Tyrannosaur Canyon (7 page)

Tom nodded.

"When we were up there, remember hearing about a monk up there who used to be a code breaker for the CIA, gave it all up to become a monk?"

"Yeah. I remember something like that."

"Why don't you ask him to take a crack at the notebook?"

Tom stared at Shane. "Now that's the best idea you've had all week."

 

 

11

 

 

MELODY CROOKSHANK ADJUSTED the angle on the diamond wafering blade and

upped the rpm. It was a beautiful piece of precision machinery-you could hear it in the clear singing noise it made. She set the sample in the cutting bed, tightening it in place, then turned on the laminar water flow. A gurgling noise rose above the whine of the blade as the water bathed the specimen, bringing out flecks of color in it, yellow, red, deep purple. She made some final adjustments, set the automatic guide speed, and let it rip.

As the specimen encountered the diamond blade there was a note of pure music. In a moment the specimen had been cut in half, the treasure of its interior exposed to view. With the deft experience of years she washed and dried it, flipped it, embedding the other side in epoxy resin on a steel manipulator.

As she waited for the epoxy to harden she examined her sapphire bracelet. She'd told her friends that it was a cheap bit of costume jewelry and they believed her. Why wouldn't they? Who would have thought, she, Melodic Crookshank, Technical Assistant First Grade, making all of twenty-one thousand dollars a year, living in an airshaft apartment on upper

Amsterdam Avenue

, with no boyfriend and no money, would be walking around wearing ten carats of Sri Lankan blue star sapphires? She knew very well she was being used by Corvus- such a man would never take a serious romantic interest in her. On the other hand it wasn't coincidence that he had entrusted her with this job. She was good-damn good. The bracelet was part of a strictly impersonal transaction: compensation for her expertise and discretion. Nothing dishonorable in that.

The sample had hardened. She placed it back in the cutting bed and sliced again on the other side. In a moment she had a slender wafer of stone, about half

a millimeter thick, perfectly cut with nary a crack or chip. She quickly dissolved the resin, freed the wafer, and cut it into a dozen smaller pieces, each one destined for a different kind of test. Taking one of the chips, she fixed it in epoxy on another manipulator and used the lap wheel and polisher to thin it further, until it was beautifully transparent and about twice the thickness of a human hair. She mounted it on a slide and placed it on the stage of the Meiji polarizing scope, switched it on, and put her eyes to the oculars.

With a rapid adjustment of the focusing knobs a rainbow of color leapt into her vision, a whole world of crystalline beauty. The sheer splendor of the polarizing scope always took her breath away. Even the dullest rock bared its inner soul. She set the magnification at 30x and began stepping through the polarization angle thirty degrees at a time, each change producing a new shower of color in the specimen. This first run was purely for aesthetics; it was like gazing into a stained-glass window more beautiful than the Rosette in Chartres Cathedral.

As she moved through 360 degrees of polarization, Crookshank felt her heart accelerating with every new angle. This was truly an incredible specimen. After a complete series she upped the magnification to 120x. The structure was so fine, so perfect-astonishing. She could now understand the secrecy. If there were more of this in situ-and there probably was-it would be of the utmost importance to keep it secret. This would be a stunning coup, even for a man as distinguished as Corvus.

She leaned back from the eyepieces, a new thought entering her head. This might be just the thing she needed to leverage a tenure-track position for herself, if she played her cards right.

 

 

12

 

 

CHRIST IN THE Desert Monastery lay fifteen miles up the Chama River, deep in the Chama wilderness and hard alongside the enormous cliff-walled bulk of Mesa de los Viejos, the Mesa of the Ancients, which marked the beginning of the high mesa country. Tom drove up the monastery road with excruciating slowness, hating to subject his precious Chevy to one of the most notorious roads in
New Mexico
. The road had so many potholes it looked bombed, and there were sections of washboard that threatened to shake loose every bolt in the vehicle and chip his teeth down to stubs. The monks, it was said, liked it that way.

