pdouglas.thecodex-第78部分
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
goods。 The bizarre procession wound its way up the hillside and into the grove。
And finally came the band； if that's what you could call it： a group of men playing gourd flutes； blowing long wooden trumpets； and beating sticks…with one young boy bringing up the rear； banging with all his might a shabby； Western…style bass drum。
Tom felt a great mixture of sadness and catharsis。 It was the passing of an era。 His father was dead。 It was the last good…bye to his childhood。 Passing before his eyes were the things he knew and loved； the things he had grown up with。 They were the things his father loved； too。 As the procession went into the tomb darkness swallowed it all； men and grave goods alike…and then the men emerged； blinking and empty…handed。 There his father's collection would be shut up； safe； dry； guarded and protected until the day when he and his brothers could return and claim what was theirs。 The Mayan treasures； of course； would stay in the tomb forever； to ensure that Maxwell Broadbent lived a fine and happy life in the afterworld。 But the Western treasures belonged to them； held in safekeeping by the Tara tribe。 It was a funeral to end all funerals。 Only the Mayan emperors had been buried like this； and not for at least a thousand years。
Three days after signing his last will and testament； Maxwell Broadbent passed away。 He had had only one more day of lucidity before he sank into delirium； a； and death。 No death was pretty； Tom thought； but this one had had a certain nobility to it； if one could use that word。
It wasn't so much the death but the last lucid day of his father's life that Tom would never forget。 The four sons had stayed with him。 They hadn't talked much； and when they did it was of minor things…little memories； stories； forgotten places； laughs they'd had； people long gone。 And yet that day of small talk had been more valuable than all the decades of important talk about the big things； the lectures； father…to…son exhortations； the advice and philosophizing and dinnertime discussions。 After a lifetime at cross…purposes； Maxwell finally understood them and they understood him。 And they could merely chat for the pleasure of it。 It was as simple； and as profound； as that。
Tom smiled。 His father would have loved his funeral。 He would have been delighted to see this great procession through the forest； the giant wooden trumpets bellowing； the drums beating； the bamboo flutes playing； the women and men alternating singing and clapping。 A great tomb had been freshly cut out of the rock； inaugurating a new necropolis for the Tara tribe。 The White City had been cut off by the burning of the bridge； leaving six of Hauser's mercenaries behind。 During the six weeks the new tomb was being built； the village buzzed daily with news of the trapped soldiers。 They came down to the bridgehead from time to time； firing their guns； shouting； pleading； threatening。 As the days and weeks passed the six had dwindled to four； three； and two。 Now there was one； and he didn't shout or wave or fire his gun anymore。 He just stood there； a small； gaunt figure； saying nothing； waiting for death。 Tom had tried to convince the Tara to rescue him； but the Tara were adamant： Only the gods could rebuild the bridge。 If the gods wanted to save him； they would。
But of course they didn't。
The boom of the bass drum brought Tom's thoughts back to the present spectacle。 All the grave goods had been heaped in the tomb； and now it was time to close it up。 The men and women stood in the forest； singing a forlorn； haunting tune while a priest waved a bundle of sacred herbs； the fragrant smoke drifting past them。 The ceremony went on until the sun touched the western horizon； and then it stopped。 The chief struck the end of the wooden key； and the great stone door of the tomb slid shut with a sonorous boom； just as the last rays vanished。
All was silent。
As they walked back to the village； Tom said； 〃I only wish Father had been able to see that。〃
Vernon put his arm around him。 〃He did； Tom。 For sure； he did。〃
86
Lewis Skiba sat in the rocking chair on the crooked porch of the battenboard cottage； looking out over the lake。 The hills were cloaked in autumnal glory； the water a darkened mirror reflecting the curve of evening sky。 It was exactly as he remembered it。 The dock ran crookedly into the water； with the canoe tied up at the end。 The scent of warm pine needles drifted through the air。 A loon called from the far shore； its forlorn cry dying among the hills； and it was answered by another loon at an immense distance； its voice as faint as starlight。
Skiba took a sip of fresh spring water and rocked back slowly； the chair and porch both creaking in protest。 He had lost everything。 He had presided over the collapse of the ninth largest pharmaceutical pany in the world。 He had watched its stock drop to fifty cents before trading was suspended forever。 He had been forced into filing Chapter 11； and twenty thousand employees saw their pension funds and life savings vanish。 He had been fired by the board； vilified by shareholders and congressional mittees； and made the butt of late…night television。 He was under criminal investigation for accounting fraud； stock manipulation； insider trading； and self…dealing。 Skiba had lost his home and his wife； and the lawyers had almost finished chewing through his fortune。 Nobody loved him now except his children。
And yet Skiba was a happy man。 No one could understand this happiness。 They thought he had lost his mind； that he was having some kind of breakdown。 They did not know what it was like to be pulled out of the very flames of hell。
What was it that had stayed his hand； three months ago； in that dark office？ Or in the three months that followed？ Those three months of silence from Hauser had been the darkest months of Skiba's life。 Just when it seemed the nightmare would never end； suddenly there was news。 The New York Times had run a little article； buried in the B section； which announced the creation of the Alfonso Boswas Foundation； a nonprofit organization devoted to translating and publishing a certain ninth…century Mayan codex found in the collections of the late Maxwell Broadbent。 According to the foundation's president； Dr。 Sally Colorado； the Codex was a Mayan book of healing that would prove tremendously useful in the search for new drugs。 The foundation had been established and funded by the four sons of the late Maxwell Broadbent。 The article noted that he had passed away unexpectedly while on a family holiday in Central America。
That was all。 There was no mention of Hauser； the White City； the lost tomb； the crazy father burying himself with his money…nothing。
Skiba had felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders。 The Broadbents were alive。 They had not been murdered。 Hauser had failed to get the Codex and； most important； had failed to kill them。 Skiba would never know what happened； and it would be too dangerous to inquire。 The only thing he knew was that he was not guilty of murder。 Yes； he was guilty of terrible crimes and he had much to atone for； but the irrevocable taking of a human life…even his own…wasn't among them。
There was one other thing。 By being stripped of everything…money； possessions； reputation…he could finally see again。 The scales had fallen。 He could see as clearly as if he were a child once more： all the bad things he had done； the crimes he had mitted； the selfishness and greed。 He could trace in perfect clarity now the spiraling ethical descent he had made in his successful career in business。 It was so easy to bee confused； to conflate prestige with honesty； power with responsibility； sycophancy with loyalty； profit with merit。 You had to be an exceptionally clear…minded human being to keep your integrity in such a system。
Skiba smiled as he gazed out over the mirrored surface of the lake； watching it all disappear in the evening twilight； everything he had worked for； everything that had once been so important to him。 In the end； even the battenboard cabin would have to go； and he would never gaze on this lake again。
It didn't matter。 He had died and been reborn。 Now he could begi
