Tyrannosaur Canyon (4 page)

become almost human.

"This is... very good." Corvus rose, went to his desk, slipped a Ziploc bag out of a drawer, and placed the rock inside with the utmost care, as if it were a

jewel.

"It's a sample, right?" Maddox asked.

Corvus leaned over, unlocked a drawer, and removed an inch-thick stack of hundred-dollar bills bound in a block with rubber bands.

"You don't need to do that, Dr. Corvus. I've still got money left over-" The man's thin lips gave a twitch. "For any unexpected expenses." He pressed the book of notes into Maddox's hand. "You know what to do." Maddox parked the money in his jacket. "Good-bye, Mr. Maddox."

Maddox turned and walked stiffly toward the door Corvus had unlocked and was holding open for him. Maddox felt a burning sensation prickling the back of his neck as he passed. A moment later Corvus arrested him with a firm hand on his shoulder, a squeeze that was just a little too sharp to be affectionate. He felt the man bending over his shoulder, whispering into his ear, overpronouncing

each syllable.

"The note book."

His shoulder was released and Maddox heard the door close softly. He walked through the now empty secretary's office into the vast, echoing corridors beyond.

Broadbent. He'd take care of that son of a bitch.

6

TOM SAT AT the kitchen table, leaning back in his chair, waiting for the coffee grounds to settle in the tin pot on the stove. A June breeze rustled the cotton-wood leaves outside, stripping the trees of their cotton, which drifted past in snowy wisps. Across the yard Tom could see the horses in their pens, nosing the timothy grass Sally had pitched them that morning.

Sally came in, still wearing her nightgown. She passed before the sliding-glass doors, backlit by the rising sun. They had been married less than a year and everything was still new. He watched her pick up the tin coffeepot on the stove, look into it, make a face, and put it back down.

"I can't believe you make coffee that way."

Tom watched her, smiling. "You look bewitching this morning."

She glanced up, swept her golden hair out of her face.

"I've decided to let Shane handle the clinic today," Tom said. "The only thing on the docket is a colicky horse down in Espanola."

He propped his boots on the stool and watched Sally prepare her own elaborate coffee, foaming the milk, adding a teaspoon of honey, then topping it off with a dash of powdered dark chocolate from a shaker. It was her morning ritual and Tom never got tired of watching it.

"Shane'll understand. I was up most of the night with that. .. business up in the Maze."

"The police have no theories?"

"None. No body, no motive, no missing person-just a few buckets of blood-soaked sand."

Sally winced. "So what are you going to do today?" she asked.

He sat forward and brought his chair back down on its four legs with a thump, reached into his pocket, removed the battered notebook. He placed it on the table. "I'm going to find Robbie, wherever she is, and give her this."

Sally frowned. "Tom, I still think you should have given that to the police."

"I made a promise."

"It's irresponsible to keep evidence from the police."

"He made me promise not to give it to the police."

"He was probably up to something illegal."

"Maybe, but I made a promise to a dying man. And besides, I just couldn't bring myself to hand it over to that detective, Wilier. He didn't strike me as being the sharpest knife in the drawer."

"You made that promise under duress. It shouldn't count."

"If you'd seen the look of desperation on that man's face, you'd understand."

Sally sighed. "So how are you going to find this mysterious daughter?"

"I thought I'd start up at the Sunset Mart, see if he stopped in to buy gas or groceries. Maybe explore some of those forest roads back up in there, looking for his car."

"With a horse trailer attached."

"Exactly."

Unbidden, the memory of the dying man once again came into his mind. It was an image he would never shake; it reminded him of his own father's death, that desperate effort to cling to life even during those final seconds of pain and fear when all hope is lost. Some people could not let go of life.

"I might also go see Ben Peek," Tom said. "He spent years prospecting in those canyons. He might have an idea who the guy was or what this treasure was he was looking for."

"Now there's an idea. There's nothing in that notebook?"

"Nothing except numbers. No name or address, just sixty pages of numbers- and a pair of gigantic exclamation marks at the end."

"You think he really found a treasure?"

