Los Alamos (40 page)

Connolly checked the mail, went for walks, wandered in and out of the Tech Area looking for something to do. Eisler’s books were sold to raise money for the school, his personal effects doled out by Johanna Weber to friends in the émigré community. Connolly had asked her for a picture—the theoretical team on an outing in the Jemez Mountains—and, surprised, she had given it to him with sentimental tears in her eyes. He placed it on the bureau next to the photograph of Karl, two pieces in the puzzle. He saw Emma at the movies, but they stayed away from each other, afraid to divert their attention from the waiting. Finally, after a week, claustrophobic in all the wide space of the mesa, he drove into Santa Fe to see Holliday.

“I’d just about given up on you,” Holliday said pleasantly. “Coffee?”

“In this heat?”

“Old Indian trick. Just pay it no attention and after a while you don’t know it’s there.”

“It’s there,” Connolly said, wiping his neck.

They sat out behind the office where a table had been set up in the shade of a giant cottonwood tree.

“Sorry I haven’t been around. I just haven’t had anything to tell you.”

“That you can tell me, you mean. That’s all right. I figure it’s Hill business now. I don’t ask. Looks like we’ll all know pretty soon.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, not much traffic into town these days. Real quiet. But you got these explosions going off in the canyons every night now. Folks don’t even complain anymore—no point. Meantime, you got every hotel room in town booked for next week. That nice Mrs. McKibben’s onto the boarding houses now, so you must have a crowd coming in. So I figure you’re about to do whatever it is you’re going to do up there.”

Connolly smiled at him. “You’re a good cop.”

“That’s not hard in a small town. Nothing happens. Until you came along, anyway.”

“I guess you’ll be relieved when I go.”

Holliday sipped his coffee, looking at him. “You might be here quite a spell. One thing you learn in police work is how to wait. Now you, you hate to wait. You’d make coffee nervous.”

Connolly smiled again. “So what do you do while you’re waiting?”

“Mostly you turn things over in your mind.”

Connolly looked at him with interest. “Such as?”

“Well, such as that car. Anybody bother it yet? No. But now you’ve got all these explosions going off nearby. You’d think somebody’d want to move it, wouldn’t you?”

“Why should he? Nobody’s found it yet. It’s been months.”

“True. But it’s funny about that car. Easiest thing in the world to drive it somewhere else, then get a bus or something back to the Hill. That way nobody’d connect it at all.”

“Nobody
has
connected it. As far as he knows, it’s still hidden.”

“Maybe. But that was before they started blowing those canyons all to hell. If it was me, I’d move it.”

“So what are you thinking?”

“Well, the way it makes sense is if he isn’t on the Hill anymore.”

“No, he’s there.”

“You’re sure.”

“He has to be.”

“Has to be isn’t evidence.”

“He’s there,” Connolly said firmly. “I know it.”

Holliday paused. “Well, if you know it. ‘Course, there’s one other way it makes sense.”

“What’s that?”

“Well,
I’d
move it, but maybe he’s not as smart as I am. That’s another thing you learn in police work—they’re not the brightest bunch of guys. We just like to think so ‘cause it makes us look good.”

Connolly smiled. “What else do you get when you turn things over?”

“Not much. The funny thing about this one is that we’ve got the when and the where and it sounds like you’ve got the why but you’re not telling.” He looked at Connolly, who nodded. “Well, in my experience, at least one of these ought to lead us to who. But not this time.”

“We have to come at it a different way.”

“That why you’ve got my boys watching those churches?”

Connolly nodded. “It might be a waste of time.”

“Well, it won’t do them any harm. Good way to get to know your own town. You take me—I’ve never been to the Governors’ Palace. Pass it every day, but never been inside. But that’s usually the way, isn’t it?”

“You’re leading up to something.”

“No, I’m just teaching you how to wait,” Holliday said, his eyes enjoying a private joke. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about it, and damned if I can come up with anything. ‘Course, I don’t know the why.”

