Read Online Tyrannosaur Canyon by Douglas Preston - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Preston
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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
"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
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