"I could see it in his eyes."

The man's desperate plea still rang in his ears. It had affected him deeply, perhaps because his father's death was still fresh in his mind. His father, the great and terrible Maxwell Broadbent, had also been a prospector of sorts-a tomb robber, collector, and dealer in artifacts. While he had been a difficult father, his death had left a huge hole in Tom's psyche. The dying prospector, with his beard and piercing blue eyes, had even reminded him of his father. It was crazy to make the association, but for whatever reason he felt the promise he had made to the unknown man was inviolate.

"Tom?"

Tom blinked.

"You've got that lost look again."

"Sorry."

Sally finished her coffee, got up, and rinsed her cup in the sink. "Do you realize that we found this place exactly one year ago today?"

"I'd forgotten."

"You still like it?"

"It's everything I always wanted."

Together, in the wild country of Abiquiu at the foot of
Pedernal
Peak
, they had found the life they had dreamed of: a small ranch with horses, a garden, a riding stable for children, and Tom's vet practice - a rural life without the hassles of the city, pollution, or long commutes in traffic. His vet business was going well. Even the crusty old ranchers had begun calling him. The work was mostly outdoors, the people were great, and he loved horses.

It was a little quiet, he had to admit.

He turned his attention back to the treasure hunter. He and his notebook were more interesting than forcing a gallon of mineral oil down the recalcitrant throat of some ewe-necked, rat-tailed bucket of guts down at Gilderhus's Dude Ranch in Espanola, a man legendary for the ugliness of both his horses and his temper. One of the perks of being the boss was delegating the scut work to your employee. He didn't often do it, and so he felt no guilt. Or maybe only a little ...

He examined the notebook again. It was evidently written in some kind of code, laid out on each page in rows and columns in a fanatically neat hand. There were no erasures or rewrites, no mistakes, no scribbles - as if it had been copied from something else, number by number.

Sally stood up and put an arm around him. Her hair swung down over his face and he inhaled the fragrance of it, fresh shampoo and her own warm biscuit smell.

"Promise me one thing," she said.

"What?"

"Be careful. Whatever treasure that man found, it was worth killing for."

7

MELODY CROOKSHANK, TECHNICAL Specialist First Grade, kicked back and

cracked a Coke. She took a sip, gazing pensively around her basement lab. When she had gone to graduate school at Columbia in geophysical chemistry, she had imagined a very different career path for herself-trekking through the rain forest of Quintana Roo mapping the crater of Chicxulub; or camping at the legendary Flaming Cliffs in the Gobi Desert excavating dinosaur nests; or giving a paper in flawless French before a rapt audience at the Musee d'Histoire Naturelle in Paris. Instead, she had found herself in this windowless basement lab, doing dull laboratory research for uninspired scientists who couldn't even be bothered to remember her name, many of whom had an I.Q. half of her own. She'd taken the job while still in graduate school, telling herself that it was a temporary stopgap until she finished her dissertation and landed a tenure-track position. But she had received her doctorate five years ago, and in the years since had sent out hundreds-thousands-of C.V.s, and gotten no offers in return. It was a brutal market, where every year sixty freshly minted graduate students chased half a dozen openings, a game of musical chairs in which, when the music stopped, most were left standing. It was a sad state of affairs when she found herself turning to the obituary column of Mineralogy Quarterly, and getting a thrill of hope from reading that a tenured professor, occupant of an endowed chair, beloved of his students, holder of awards and honors, a true pioneer in his field, had been tragically stricken before his time. Right on.

On the other hand, Melodic was an incorrigible optimist, and she felt, deep down, that she was destined for something greater, and so she continued to send out C.V.s by the hundreds and continued to apply for any and all positions that came up. In the meantime, the present was tolerable: the lab was quiet, she was in charge, and all she had to do to escape was close her eyes and step into the future, that vast and wonderful country where she could have adventures, make wonderful discoveries, accept accolades, and have tenure.

