'Ora et Labora, Prayer and Work,' said the abbot, his gentle voice with an edge to it. 'The two are opposites. Prayer is a way of listening to God, and work is a way of speaking to God. The monastic life seeks a strict balance between the two.'
'I understand, Father.' Wyman felt himself coloring. The abbot always surprised him with his simple wisdom.
The abbot laid a hand on his shoulder. 'I'm glad you do,' then turned and left.
Wyman saved his work, backed it up on a CD, and shut down the system. Putting the notebook and CD in his pocket, he returned to his cell and placed them in the drawer of his bedside table. He wondered: had he really gotten the spook trade out of his system? Is that what this was about?
He bowed his head and prayed.
18
TOM BROADBENT WATCHED Detective Lieutenant Wilier pacing back and forth
in his living room, the policeman's slow, heavy steps somehow conveying insolence. The detective wore a plaid sports jacket, gray slacks, and blue shirt with no tie, and his arms were short with bony, veined hands swinging at the end. He was about forty-five and no more than five-eight, with a narrow face, blade-like nose, and sagging black eyes rimmed in red. It was the face of a true insomniac.
Standing behind him, notebook flopped open in his hand, was his sidekick, Hernandez, soft, plump, and agreeable. They had arrived in the company of a no-nonsense woman with iron-gray hair who introduced herself as Dr. Feininger, the Medical Examiner.
Sally sat on the sofa next to him.
'A human hair was recovered at the crime scene,' Wilier was saying as he slowly turned on his heel. 'Dr. Feininger wants to find out if it came from the killer, but to do that we need to eliminate all others who were at the site.'
'I understand.'
Tom found the black eyes looking at him rather intently. 'If you don't have
any objection then, sign here.'
Tom signed the permission form.
Feininger came around with a little black bag. 'May I ask you to take a seat?'
'I didn't know it was going to be dangerous,' said Tom, with an attempt at a smile.
'I'll be pulling them out by the roots,' came the crisp answer.
Tom sat down, exchanged a glance with Sally. He felt pretty sure there was
more to this visit than getting a few hairs. He watched as the M.E. removed a couple of small test tubes from her black bag and some sticky labels.
'In the meantime,' said Wilier, 'there are a couple of points I'd like to clear up. Mind?'
Here we go, thought Tom. 'Do I need a lawyer?'
'It's your right.'
'Am I a suspect?'
'No.'
Tom waved his hand. 'Lawyers are expensive. Go ahead.'
'You said you were riding along the Chama the night of the killing.'
'That's right.'
Tom felt the doctor's fingers in his hair, poking around, holding a large pair of tweezers in the other.
'You said you took a shortcut up JoaquinCanyon?'
'It's not really a shortcut.'
'That's just what I was thinking. Why'd you go up there?'
'As I said before, I like the route.'
Silence. He could hear Hernandez's pen scritching on the paper, then the rustle of a page turned. The M.E. plucked one hair, two, three. 'Done,' she said.
'How many more miles did you have to ride that night?' Wilier asked.
'Ten, twelve.'
'How long would that have taken you?'
'Three to four hours.'
'So you decided to take a shortcut that was actually a long cut, at sunset, when you would have had at least three hours of riding in the dark.'
'It was the night of the full moon and I'd planned it that way. I wanted to ride home by moonlight-that was the whole point.'
'Your wife doesn't mind you coming home late?'
'No, his wife doesn't mind him coming home late,' said Sally.
Wilier continued, not varying from his stolid tone. 'And you heard the shots, went to investigate?'
'Haven't we already gone through this, Detective?'
Wilier pushed on. 'You say you found the man, dying. You administered CPR, which is how you got his blood all over your clothes.'
'Yes.'
And he spoke to you, told you to find his daughter-Robbie her name was?-to tell her what he'd found. But he died before he could say what it was he found. Am I correct?'
'We've been over all this.' Tom had not told, and had no intention of telling, that the prospector had a notebook or had mentioned a treasure. He had no confidence in the police's ability to keep it confidential, and news of a treasure would cause a stampede.
'Did he give you anything?'
'No.' Tom swallowed. He was surprised at how much he hated lying.
After a moment Wilier grunted, looked down. 'You spend a lot of time riding around up in that high mesa country, right?'
'That's right.'
'Looking for anything in particular?'
'Yes.'
Wilier looked up sharply. 'What?'
'Peace and quiet.'
He frowned. 'Where do you go, exactly?'
'All over-the Maze, up over Mesa de los Viejos, English Rocks, La Cuchilla-sometimes as far as the Echo Badlands if it's an overnight trip.'
Wilier turned to Sally. 'You go with him?'
'Sometimes.'
'I'm told that yesterday afternoon you went to the monastery up in the wilderness, Christ in the Desert.'
Tom rose. 'Who told you that? Are you having me followed?'
'Take it easy, Mr. Broadbent. You drive a distinctive truck and I might remind you that most of that road is visible from the top of Mesa de los Viejos, where my men are searching. Now: did you go up to the monastery?'
'Do I have to answer these questions?'
'No. If you don't, I'll subpoena you, and you'll need that lawyer we talked about, and then you'll be required to answer them under oath at police headquarters.'
'Is that a threat?'
'It's a statement of fact, Mr. Broadbent.'
'Tom,' said Sally, 'take it easy.'
Tom swallowed. 'Yes, I went up there.'
'What for?'
Tom hesitated. 'To see a friend of mine.'
'Name?'
'Brother Wyman Ford.'
