becoming a ravine. Maddox was now only seventy, eighty feet behind. The game was almost over; Broadbent in spite of all he could do was being fun-neled between two ridges, like being closed in a vise. Fifty feet and closing.
Broadbent disappeared behind some thick trees. A moment later Maddox rounded the trees and saw an outcrop looming ahead-a cliff-about two-hundred-yards wide, forming a 'V' where the dry wash went over. He had Broadbent trapped.
He halted. The man had vanished.
Maddox swept his light from one end to the other. No Broadbent. The crazy bastard had jumped off the cliff. Or he was climbing down. He stopped at the edge, shining his light down, but he could see almost the entire curving face and
Broadbent was nowhere to be seen, not on the cliff or at the bottom. He felt a surge of fury. What had happened? Had Broadbent turned and run back uphill? He swept the light up the hill, but the slopes were empty, no movement at all through the trees. He went back to the cliff face, playing his light across it, searched the rocks below for a body.
About fifteen feet from the cliff stood a tall spruce. He heard the crack of a branch and saw the lower branches on the opposite side moving.
The son of a bitch had jumped into the tree.
Maddox whipped his rifle around and knelt, aiming for the disturbance. He squeezed off one shot, a second, a third, firing at the movement and sound, to no effect. Broadbent was climbing down on the far side of the trunk, using it as cover. Maddox considered the gap. Fifteen feet. He would need a major running start to bridge that gap, which would mean climbing back uphill. And even then it was a hell of a risk. Only a man facing a life or death situation would attempt it.
Maddox sprinted along the edge of the cliff looking for a better shooting an-sle for when Broadbent exited the base of the tree. He knelt, aimed, held his breath, and waited for him to appear.
Broadbent dropped out of the lowest branch just as Maddox fired. For a moment Maddox thought he'd nailed him-but the bastard had anticipated the shot and had rolled as he hit the ground, then was up and running again.
Shit.
Maddox slung the rifle over his shoulder and looked around for the woman, but she was long gone. He stood at the edge of the cliff, beside himself with fury. They had escaped.
But not completely. They were heading down toward the ChamaRiver, on a course that would force them to cross the high mesa country, thirty brutal miles. Maddox knew how to track, he'd been at war in the desert, and he knew the high mesas. He'd find them.
To allow them to escape would mean going back to prison for the Big Bitch- life without parole. He had to kill them or die trying.
25
WILLER PUT ONE foot out of the cruiser onto the dirt parking lot of the monastery, then goosed the siren, just to let them know he was there. He didn't know what time monks went to bed but he was pretty sure that at one thirty in the morning they'd be sawing wood. The place was as dark as a tomb, not even a few outdoor lights to brighten things up. A moon had risen above the canyon rim, casting a spooky light around the place.
Another goose of the siren. Let them come to him. After a ninety-minute drive over what had to be the worst road in the state, he was in no mood to be nice.
'Light just went on.'
Wilier followed Hernandez's gesture. A yellow rectangle suddenly floated in the sea of darkness.
'You really think Broadbent's here? The parking lot's empty.'
Wilier felt a fresh wave of irritation at the doubt he heard in Hernandez's voice. He plucked a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it between his lips, lit it. 'We know Broadbent was on Highway 84, driving that stolen Dodge. He hasn't gone through any roadblocks and he's not at Ghost Ranch. Where else would he be?'
'There are plenty of forest roads going off both sides of the highway.'
'Yeah. But there's only one road into the high mesa country and this is it. If he's not here, we'll just have to sweat that monk instead.'
He sucked in, exhaled. A flashlight was now bobbing down the trail. A hooded figure approached, face hidden in shadow. Wilier remained standing at the open door of the car, boot hooked on the threshold.
The monk arrived with his hand outstretched. 'Brother Henry, abbot of Christ in the Desert.'
The man was small with brisk movements, bright eyes, and close-cropped
goatee. Wilier shook the monk's hand, feeling nonplussed at the friendly, confident welcome.
'Lieutenant Wilier, Santa Fe homicide,' he said, removing his shield, 'and this is Sergeant Hernandez.'
'Fine, fine.' The monk examined the badge by the light of his flashlight, returned it. 'You wouldn't mind turning off your warning lights, Lieutenant? The brothers are sleeping.'
'Right. Sure.'
Hernandez ducked into the police car, switched them off.
Wilier felt awkward and defensive talking to a monk. Maybe he shouldn't have goosed the siren like that. 'We're looking for a man by the name of Thomas Broadbent,' he said. 'Seems he's friendly with one of your monks, Wyman Ford. We have reason to believe he might be here or along this road somewhere.'
'I don't know this Mr. Broadbent,' said the abbot. 'And Brother Wyman's not here.'
'Where is he?'
'He left three days ago for a solitary prayer retreat in the desert.'
Solitary prayer retreat, my ass, thought Wilier. 'And when's he getting back?'
'He was supposed to be back yesterday.'
'That so?'
Wilier looked closely at the man's face. It was about as sincere a face as you could find. He was telling the truth, at least.
'So you don't know this Broadbent? My information is that he was up here a couple of times. Sandy hair, tall, drives a '57 Chevy pickup.'
'Oh yes, the man with the fabulous truck. I know who you mean now. He's been here twice, as far as I'm aware. The last time would have been almost a week ago.'
'He was up here four days ago, according to my information. The day before this monk of yours, Ford, went into the desert on his 'prayer retreat.''
'That sounds correct,' said the abbot, mildly.
Wilier took out his notebook, jotted down a heading, made a note.
'May I ask, Lieutenant, what this is all about?' asked the abbot. 'We're not accustomed to getting visited by the police in the middle of the night.'
Wilier snapped his notebook shut. 'I've got a warrant for Broadbent's arrest.'
The abbot looked at Wilier for a moment, and his gaze proved unexpectedly disconcerting. 'An arrest warrant?'
'What I said.'
'On what charge, if I may ask?'
'With all due respect, Father, I can't go into that right now.'
A silence.
'Is there some place we can talk?' asked Wilier.
'Yes, of course. Normally we're under a vow of silence in the monastery, but we can speak in the Disputation Chamber. If you'll follow me?'
'Lead on,' said Wilier, glancing at Hernandez.
They followed the monk up the winding path, approaching a small adobe building behind the church. The abbot paused at the door, looking at Wilier with a question in his eyes. Wilier stared back.
'Excuse me, Lieutenant: your cigarette?'
'Oh, yeah, right.' Wilier dropped it and ground it under his heel, aware of the monk's disapproving eye, annoyed at feeling he'd already been bested in some way. The monk turned and they followed him inside. The small building consisted of two spare, whitewashed rooms. The larger one contained benches placed up against walls,