Melodic opened her eyes once again to the mundane presence of the cinder block-walled lab, with its faint hum of fluorescent lighting and steady hiss of the forced-air system, the shelves loaded with reference books, the cabinets packed with mineral samples. Even the million-dollar equipment that had once thrilled her had long grown stale. Her eyes roved restlessly over the monster JEOL JXA-733 Superprobe Electron Probe X-ray Microanalyzer, the Epsilon 5 X-ray Analysis System with three-dimensional, polarizing optical geometry, together with a 600W Gd-anode X-ray tube and lOOkV generator, the Watson 55 transmission electron microscope, the Power Mac G5 with the dual 2.5 gigahertz water-cooled CPUs, two Petrographic research microscopes, a Meiji polarizing microscope, digital camera setups, a complete sample preparation facility including diamond wafering blades, lap-wheel units, automatic polishers, carbon coaters-

What good was it if all they gave you was boring crap to analyze?

Melodie's reverie was interrupted by a low buzz, which indicated someone had entered her empty laboratory. No doubt another curatorial assistant with a request to analyze some gray rock for a research paper that no one would read. She waited, feet on the desk, Coke in hand, for the intruder to come around the corner.

Soon she heard the confident click of wing tips on the linoleum floor, and a slender, elegant man appeared, rustling along in a snazzy blue suit-Dr. Iain Corvus.

She swiftly removed her feet from the table, accidentally allowing her chair to come down with a loud clunk. She brushed her hair out of her reddening face. Curators almost never came to the lab, preferring not to lower their dignity by associating with the technical staff. But here, against all probability, was Corvus himself, who cut quite a figure in his Savile Row suits and handmade Williams and Croft shoes-handsome too, in a creepy kind of Jeremy Irons way.

"Melodie Crookshank?"

She was amazed he even knew her name. She looked into his lean, smiling face, beautiful teeth, hair black as night. His suit rustled lightly as he moved.

"Right," she finally said, trying to keep her voice easy. "That's me, Melodie Crookshank."

"I'm so glad I found you, Melodie. Am I disturbing you?"

"No, no, not at all. Just sitting here." She collected herself, blushing and feeling like an idiot.

"I wonder if I could interrupt your busy day with a sample that needs anaiy/-ing." He held a Ziploc bag up and let it swing back and forth, his teeth dazzling.

"Of course."

"I have a little, ah, challenge for you. Are you game?"

"Well, sure," Corvus had a reputation for aloofness, even arrogance, but now he seemed almost playful.

"Something just between us."

Melodie paused, then said carefully, "What do you mean?"

He handed her the sample and she looked at it. There was a label slid into the bag, handwritten, which said:
New Mexico
, specimen #1.

"I'd like you to analyze the sample in here without any preconceived notions about where it came from or what it might be. A complete mineralogical, crystal-lographical, chemical, and structural analysis."

"No problem."

"Here's the rub. I'd like to keep this secret. Don't write anything down or store anything on a hard drive. When you run tests on it, download the data onto CDs and hard-delete the data from the system. Keep the CDs locked up in your specimen cabinet at all times. Don't tell anyone what you're doing or discuss your findings with anyone. Report to me directly." He gave her another brilliant smile. "Are you game?"

Crookshank felt a tingle of excitement at the intrigue of it and the fact that Corvus had chosen to take her into his confidence. "I don't know. Why so hush-hush?"

Corvus leaned forward. She caught the faint scent of cigars and tweed. "That, my dear Melodie, you shall know-after you've done your analysis. As I said, I don't want to give you any preconceived notions."

The idea intrigued her-thrilled her, even. Corvus was one of those men who radiated power, who looked like he could have anything he wanted just by taking it. At the same time, he was a little feared and disliked in the museum by many of the other curators, and all this false friendliness only confirmed in her own mind that he was a bit of a rogue-albeit a handsome, charming one.

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "What do you say, Melodie? Shall we conspire together?"

"All right." Why the hell not? She knew what she was getting into, at least. "Any particular time frame on this?"

"As soon as possible. But don't cut any corners. Do it right."

She nodded.

"Good. I can't tell you how important that is." He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, grinned again as he noticed her eyeing the specimen. "Go ahead. Take a closer look."