooden footbridge over a trickling stream, and Del said, “Hardly needs a bridge, does it?”
“This is L.A.,” Carter said. “Be glad there’s no toll.”
But with every step that they climbed up into the hills, L.A. fell farther and farther away. For once, you heard no car horns, you saw no gas stations or 7-Elevens or Burger Kings. You weren’t looking over your shoulder, or into your rearview mirror, for what was coming up fast behind you. The Santa Monica Mountains, which pretty much bifurcated the sprawling city of Los Angeles, formed the largest urban wilderness in the country, and even Carter found it a necessary tonic. Ever since he’d moved west, he’d been poking around, every chance he got, into the various recreation areas and mountain trails. La Jolla Canyon. Escondido. Santa Ynez. The Circle X Ranch Grotto. Bronson Canyon. Zuma. Saddle Peak. There were dozens of places, some just minutes away, where you could get off the urban grid and, with a pair of sneakers and a bottle of water, get back into nature and leave your city troubles behind you. Right now, Carter had plenty of city troubles to leave behind.
He seldom went more than an hour or two without remembering Geronimo’s tar-covered corpse or his strangely comprehending dead stare.
“Say,” Del asked, as they paused to let a gray quail and her chicks skitter across the trail, “did they ever get a name for that guy who fell into the pit?”
“Yes, they did. It was William Blackhawk Smith.”
“They say what tribe he was from?”
“Chumash.”
“Not many of them left.”
And now, Carter thought, there’s one less.
They continued up the trail, Carter mulling over, despite himself, the events of the past couple days. After the body had been recovered, the medical examiner had immediately claimed it. But in order to avoid the protestors still holding their vigil out front, it had been zipped up into a body bag, loaded onto a canvas stretcher, and spirited out the back gate of the museum grounds at dusk.
As for the bones of the La Brea Man, Carter had managed to keep a lid on the latest discovery there—only he and Del knew that the man had been clutching something, something precious or important to him, in the moments before his death. While everyone in Pit 91 was focused on the dangling corpse of William Blackhawk Smith, Del had quickly removed what tar he could from the mysterious object, and then slathered the whole thing with the same plaster of paris that was now covering the rest of the bones. Carter was very grateful that he had. If word of this development had gotten out, Gunderson, who never learned his lesson, would have probably issued another press release.
“The trail marker said there was a waterfall a couple of miles up,” Del said.
“Sometimes it’s running,” Carter replied, “but these days it might be dry.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Del said. “Anything beats being down in the pit on a day like this.”
Way up ahead, Carter saw a young couple—a Hispanic guy and a blonde girl in shorts that said JUICY across the backside—sauntering up the path. The trail was wider than usual here, and the boy was holding her hand. Carter remembered hiking in Scotland once with Beth, and taking her hand as they stood on a rocky crag. She’d called him Heathcliff and he’d called her Cathy, “my wild, sweet Cathy,” for the rest of the trip.
This lower portion of the trail occasionally veered close to a service road, so you couldn’t help but see the occasional ranger truck, or even an outbuilding or two, through the trees and brush. Carter wanted to get higher up, and further in, and he suspected that Del felt the same way. Even when they looked up into the hills, you could still see the back of a house, poking out here and there, on the side of a neighboring slope. Putting his head down, he started to climb higher and more deliberately, quickly passing the hand-holders and, at the first fork, taking the steeper and more roundabout path that led to the falls. Behind him, he could hear Del marching along, and every so often calling out a sighting.
“Yellow warblers at three o’clock. Orioles in the sycamore you’re just passing.”
Carter, not wanting to break his stride, would catch a quick glimpse and move on.
“Poison oak on the side of the trail. Veer to the left.”
Carter knew a fair amount about flora and fauna, but Del, he knew, was a walking omnibus. There wasn’t a bird or a plant or a critter that Del couldn’t spot at a hundred paces, and reel off everything about it from its common name to its scientifically accurate title. He could tell you what trees grew where, what birds nested in them, which nuts and berries were edible, which ones would kill you. Once, Del had been bitten by an adult rattler out west—two hours’ drive from the nearest hospital—and he’d lived to tell the tale. He still had the scar on his thigh to prove it.
“Now that’s what I call a fixer-upper,” Del said as they came up on an abandoned and boarded-up shack nearly hidden by the trees. Carter heard him leaving the trail to explore it. “You think I could afford it?” Del called out.
Carter pulled his water bottle out of his backpack, took a couple of swallows, then joined Del. The place looked like something from one of the Grimm Brothers fairy tales, with dilapidated wooden walls, a broken-down porch, splintered boards crisscrossing the window. Del stood in the shade and gathered his long white hair into a tight knot that he then bound with a thick rubber band.
“Doesn’t look like it was ever a ranger station or anything like that,” Del said. “It’s just too damn peculiar.”
Carter read the fairly predictable graffiti on the boards. SM LOVES MJ, with a heart around the initials. THE SAND-MAN RULES! (Whatever that meant.) A backwards swastika. (Like most young, would-be Nazis, this one was too dumb to get the symbol right.) In the shadows within, all he could see were cobwebbed rafters and the frame of an old wooden rocking chair.
<
br /> That was rocking.
Carter lifted his shades and peered in more closely. Now he could see more—a filthy mattress off in the corner, a glass and a pewter plate beside it. A dusty lantern hung from a nail. But there was no one inside.
“You thinking of making an offer?” Del said. “’Cause I saw it first.”
“No, it’s all yours,” Carter said, still scanning the single small room. “But I think it might be occupied.” The chair had stopped rocking, and was now as still and deserted as everything else.
“Occupied by what?” Del said, stepping up next to Carter and looking into the gloomy interior. “I don’t see anything.” He moved to his left and examined the rusted lock and chain that hung from the hasp. “Guess we’ll have to call the real estate agent if we want to take the tour.”
“Guess so,” Carter said, moving away from the window. He didn’t know why exactly, but he didn’t want to hang around here anymore. He wanted to get back out of the shade and into the sunlight—even the hazy sun that was all the day had to offer.
“A waterfall sounds good right about now,” Del said.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Carter said as he waded through the tall grass and back onto the trail.
The ascent was steeper from here on up, and though it was a joke compared to the real wilderness climbs that Carter and Del had made, you still had to watch where you were going. The trail had rocks and roots and sudden declivities, and every once in a while there was a story on the evening news about somebody who’d been bitten by a snake or even—though this was extremely rare—attacked by a hungry mountain lion. Thinking back to Central Park in New York, Carter remembered plenty of mugging stories, but no mountain lions or rattlers.
Most of the time, they had a ravine on their left, with a slow-running brook spilling over mossy stones. Carter was encouraged to see that, even if it wasn’t much, there was actually some water still running in it. Maybe they would find the waterfall operational, after all. Only one other person had passed them coming down the trail—a wiry guy using a ski pole as a walking stick, who’d said something in German. Otherwise, the day was so hot and muggy, the sky so overcast, that everybody must have gone to the beach or the movies.
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