Connolly placed his coffee on the table and looked away. “Somebody was passing military secrets and Karl surprised them at the drop. At San Isidro. But you didn’t hear that, okay?”

Holliday looked at him closely, then nodded. “Well, I figured that much.”

“How’s that?”

“Everything top secret and MPs walking around the place and people dropping in from Washington. What the hell else could it be? Still,” he said, smiling, “it’s nice to know. I appreciate that.”

Connolly didn’t say anything.

“And now you’re arranging another drop?” Holliday said quietly.

Connolly got up and paced toward the tree, ignoring him. “When did you figure all this out?”

“Don’t get excited. Not for a long time. See, he had me going there with that queer business. You look at that, you’ve got no reason to look at anything else. Smart. But there’s another thing. How’d he come up with that?”

“It was in the papers.”

“Yeah, but it’s smart. I mean, if he’s too dumb to move the car, how come he’s smart enough to think up something like that?”

Connolly looked at him. “I don’t know. How is he?”

“Well, maybe it’s on his mind, like.”

“You mean he’s a homosexual after all? Doc, we’ve been down that road, and it didn’t get us anywhere. What’s the difference now, anyway?”

“Maybe he just thinks about them. There has to be some way to get to the who. A trail somewhere. Everything counts in a murder. I mean, he thought of it. Now why is that?”

“I don’t know, Doc. Maybe you’d better turn it over some more. I’ll tell you this, though. We got the guy who was passing the secrets.” Holliday looked at him in surprise. “And neither of them liked guys. Not him. Not Karl. It was a blind.”

“Huh,” Holliday said, a grunt of acknowledgment. He sat for a minute, thinking. “What about the one you caught?”

“He’s dead.”

Holliday took another sip of coffee with an almost studied casualness. “You kill him?”

“No.”

“So he’s not the one setting up the meeting?”

“No.”

Holliday mulled this over for a minute, then stood up. “Well, I don’t know. I’m in over my head now. Maybe someday you’ll let me know how this works.”

“I may never be able to do that, Doc,” Connolly said seriously. “You understand that.”

Holliday nodded, then grinned. “You may never catch him, either. Sometimes it happens that way. Even when you wait. You understand that?”

“Then my secret’s safe with you.”

It wasn’t until the next day that, for no specific reason, Holliday’s conversation made Connolly think of Corporal Batchelor.

“He transferred out,” Mills said. “He’s up at Oak Ridge. Why?”

“I just wanted to see how he was doing. Can we get him on the phone?”

“Are you kidding? You can’t call somebody at Oak Ridge just to pass the time of day. Family emergency, maybe. Otherwise, you write.”

“Let’s get him anyway.”

“What’s going on? I’ve never seen you so jumpy.”

“Just call him.”

Mills picked up the phone with a shrug. “You’re the boss. It might take some time, though.”

Amazingly, it took a day. And when Connolly finally heard Batchelor’s voice, wary and apprehensive, he felt foolish for having gone to the trouble. It wasn’t a loose end, just a stray thought.

“The man who beat you up,” he said. “Who was it?” There was no response. “You still there?”

“I don’t know,” Batchelor said, so quietly that Connolly thought it was the connection.

“Look, this is strictly confidential. Off the record. I mean, if you’re worried about that.”

“No, I really don’t know,”

“But someone on the Hill.”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “Maybe a visitor. I’d never seen him before.”

“A scientist?”

“No.”

Connolly frowned. “Can you describe him?”

“Dark.”

“Mexican, you mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Spanish.”

“How do you know? Did you talk to him?”

“I just thought he looked Spanish, is all. He had black eyes.”

Connolly stopped, feeling embarrassed. “Would you recognize him again?”

Batchelor hesitated. “Is this an official call?”

“No, unofficial. Would you?”

“I don’t want you to look for him. Nothing happened.”

“I’m not looking for him. I was just curious.”

“Why?”

Why indeed? “I’m not sure.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m sorry. Nothing happened.”

“Okay,” Connolly said. “I understand. But you’d recognize him?”

