Baker glanced at the paper: a bunch of dots arranged in grids. "No," he said. "I've never seen it before."

"You didn't give it to him?"

"No."

"Any idea what it might be?"

"No," Baker said. "No idea at all."

"Well, I think I do," his wife said.

"You do?" the cop said.

"Yes," she said. "Do you mind if I, uh…" And she took the paper from the policeman.

Baker sighed. Now Liz was being the architect, squinting at the paper judiciously, turning it this way and that, looking at the dots upside down and sideways. Baker knew why. She was trying to distract attention from the fact that she had been wrong, that his car had hit a pothole, after all, and that they had wasted a whole day here. She was trying to justify a waste of time, to somehow give it importance.

"Yes," she said finally, "I know what it is. It's a church."

Baker looked at the dots on the paper. He said, "That's a church?"

"Well, the floor plan for one," she said. "See? Here's the long axis of the cross, the nave.. .. See? It's definitely a church, Dan. And the rest of this image, the squares within squares, all rectilinear, it looks like… you know, this might be a monastery."

The cop said, "A monastery?"

"I think so," she said. "And what about the label at the bottom: `mon.ste.mere.' Isn't `mon' an abbreviation for monastery? I bet it is. I'm telling you, I think this is a monastery." She handed the picture back to the cop.

Pointedly, Baker looked at his watch. "We really should be going."

"Of course," Wauneka said, taking the hint. He shook hands with them. "Thanks for all your help. Sorry for the delay. Have a pleasant trip."

Baker put his arm firmly around his wife's waist and led her out into the afternoon sunlight.