Tyrannosaur Canyon Read Online Free Page A

damn eyes that the canyon was wall-to-wall empty. The moonlight was so bright it was like
noon
.
    "Well it isn't here now. They're no tracks, no body, no blood-nothing."
    "There was a body here, Detective."
    "Time to call it a night, Mr. Broadbent."
    "You're just going to give up?"
    Wilier took a long, slow breath. "All I'm saying is, we should come back in the morning when things look more familiar." He wasn't going to lose his patience with this guy.
    "Come over here," said Broadbent, "looks like the sand's been smoothed."
    Wilier looked at the guy. Who the hell was he to tell him what to do?
    "I see no evidence of a crime here. That chopper is costing my department six hundred dollars an hour. We'll return tomorrow with maps, a GPS unit-and find the right canyon."
    "I don't believe you heard me, Detective. I am not going anywhere until 1 ve solved this problem."
    "Suit yourself. You know the way out." Wilier turned, walked back to the
    chopper, climbed in. "We're out of here."
    The pilot took off his earphones. "And him?" "He knows the way out." "He's signaling you." Wilier swore under his breath, looked out at the dark figure a few hundred
    yards off. Waving, gesturing.
    "Looks like he found something," the pilot said.
    "Christ Almighty." Wilier heaved himself out of the chopper, hiked over. Broadbent had scuffed away a dry patch of sand, exposing a black, wet, sticky layer underneath.
    Wilier swallowed, unhooked his flashlight, clicked it on.
    "Oh, Jesus," he said, taking a step back. "Oh, Jesus."
     
     
    5
     
     
    WEED MADDOX BOUGHT a blue silk jacket, silk boxer shorts, and a pair of gray
    slacks from Seligman's on
Thirty-fourth Street
, along with a white T-shirt, silk socks, and Italian shoes-and put them all on in the dressing room. He paid for it with his own American Express card-his first legitimate one, printed right there on the front, Jimson A. Maddox, member since 2005-and stepped out into the street. The clothes drove off some of the nervousness he'd been feeling about his upcoming meeting with Corvus. Funny how a fresh set of clothes could make you feel like a new man. He flexed the muscles of his back, felt the rippling and stretching of the material. Better, much better.
    He caught a cab, gave the address, and was whisked uptown.
    Ten minutes later he was being ushered into the paneled office of Dr. Iain Corvus. It was grand. A blocked-up fireplace in pink marble graced one corner, and a row of windows looked out over Central Park. The young Brit was standing at the side of his desk, restlessly sorting through some papers.
    Maddox halted in the door, hands clasped in front, waiting to be acknowledged. Corvus was as wound up as ever, his nonexistent lips tight as a vise, his chin jutting out like the bow of a boat, his black hair combed straight back, which Maddox guessed was the latest style in London. He wore a well-cut charcoal suit and a crisp Turnbull and Asser shirt-collar buttoned down-set off by a bloodred silk tie.
    Now here was a guy, Maddox thought, who could benefit from meditation.
    Corvus paused in his sorting and peered over the tops of his glasses. "Well, well, if it isn't Jimson Maddox, back from the front." His British accent seemed plummier than ever. Corvus was about his own age, mid-thirties, but the two
    men couldn't be more different, from different planets even. Strange to think that a tattoo had brought them together.
    Corvus held out his hand and Maddox took it, experiencing the crisp shake that was neither too long nor too short, neither limp nor aggressive. Maddox suppressed a welling of emotion.
    This was the man who got him out of
Pelican
Bay
.
    Corvus took Maddox's elbow and guided him into a chair in the little sitting area at the far end of the office, in front of the useless fireplace. Corvus went to his office door, said something to his secretary, shut and locked it, and then sat down opposite him, restlessly crossing and uncrossing his legs until he seemed to get it