Batchelor hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally. “If I had to.”

Connolly stared at the receiver when they’d finished, wishing he hadn’t called. Now Batchelor would worry about what he’d moved a thousand miles away to forget.

“What are you up to?” Mills said, interrupting the thought.

“Nothing. Chasing my own tail. Can’t we get this damn fan to work?” he said irritably.

“Crazy with the heat, huh?”

“No, stir crazy.”

“Waiting for something?”

Connolly shot him a glance, then looked away. “No.”

“Here,” Mills said, holding out an envelope. “Post office said to give this to you. Who’s Corporal Waters?”

Connolly reached up for the letter, meeting Mills’s eyes as his hand touched it. For an instant he stopped breathing.

“Friend of yours?” Mills said. He held the letter suspended between them.

“One of my aliases,” Connolly said, taking it. “For filthy pictures.”

Mills’s eyes dropped in disappointment. “Oh,” he said, excluded. “Sorry I asked.”

Connolly stared at the envelope in front of him. Typed. No return address. Santa Fe postmark. Now that it was finally here, he couldn’t quite believe it. Why a letter? Absurdly, he realized that he had been expecting the guidebook, page turned down at the corner. Mills, mistaking his hesitation for secrecy, moved away from the desk. Connolly fingered the envelope. Not heavy. No more than a page. No, a single rectangle, like a postcard.

He slit open the envelope. An invitation. A gallery opening on Canyon Road. Sunday, from four to seven. Refreshments served. Two days from now. Connolly turned it over, looking for a message, something scrawled on the print. A public reception, not a private meeting at San Isidro. But what had he been expecting? A conversation in the alley? Had there been a pattern to the other meetings? He thought of Holliday’s men, loitering at churches all over Santa Fe.

He looked up to see Mills standing by the desk.

“Are you going to tell me?” he said simply, his eyes frank and direct.

Connolly slipped the card back into the envelope. “I can’t.”

In fact, there was no one to tell except Emma. He walked her back from the PX, carrying grocery bags.

“You said it would work,” she said. “What’s the matter now?”

“They don’t trust it. Why a party? There’ll be people.”

“They just want to see who you are, see if you’re real.”

“How will they know?”

“You’ll be the one with me.”

He looked at her. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “I have to do this one alone.” He stopped her before she could interrupt. “He won’t know you anyway. They’d never tell the field contact about you. If anything goes wrong, the chain has to stop with him. They can’t afford to have this traced back. If they believe it.”

“They must. Why would they send the invitation?”

“It’s worth the chance. If it’s a trap, they sacrifice the one guy in the field, that’s all.”

“Then it really doesn’t matter whether I’m there or not.”

“It does to me. We don’t know what might happen. Besides, they’ll be looking for a man alone.”

“For a uniform, you mean. Corporal Waters.”

He stopped and looked at her. “A uniform. If I told you I’d completely forgotten about that, would you think I’d lost my mind?”

She grinned at him. “I was never interested in your mind. See how useful I can be?”

“But I don’t want to have to worry about you,” he said seriously.

“Don’t, then. We’ll arrive separately. I’ll just be a fly on the wall. In case you need me. I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

He decided not to argue the point now. “What sort of crowd is it likely to be?”

“The local gentry. Hats and things. And the arts-and-crafts crowd. A few ladies in sandals and woven skirts. Loomers, I call them.”

“Soldiers?”

“Enlisted men? You must be joking. Don’t worry, he’ll spot you straightaway.”

“But I won’t know who he is.”

“Well, that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

Mills said nothing that evening when he surprised Connolly at the office trying on the uniform, borrowed from one of the drivers. The fit was baggy, as if Connolly had lost weight. Mills looked him over, then, without a word, went to a locked drawer, fishing a key out of his pocket. Embarrassed, Connolly turned and started to change back into his clothes, so he was in his shorts when Mills handed him the gun and the cartridge of bullets.

“You’d better have these,” he said.

Connolly looked at the gun, not knowing what to say.

