had ever seen it.'
Baker glanced at the paper: a bunch of dots arranged in grids. 'No,' he said. 'I've never seen it before.'
'You didn't give it to him?'
'No.'
'Any idea what it might be?'
'No,' Baker said. 'No idea at all.'
'Well, I think I do,' his wife said.
'You do?' the cop said.
'Yes,' she said. 'Do you mind if I, uh…' And she took the paper from the policeman.
Baker sighed. Now Liz was being the architect, squinting at the paper judiciously, turning it this way and that, looking at the dots upside down and sideways. Baker knew why. She was trying to distract attention from the fact that she had been wrong, that his car had hit a pothole, after all, and that they had wasted a whole day here. She was trying to justify a waste of time, to somehow give it importance.
'Yes,' she said finally, 'I know what it is. It's a church.'
Baker looked at the dots on the paper. He said, 'That's a church?'
'Well, the floor plan for one,' she said. 'See? Here's the long axis of the cross, the nave.. .. See? It's definitely a church, Dan. And the rest of this image, the squares within squares, all rectilinear, it looks like… you know, this might be a monastery.'
The cop said, 'A monastery?'
'I think so,' she said. 'And what about the label at the bottom: `mon.ste.mere.' Isn't `mon' an abbreviation for monastery? I bet it is. I'm telling you, I think this is a monastery.' She handed the picture back to the cop.
Pointedly, Baker looked at his watch. 'We really should be going.'
'Of course,' Wauneka said, taking the hint. He shook hands with them. 'Thanks for all your help. Sorry for the delay. Have a pleasant trip.'
Baker put his arm firmly around his wife's waist and led her out into the afternoon sunlight. It was cooler now; hot-air balloons were rising to the east. Gallup was a center for hot-air ballooning. He went to the car. The fluttering tag on the windshield was for a sale of turquoise jewelry at a local store. He pulled it from behind the wiper, crumpled it, and got behind the wheel. His wife was sitting with her arms crossed over her chest, staring forward. He started the engine.
She said, 'Okay. I'm sorry.' Her tone was grumpy, but Baker knew it was all he would get.
He leaned over and kissed her cheek. 'No,' he said. 'You did the right thing. We saved the old guy's life.'
His wife smiled.
He drove out of the parking lot, and headed for the highway.
In the hospital, the old man slept, his face partly covered by an oxygen mask. He was calm now; she'd given him a light sedative, and he was relaxed, his breathing easy. Beverly Tsosie stood at the foot of the bed, reviewing the case with Joe Nieto, a Mescalero Apache who was a skilled internist, and a very good diagnostician. 'White male, ballpark seventy years old. Comes in confused, obtunded, disoriented times three. Mild congestive heart failure, slightly elevated liver enzymes, otherwise nothing.'
'And they didn't hit him with the car?'
'Apparently not. But it's funny. They say they found him wandering around north of Corazуn Canyon. There's nothing there for ten miles in any direction.'
'So?'
'This guy's got no signs of exposure, Joe. No dehydration dehydration, no ketosis. He isn't even sunburned.'
'You think somebody dumped him? Got tired of grandpa grabbing the remote?'
'Yeah. That's my guess.'
'And what about his fingers?'
'I don't know,' she said. 'He has some kind of circulatory problem. His fingertips are cold, turning purple, they could even go gangrenous. Whatever it is, it's gotten worse since he's been in the hospital.'
'He diabetic?'
'No.'
'Raynaud's?'
'No.'
Nieto went over to the bedside, looked at the fingers. 'Only the tips are involved. All the damage is distal.'
'Right,' she said. 'If he wasn't found in the desert, I'd call that frostbite.'
'You check him for heavy metals, Bev? Because this could be toxic exposure to heavy metals. Cadmium, or arsenic. That would explain the fingers, and also his dementia.'
'I drew the samples. But heavy metals go to UNH in Albuquerque. I won't have the report back for seventy-two hours.'
'You have any ID, medical history, anything?'
'Nothing. We put a missing persons out on him, and we transmitted his fingerprints to Washington for a database check, but that could take a week.'
Nieto nodded. 'And when he was agitated, babbling? What'd he say?'
'It was all rhymes, the same things over. Something about Gordon and Stanley. And then he would say, ' `Quondam phone makes me roam.' '
'Quondam? Isn't that Latin?'
She shrugged. 'It's a long time since I was in church.'
'I think quondam is a word in Latin,' Nieto said.
And then they heard a voice say, 'Excuse me?' It was the bespectacled kid in the bed across the hall, sitting with his mother.
'We're still waiting for the surgeon to come in, Kevin,' Beverly said to him. 'Then we can set your arm.'
'He wasn't saying `quondam phone,' ' the kid said. 'He was saying `quantum foam.' '
'What?'
'Quantum foam. He was saying `quantum foam.' '
They went over to him. Nieto seemed amused. 'And what, exactly, is quantum foam?'
The kid looked at them earnestly, blinking behind his glasses. 'At very small, subatomic dimensions, the structure of space-time is irregular. It's not smooth, it's sort of bubbly and foamy. And because it's way down at the quantum level, it's called quantum foam.'
'How old are you?' Nieto said.
'Eleven.'
His mother said, 'He reads a lot. His father's at Los Alamos.'
Nieto nodded. 'And what's the point of this quantum foam, Kevin?'
'There isn't any point,' the kid said. 'It's just how the universe is, at the subatomic level.'
'Why would this old guy be talking about it?'
'Because he's a well-known physicist,' Wauneka said, coming toward them. He glanced at a sheet of paper in his hand. 'It just came in on the M.P.D. Joseph A. Traub, seventy-one years old, materials physicist. Specialist in superconducting metals. Reported missing by his employer, ITC Research in Black Rock, around noon today.'
'Black Rock? That's way over near Sandia.' It was several hours away, in central New Mexico. 'How the hell did this guy get to Corazуn Canyon in Arizona?'
'I don't know,' Beverly said. 'But he's-'
The alarms began to sound.
It happened with a swiftness that stunned Jimmy Wauneka. The old man raised his head from the bed, stared at them, eyes wild, and then he vomited blood. His oxygen mask turned bright red; blood spurted past the mask, running in streaks across his cheeks and chin, spattering the pillow, the wall. He made a gurgling sound: he was drowning in his own blood.
Beverly was already running across the room. Wauneka ran after her. 'Turn the head!' Nieto was saying, coming up to the bed. 'Turn it!' Beverly had pulled off the oxygen mask and was trying to turn the old man's head, but he struggled, fighting her, still gurgling, eyes wide with panic. Wauneka pushed past her, grabbed the old man's head with both hands and wrenched hard, twisting him bodily to the side. The man vomited again; blood
