Preparation. That fellow Maddox hadn't just fallen into his lap. Maddox had contacted him because of who he was, the world's authority of tyrannosaurid dinosaurs. When Corvus had the idea that Marston Weathers was the key to getting his hands on a first-rate specimen, he had realized just how useful Maddox could be-if he were out of prison. Corvus had taken a personal risk getting that done, but he was helped by the fact that Maddox's conviction was for aggravated manslaughter instead of murder two-he'd had a bloody good lawyer. Maddox had a record of good behavior in prison. And finally, when Maddox's first shot at parole came up, the dead victim had no relatives or friends to pack the hearing and tell their tale of victimhood. Corvus himself had spoken at the hearing, vouching for Maddox and offering to employ him. It had worked and the parole board had released him.
Over time Corvus realized that Maddox himself was a man with rare qualities, a remarkably charismatic and intelligent individual, a smooth talker, good-looking, presentable. Had he been born under different circumstances he might have made a
rather decent scientist himself.
Preparation meeting opportunity. So far Corvus had played this one perfectly.
He really should calm down and trust Maddox to carry through on the assignment and get the notebook. The notebook would lead him straight to the fossil. It was the key to everything.
He glanced impatiently at his watch, polished off his martini, and picked up the Scientific American. His mind was now calm.
18
IN THE DIM light of the kerosene lantern, Sally Broadbent watched the man take off his shirt. She could feel the cold steel around her wrists and ankles; she could smell the dampness of the air, hear the dripping of water somewhere. She seemed to be in some kind of cave or old mine. With a coppery taste in her mouth and an aching head, she felt as if it were happening to another person.
Sally did not believe that the man would let her go after he got the notebook from Tom.
He would kill her-she could see it in his eyes, in the careless way he showed his face and revealed information about himself.
"Hey, what do you think of this?"
He was facing her, now shirtless, a lopsided grin covering his face, slowly popping his pecs and biceps.
"Ready?"
He held his arms forward, his back hunched. Then all in a rush, he swung around and turned his back to her.
She gasped. There, completely covering his back, was the tattooed image of a charging Tyrannosaurus rex, claws raised, jaws agape, so real it almost seemed to be leaping from his back. As he flexed his muscles the dinosaur actually seemed to move.
"Cool, huh?"
She stared.
"I said something." His back was still turned, and he was popping one set of back muscles after another, making the T. Rex move first one claw, then another, then its
head.
"I see it."
"When I was in prison, I decided I needed a tattoo. It's a tradition, know what I mean?
It's also a necessity-it says who you are and defines your alliances. Guys without tats usually end up somebody's bitch. But I didn't v/ant the usual death's head, grim reaper crap. I wanted a tattoo that stood for me. A tattoo that told everyone I wasn't going to be anyone's bitch, that I was my own man, that I didn't owe allegiance to anyone. That's why I chose a T. Rex. Nothing meaner's ever lived on this planet.
"But then I had to find the design for it. If I turned my back loose on some idiot, I'd end up with Godzilla or some prison Jack's moronic idea of what a T. Rex might look like. I wanted the real thing. I wanted it scientifically accurate''
He gave a massive flex, the back muscles swelling grotesquely, the jaws of the T. Rex seeming to open and close.
"So I wrote to the world's expert on T. Rex. Of course, he didn't answer my letters. Why would a guy like that correspond with a convicted murderer in Pelican Bay?"
He chuckled softly, flexed again. "Take a good look there, Sally. There's never been a more accurate depiction of a T. Rex-not in any book, not in any museum. All the latest scientific research is in there."
Sally swallowed, listened.
"Anyway, after a year of no answer, all of a sudden this dinosaur expert wrote me back.
We had quite a correspondence. He sent me all the latest research, even stuff that hadn't been published. He sent me drawings in his own hand. I had a real tattoo expert do it for me. As the T. Rex came to life, whenever I had a question my dino man on the outside would answer it. He made time for me. He was really into it, making sure this T. Rex was the real thing."
Another rolling flex.
"We got to be friends-more like brothers. And then-you know what he did?"
Sally worked her mouth, managed to say, "What?"
"He sprung me from the slam. I was doing ten to fifteen, aggravated manslaughter, but he vouched for me at my hearing, gave me money and a job. So when he asked me for a favor, I wasn't in a position to refuse. You know what that favor was?"
"No."
"To get that notebook."
She swallowed again, fought against a fresh wave of fear. He would never be telling her this unless he planned to kill her.
He stopped flexing, turned back around, picked up his shirt, pulled it on. "You see now why I'm going to so much trouble? But I've got to go make a phone call. I'll be back."
Then he turned and walked out of her little prison-room.
19
AS THE CAR neared Tucson, Tom tried his cell phone again and found there was finally coverage. He checked his watch. Half past five. He'd been with Dearborn longer than he thought. He was going to have to hustle to make his six-thirty flight.
He dialed his home number to check in on Sally. The phone rang a few times and the answering machine kicked on. "Hi, this is Tom and Sally. Tom's away on business and I'm out of town unexpectedly, so we won't be able to get back to you right away. Sorry about the missed lessons, I'll get back to everyone later. Leave a message, thanks. "
The beep followed and Tom hung up the phone, surprised and suddenly concerned.
What was this about being out of town unexpectedly? Why hadn't she called him?
Maybe she did call-his cell phone was out of range at Dearborn's place. He quickly checked his phone but it had registered no missed calls.
With a growing sense of unease he dialed his home number again, listened to the message more carefully. She didn't sound normal at all. He pulled over to the side of the road and redialed this time listening very closely. Something was terribly wrong. Tom felt his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He pulled back on the interstate with a screech of rubber. As he accelerated, he dialed the Santa Fe Police and asked for Detective Wilier. A frustrating two transfers later the familiar stolid voice answered.
"It's Tom Broadbent."
"Yeah?"
"I'm out of town and I just called home. Something's not right at my house. My wife should be there but she's not, and she left a message on the answering machine that makes no sense. I think she was forced to leave that message. Something's
happened."
A silence, and then Wilier said, "I'll go out there right now and take a look."
"I want you to do more than that. I want you to pull out all the stops and find her."
"You think she's been kidnapped?"
Tom hesitated. "I don't know."
A pause. "Anything else we should know?"
"I've told you what I know. Just get out there as quickly as possible."
"I'll take care of it personally. Do we have permission to break in, if the door's locked?"