"Sext is just over. I'll go get him."
The monk vanished up the trail. Five minutes later Tom was startled to see a gigantic figure marching down, his enormous feet in dusty sandals, a long wooden staff in his hand, his brown robes 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 to my old life."
"Your old life-?"
Wyman stared across the river, his craggy brows contracted, his lantern jaw working.
"My old life."
"You must've had a pretty rough time of it, to run away to a monastery."
Ford's brow contracted. "Monastic spirituality is not about running away from something, but about running toward something-the living God. But yes, it was rough."
"What happened? If you don't mind me asking."
"I do mind. I guess I'm no longer used to the kind of prying inquisitiveness that in the outside world passes for conversation."
Tom was stung by the rebuke. "I'm sorry. I'm out of line."
"Don't be sorry. You're doing what you feel is right. And I think it is right. It's just that I'm not the man to help you."
Tom nodded and they both rose, the monk slapping the dust off his robes. "About the book, I don't think you'll have much trouble with that code. Most homemade codes are what we call idiot ciphers-designed by an idiot, decipherable by an idiot. Numbers substituted for letters. All you need is a frequency table of the English language."
"What's that?"
"A list of the most to least common letters in the English language. You match that list up with the most to least common numbers in the code." "Sounds easy enough." "It is.
You'll crack that code in a jiffy, I bet." "Thanks." Ford hesitated. "Let me take a quick look at it. I might be able to crack it on
the spot."
"You sure you don't mind?"
"It won't bite me."
Tom handed it to him. Ford leafed through it, taking his time with each page.
Five long minutes passed.
"Funny, but this is looking a lot more sophisticated to me than a substitution code." The sun was descending into the canyons, suffusing the arroyos in a bright golden light.
Swallows flitted about, the stone walls reverberating 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 Pedernal Peak. 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.