Tyrannosaur Canyon (21 page)

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.

Melodic 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 specimen 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.

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 v/ant 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.

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 Wilier. 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 Wilier 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 Wilier. "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.

The voice said, "Where are you?"

"I'm in
Arizona-
"

"When do you get back?"

"Seven-thirty. Listen to me-"

"I want you to listen to me. Very carefully. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"After your flight lands, get in your car and drive to Abiquiu. Go through town and get on Highway 84 north of the dam. Don't stop for anything. You should be there at around
nine o'clock
. You've got the notebook on you?"

"Yes."

"Good. I want you to take the notebook, put it in a Ziploc bag, and pack it full of trash to make it look like garbage. The trash has to be yellow. You get it? Bright yellow. Drive back and forth on Highway 84 between the dam turnoff and the Ghost Ranch turnoff. Drive at exactly sixty miles an hour with your cell phone on. Coverage is pretty good, only a few dead spots. I'll call you then with more instructions. Understand?"

"Yes."

"What's your flight number?"

"Southwest Airlines 662."

"Good. I'm going to check and find out when you actually land, and I'll expect you up by Ghost Ranch one hour and twenty-five minutes later. Don't stop at home, don't do anything but drive straight up to Abiquiu. You understand? Just go back and forth between the dam and Ghost Ranch until you get my call. Keep it at sixty."

"Yes. But if you hurt her-"

"Hurt Sally? She's going to be taken care of real good, provided you do everything I say in exactly the way I say it. And Tom? No cops. Let me tell you why. No kidnapping ever succeeded after the police were called in. You ever hear that statistic? When the cops are called in, the kidnapping fails and the victim usually dies. You call the police and I'm screwed. The cops'll take over, they'll do their own thing, and they won't pay any attention to you or your concerns. You'll lose control, I'll lose control, and Sally will die. You understand what I'm saying? You call the cops, and you'll be kissing your wife good-bye on a stainless-steel gurney in the basement of 1100
West
Airport
. Clear?"

Silence.

"Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Good. It'll just be you and me, in total control at all times. I get the notebook, you get your wife. Total control. Understand?"