After what seemed like a journey to the very ends of the earth, Tom spied the adobe church tower rising above the junipers and chamisa. Gradually the rest of the Benedictine monastery came into view-a cluster of brown adobe buildings scattered helter-skelter on a bench of land above the floodplain of the river, just below where Rio Gallina joined the Rio Chama. It was said to be one of the most remote Christian monasteries in the world.

Tom parked his truck in the dirt lot and walked up the trail to the monastery's shop. He felt awkward, wondering just how he would go about asking for the monk's help. He could hear the faint sound of singing drifting down from the church, mingling with the raucous cries of a flock of pinon jays.

The shop was empty, but the door had tinkled a bell when Tom had opened it, and a young monk came in from the back. "Hello," said Tom.

"Welcome." The monk took a seat on a high wooden stool behind the shop's counter. Tom stood there indecisively, looking at the humble products of the monastery: honey, dried flowers, handprinted cards, wood carvings. "I'm Tom Broadbent," he said, offering his hand.

The monk took it. He was small and slight and wore thick glasses. "Pleased to meet you."

Tom cleared his throat. This was damned awkward. "I'm a veterinarian, and last year I doctored a sick ewe up here."

The monk nodded.

"While I was here, I heard mention of a monk who'd been in the CIA."

The monk nodded again.

"Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"Brother Ford."

"Right. I was wondering if I could talk to him."

The monk glanced at his watch, a big sports watch with buttons and dials, which looked out of place on the wrist of a monk, Tom wasn't sure why. Even monks needed to know the time.

"Sext is just over. I'll go get him."

The monk vanished up the trail. Five minutes later Tom was startled to see a gigantic figure marching down, his enormous feet in dusty sandals, a long wooden staff in his hand, his brown robes flapping behind him. A moment later the door was flung open and he came striding into the shop, his robes astir, and without a beat he strode up to Tom and enveloped his hand in a large, but surprisingly gentle, grasp.

"Brother Wyman Ford," he graveled out in a distinctly unmOnkish voice.

"Tom Broadbent."

Brother Ford was a strikingly ugly man, with a large head and a craggy face that looked like a cross between Abraham Lincoln and Herman
Munster
. The man didn't seem particularly pious, at least on the surface, and he certainly didn't look like a typical monk, with his powerful six-foot five-inch frame, beard, and unruly black hair that spilled over his ears.

A silence ensued and Tom once again felt the awkwardness of his visit. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

"Technically, on the grounds we're under a vow of silence," said the monk. "Shall we take a walk?"

"Fine."

The monk set out at high speed along a trail that wound down to the river from the shop and skirted the riverbank, Tom struggling to keep up. It was a beautiful June day, the orange canyon rims standing against the blue sky in a brilliant contrast of color, while above puffy clouds drifted along like tall ships at

sea. For ten minutes they hiked, saying nothing. The trail ascended, terminating at the top of a bluff. Brother Wyman tossed back the skirt of his robe and sat down on the trunk of a dead juniper.

Sitting beside the monk, Tom studied the canyon country in rapt silence.

"I hope I haven't taken you from anything important," he said, still unsure how to begin.

"I'm missing a terribly important meeting in the Disputation Chamber. One of the brothers swore at Compline." He chuckled. "Brother Ford-" "Please call me Wyman."

"I wonder if you'd heard about the murder in the Maze two days ago." "I gave up reading the paper a long time ago." "You know where the Maze is?" "I know it well."

"Two nights ago, a treasure hunter was murdered up there." Tom recited the story of the man, finding the body, the notebook, the disappearance.

Ford was silent for a while, looking out over the river. Then he turned his head and asked, "So . . . where do I come in?"

Tom removed the notebook from his pocket.

"You didn't give it to the police?"

"I'd made a promise."

"Surely you gave them a copy."

"No."

"That was unwise."

"The policeman investigating the case didn't inspire much confidence. And I

made a promise!'

He found the monk's steady gray eyes on him. "What can I do for you?"

Tom held out the notebook but the monk made no move to take it.

