summer rental."
"That's right. I'm looking for a place to finish my first novel."
"How interesting! A first novel!"
He crossed his legs. "I was in a dot com business, sold out before the crash, went through a divorce. Now I'm taking a break from making money, hoping to live my dream." He offered her a self-deprecating smile. "I'm looking for something north of Abiquiii, quiet, isolated, no neighbors for miles."
"We manage more than three hundred rental properties and I'm sure we'll be able to find you something."
"Great." Maddox shifted in the chair, recrossed his legs. "I'm not kidding about privacy. Nearest house has to be at least a mile away. Something at the end of the road, in the trees."
He paused. Trina was taking notes.
"An old mining cabin would be perfect," he said. "I've always been interested in mines. There's a mine in my novel."
Dowling finishing up her note-taking with a sharp tap of her pen. "Shall we take a look in the database? But first, Mr. Maddox, do you have a price range in mind?"
"Money is no object. And please call me Jim."
"Can you wait a moment, Jim, while I look at our database?"
"Of course."
He recrossed his legs while Trina hammered away on the keyboard.
"Well." She smiled again. "I've got several suitable properties here, but here's one that really pops out. The old CCC Camp up on Perdiz Creek, in the foothills of the
Canjilon
Mountains
."
"CCC Camp?"
"That's right. The Civilian Conservation Corps put a camp up there in the thirties for the men building trails in the national forest-a dozen or so wooden cabins surrounding an old dining hall and lodge. Some years ago a gentleman from
Texas
bought the whole camp. He renovated the lodge, turned it into a really cute three-bedroom, three-bath house. Left everything else as is. He lived up there for a while, found it a little lonely, and now he rents it out."
"Sounds like there might be tourists."
"It's gated. Sits in the middle of a section of private land surrounded by national forest. It's at the end of an eight-mile dirt road, the last two miles four-wheel drive only." She glanced up. "You do have a four-wheel drive vehicle?"
"Range Rover."
She smiled. "A road like that would tend to keep away visitors." "Right."
Its got some interesting history here. Before it was a CCC Camp Perdiz Creek was an old gold-mining town. There are some old mines up there and"-
she smiled at him-"they say there's a ghost. I wouldn't mention that to everyone, but seeing as how you're a writer . . ."
"My story could use a ghost."
"It says here it's a great place for hiking, mountain biking, horseback riding. Surrounded by national forest. It's not off the grid, though: power and telephone to the site."
"It sounds ideal. Only thing is, I wouldn't want the owner dropping in unannounced."
"He's in Italy and I can tell you he's not that kind of owner. We manage the rental for him and if anyone needed to come up, it would be us-and only then for a good reason and with twenty-four-hour notice. Your privacy would be respected."
"Rent?"
"Quite reasonable. Thirty-eight hundred a month if you take it all summer."
"Sounds perfect. I'd like to see it."
"When?"
"Right now." He tapped his jacket pocket, where his checkbook was. "I'm prepared to conclude the deal today. I'm anxious to get to work on my novel. It's a murder mystery."
22
TOM STARED INTENTLY at the white screen of the PowerBook. At first nothing happened, and then an image began to crawl down the screen, a blurry first iteration.
"Takes a while to process," murmured Wyman.
The first pass was complete, but the image remained a shadow, a blob. It didn't look at all like a chest of gold or a lost mine, but maybe it was delineating the cavern itself. A second pass began, the image sharpening, line by line. Tom caught his breath as the blob became an object. An unmistakable object. He could hardly believe it, he felt it must be an optical illusion, that it was actually
"That's right. I'm looking for a place to finish my first novel."
"How interesting! A first novel!"
He crossed his legs. "I was in a dot com business, sold out before the crash, went through a divorce. Now I'm taking a break from making money, hoping to live my dream." He offered her a self-deprecating smile. "I'm looking for something north of Abiquiii, quiet, isolated, no neighbors for miles."
"We manage more than three hundred rental properties and I'm sure we'll be able to find you something."
"Great." Maddox shifted in the chair, recrossed his legs. "I'm not kidding about privacy. Nearest house has to be at least a mile away. Something at the end of the road, in the trees."
He paused. Trina was taking notes.
"An old mining cabin would be perfect," he said. "I've always been interested in mines. There's a mine in my novel."
Dowling finishing up her note-taking with a sharp tap of her pen. "Shall we take a look in the database? But first, Mr. Maddox, do you have a price range in mind?"
"Money is no object. And please call me Jim."
"Can you wait a moment, Jim, while I look at our database?"
"Of course."
He recrossed his legs while Trina hammered away on the keyboard.
"Well." She smiled again. "I've got several suitable properties here, but here's one that really pops out. The old CCC Camp up on Perdiz Creek, in the foothills of the
Canjilon
Mountains
."
"CCC Camp?"
"That's right. The Civilian Conservation Corps put a camp up there in the thirties for the men building trails in the national forest-a dozen or so wooden cabins surrounding an old dining hall and lodge. Some years ago a gentleman from
Texas
bought the whole camp. He renovated the lodge, turned it into a really cute three-bedroom, three-bath house. Left everything else as is. He lived up there for a while, found it a little lonely, and now he rents it out."
"Sounds like there might be tourists."
"It's gated. Sits in the middle of a section of private land surrounded by national forest. It's at the end of an eight-mile dirt road, the last two miles four-wheel drive only." She glanced up. "You do have a four-wheel drive vehicle?"
"Range Rover."
She smiled. "A road like that would tend to keep away visitors." "Right."
Its got some interesting history here. Before it was a CCC Camp Perdiz Creek was an old gold-mining town. There are some old mines up there and"-
she smiled at him-"they say there's a ghost. I wouldn't mention that to everyone, but seeing as how you're a writer . . ."
"My story could use a ghost."
"It says here it's a great place for hiking, mountain biking, horseback riding. Surrounded by national forest. It's not off the grid, though: power and telephone to the site."
"It sounds ideal. Only thing is, I wouldn't want the owner dropping in unannounced."
"He's in Italy and I can tell you he's not that kind of owner. We manage the rental for him and if anyone needed to come up, it would be us-and only then for a good reason and with twenty-four-hour notice. Your privacy would be respected."
"Rent?"
"Quite reasonable. Thirty-eight hundred a month if you take it all summer."
"Sounds perfect. I'd like to see it."
"When?"
"Right now." He tapped his jacket pocket, where his checkbook was. "I'm prepared to conclude the deal today. I'm anxious to get to work on my novel. It's a murder mystery."
22
TOM STARED INTENTLY at the white screen of the PowerBook. At first nothing happened, and then an image began to crawl down the screen, a blurry first iteration.
"Takes a while to process," murmured Wyman.
The first pass was complete, but the image remained a shadow, a blob. It didn't look at all like a chest of gold or a lost mine, but maybe it was delineating the cavern itself. A second pass began, the image sharpening, line by line. Tom caught his breath as the blob became an object. An unmistakable object. He could hardly believe it, he felt it must be an optical illusion, that it was actually
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