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 PedernalPeak. In another few minutes the left-hand turn to the Broad-bent place appeared, with a hand-painted sign on a weathered board: Canones.
The road was dirt, not well maintained. It paralleled a small creek. There were some small horse ranches on either side, forty to eighty acres, with cute names like Los Amigos or Buckskin Hollow. The Broadbent place, he'd heard, had a strange name, Sukia Tarn. Maddox slowed at the gate, passed it, continued on for another quarter of a mile, and parked the car in a thicket of gambel oaks. He got out and eased the door shut. Strolling back to the road, he made sure the car wasn't visible. Three o'clock. Broadbent would probably be gone, at work or out. They said he had a wife, Sally, who ran a riding stable. He wondered what she looked like.
Maddox slung the rucksack over his shoulder. First thing, he thought, was to reconnoiter the land. He was a firm believer in reconnaissance. If no one was home he'd search the place, get the notebook if it was there, and get out. If the little woman was home that would make things easier. He had yet to find the person who wouldn't cooperate with the business end of a gun grinding the back of their mouth.
Leaving the road, he hiked along the bank of the creek. A thread of water appeared, then disappeared among white stones. Cutting to the left, he passed through a grove of cottonwoods and brush oaks before coming up behind Broad-
bent's barn. Moving slowly, being careful not to leave footprints, he climbed through a triple-strand barbed- wire fence and edged along the back wall of the barn. Crouching at the corner, he parted the rabbitbrush to get a view of the back of the house.
He took it in: a low adobe, some corrals, a couple of horses, a feeding area, a watering trough. He heard a high-pitched shout. Beyond the corrals there was an outdoor riding arena. The wife-Sally-held a lunge line dallied around her elbow, with a kid riding on a horse, going around and around in circles.
He raised his binoculars and she leapt into focus. He watched her body turn with the horse, front, side, back, and around again. A breeze caught her long hair and she raised a hand to brush it from her face. Jesus, she was pretty.
He moved his view to the kid. Some kind of retard, a mongoloid or something.
He turned his attention back to the house. Next to the back door was a picture window opening into the kitchen. They said in town that Broadbent was loaded-big time. He'd heard that Broadbent had grown up in a mansion surrounded by priceless art and servants. His old man had died a year ago and he'd supposedly inherited a hundred million. Looking at the house, you'd never know it. There was no sign of money anywhere, not in the house, the barn, the horses, the dusty yard and gardens, in the old International Scout sitting in the open garage or the Ford 350 dually sitting under a separate car port. If Maddox had a hundred million, he sure as shit wouldn't live in a dump like this.
Maddox set down his pack. Taking out his sketchbook and a freshly sharpened number two artist's pencil, he began sketching as much as he could of the layout of the house and yard. Ten minutes later, he crawled around behind the barn and through some brush to get a fresh angle to sketch the front and side yards. Through a pair of patio doors he studied a modest living room. Beyond was a flagstone patio with a Smoky Joe barbecue and some chairs, bordered by an herb garden. No swimming pool, nothing. The house looked empty. Broadbent, as he had hoped, was out-at least his '57 Chevy was gone from the garage and Maddox figured he'd never let anyone drive that classic except himself. He'd seen no sign of a handyman or stable hand, and the nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away.
He finished his sketch and examined it. There were three sets of doors to the house: a back door to the kitchen, a front door, and the patio doors leading to the side yard. If all doors were locked-and for planning purposes he assumed they would be-the patio doors would be the easiest to get into. They were old and he'd opened quite a few in his day with the pair of shims he carried in the rucksack. It would take less than a minute.
He heard a car, crouched. A moment later it appeared coming round the back of the house, a Mercedes station wagon, and parked. A woman got out and walked over to the arena, shouting and waving at the kid on the horse. The kid waved back, yelled some unintelligible expression of joy. The horse slowed and Broadbent's wife helped the kid off the horse. The kid ran over to the woman, hugged her. The lesson was finally over. They chatted for a while and then the kid and his mother got in the car and drove off.
The wife, Sally, was left alone.
He watched her every movement through the binoculars as she led the horse to a hitching post, unsaddled it, and groomed it, bending over to brush the belly and legs. When she was done, she led the horse to a corral and turned it loose, threw a few flakes of alfafa into a feeder, and then headed toward the house, slapping bits of alfalfa off her thighs and butt. Was there another lesson in the works? Not likely-not at four o'clock.
She went in the back door to the kitchen, letting the screen door bang. A moment later he saw her pass by the picture window, go to the stove, and start making coffee.
It was time.
He took one last look at the sketch before shoving it into his rucksack. Then he began pulling out his equipment. First he slipped the green surgical booties over his shoes, the hair net over his hair, then the shower cap. Over that he slid a stocking. After that he put on the plastic Wal-Mart raincoat, the kind that came in a small packet and cost four dollars. He slid on a pair of latex gloves and took out his Clock 29, 10mm Auto, 935 grams fully loaded with ten rounds in the magazine-a very slick firearm. He wiped it down and shoved it in his pants pocket. Finally he took out an accordion of condoms, tore off two, and tucked them into his shirt pocket.
He'd leave no DNA at this crime scene.
14
DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT WILLER slid out of the cruiser and tossed his cigarette butt onto the asphalt in front of him. Walking over it with a twist of his toe, he entered the back entrance to headquarters, passing through a slate-and-Plexiglas lobby. He swung through the glass doors of homicide, walked down the hall past a potted ficus and into the briefing room.
His timing was good. Everyone had arrived, and the murmur of voices fell as he entered. Wilier hated meetings but in his line of work they were unavoidable. He nodded to his deputy, Hernandez, a couple of others, pulled a foam cup out of the stack and filled up on coffee, laid his briefcase on the table, sat down. For a moment he focused on only his coffee, took a sip-freshly made for a change-then set down the cup. He opened the briefcase, took out a sheaf of papers marked MAZE, and slapped them on the table with just enough vigor to get everyone's attention.
He opened the folder, laid a heavy hand on it, looked around. 'We all here?'
'Think so,' said Hernandez.
Nods, murmurs all around.
Wilier took a noisy sip, set the cup down. 'As you know, ladies and gentlemen, we got a killing up in the