"I've tried everything I know to identify the man so I can give this to his daughter. Nothing's worked. The police haven't a clue and tell me it may be weeks before they find the body. The answer to the man's identity lies in here- I'm sure of it. Only problem is, it's written in code."

A pause. The monk continued to gaze steadily at Tom.

"I heard you were a code breaker for the CIA."

"A cryptanalyst, yes."

"Well? How about taking a crack at it?"

Ford eyed the notebook but again made no move to take it.

"Well, take a look," said Tom, holding it out.

Ford hesitated, then said, "No, thank you."

"Why not?"

"Because I choose not to."

Tom felt a surge of irritation at the high-handedness of the answer. "It's for a good cause. This man's daughter probably has no idea he's dead. She may be worried sick about him. I made a promise to a dying man and I'm going to keep that promise-and you're the only man I know who can help me."

"I'm sorry, Tom, but I can't hdp you."

"You can't or you won't?"

"Won't."

"Are you afraid of getting involved because of the police?"

A dry smile creased the man's craggy face. "Not at all."

"Then what is it?"

"I came up here for a reason-to get away from just that sort of thing."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"In less than a month I'm going to take my vows. Being a monk is more than wearing a habit. It's taking on a new life. That"-he pointed to the book- "would be a throwback to my old life."

"Your old life-?"

Wyman stared across the river, his craggy brows contracted, his lantern jaw working. "My old life."

"You must've had a pretty rough time of it, to run away to a monastery."

Ford's brow contracted. "Monastic spirituality is not about running away from something, but about running toward something-the living God. But yes, it was rough."

"What happened? If you don't mind me asking."

"I do mind. I guess I'm no longer used to the kind of prying inquisitiveness that in the outside world passes for conversation."

Tom was stung by the rebuke. "I'm sorry. I'm out of line."

"Don't be sorry. You're doing what you feel is right. And I think it is right. It's just that I'm not the man to help you."

Tom nodded and they both rose, the monk slapping the dust off his robes. "About the book, I don't think you'll have much trouble with that code. Most homemade codes are what we call idiot ciphers-designed by an idiot, decipherable by an idiot. Numbers substituted for letters. All you need is a frequency table of the English language."

"What's that?"

"A list of the most to least common letters in the English language. You match that list up with the most to least common numbers in the code." "Sounds easy enough." "It is. You'll crack that code in a jiffy, I bet." "Thanks." Ford hesitated. "Let me take a quick look at it. I might be able to crack it on

the spot."

"You sure you don't mind?"

"It won't bite me."

Tom handed it to him. Ford leafed through it, taking his time with each page.

Five long minutes passed.

"Funny, but this is looking a lot more sophisticated to me than a substitution code." The sun was descending into the canyons, suffusing the arroyos in a bright golden light. Swallows flitted about, the stone walls reverberating with their cries. The river tumbled by below, a whisper of water.

He shut the book with a slap. "I'll keep the book for a few days. These numbers are intriguing-all kinds of weird patterns in there."

"You're going to help me out after all?"

Ford shrugged. "It'll help this girl learn what happened to her father."

"After what you told me I feel a little uncomfortable about this."

He waved a large hand. "Sometimes I get a little too absolutist about things. There's no harm in giving it a quick try." He squinted at the sun. "I better be getting back."

He grasped Tom's hand. "I admire your stubbornness. The monastery doesn't have a telephone, but we do have an Internet connection via satellite dish. I'll drop you a line when I crack it."

 

 

 

13

 

 

 

WEED MADDOX REMEMBERED the first time he had blown through Abiquiii on a

stolen Harley Dyna Wide Glide. Now he was just another asshole in khakis and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt driving a Range Rover. He was really coming up in the world. Beyond the town of Abiquiii the road followed the river, past green alfalfa fields and groves of cottonwoods, before climbing out of the valley. He took a left on 96, drove over the dam and up along the southern side of the valley, in the shadow of
Pedernal
Peak
. In another few minutes the left-hand turn to the Broad-bent place appeared, with a hand-painted sign on a weathered board: Canones.