“I never think to look in that drawer,” Mills said. “I’d no idea they were gone.”

“You don’t have to do this. I’m not—”

“He’s already killed one man,” Mills said simply. “I’m on your side, you know. I always have been.”

18

L
ATER, HE REMEMBERED
the day as overbright, every piece of landscape sharp and hard-edged under the white sun. Emma, pretty in a pale blue dress that seemed part of the cloudless sky, drove him in her car, past the empty east gate and down the switchback road to the valley floor. With the windows down, the air smelled of juniper. The afternoon had been still and expectant, and even now, toward its end, Santa Fe seemed asleep. Connolly fidgeted in the unfamiliar uniform, shifting the gun in his pocket to arrange its outline in a shapeless bulge. His cap, folded, hung over his belt like a protective flap.

“It’s not going to go away, you know,” Emma said. “Can you see it?”

“Only when I look. Shall I keep it in my bag?”

“Then I would have something to worry about.”

“Actually, I’m a crack shot. I grew up in the country, you know.”

“Crack shot with what?” he said skeptically.

“Well, skeet,” she admitted. “You don’t really think you’ll need it, do you?”

“No. Should I leave it here? It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Just keep your hand in your pocket. You know, playing with change.”

“Playing with change.”

“Well, men do.”

They were driving along the Alameda, approaching the Castillo Street bridge at the foot of Canyon Road.

“I’ll walk from here,” he said at the corner.

“Two blocks,” she said. “Goodness, look at the crush.”

The street was lined with cars, some double-parked near the gallery entrance. It seemed the only party in town.

Her voice, cool and efficient, cracked when he reached to open the door. “Michael.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with panic. “You’ll be careful.”

“Nervous?”

“I am, actually. Funny, after all this.”

“I know. This time it’s real.”

“It doesn’t feel real.” She straightened her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.”

He smiled at her. “You couldn’t. Anyway, maybe it’s just an audition. Maybe nothing will happen.”

She looked at him, her eyes scanning his face. “That would be worse, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded. “Okay, let’s go. Act naturally. Look at the pictures.”

“And not at you. I know.”

“I’ve got Holliday outside. Just in case.”

She looked up at him quizzically, unfamiliar with the name.

“The police.”

“Oh,” she said. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Take your time parking,” he said, moving away.

Holliday, out of uniform, sat in a car in the next block. Connolly stopped to light a cigarette, and when he spoke it appeared he was fiddling with his lighter. “Everything all right?”

“Could’ve made a fortune in parking tickets here. What’s wrong with these people, anyway?”

“No cops.”

“What’s that in your pocket?”

“My wallet,” Connolly said, looking at him. “I like it in front. You can’t be too careful in a crowd.”

Holliday sighed. “Just watch your back.”

“Spot anybody hanging around?”

“Not yet. Just you.”

Connolly grinned and continued walking, glancing at both sides of the street. The gallery doors were open and people had spilled onto the side courtyard, talking in small groups, their voices like the murmur of bees. Inside the noise was louder, mixed with the tinkling of coffee spoons and ice cubes. A long table had been set up in the front room with a coffee urn and plates filled with sugary sopapillas. At the other end were bottles of wine and cheese cut into cocktail cubes. The crowd was as Emma had predicted, the women in floppy hats and long skirts cinched with silver-turquoise belts, the men in suits with bolla ties. Connolly noticed with a little relief that there were a few other uniforms, all officers, presumably local friends unconnected with the Hill.

He made his way slowly through the crowd, feeling obvious and self-conscious, but no one seemed to notice him. Busy with their friends or the paintings, they assumed he belonged to someone else. And after a while he began to feel the invisible anonymity of a large party, as if he weren’t really there at all. There were fewer people in the two rooms that led from the main room in a circle around the patio, and he wandered through these, looking at paintings, aware that he’d be more easily seen. Cowboys. Pueblo landscapes. Prickly-pear cactus in flower. No one approached him.

He circled back to the main room and took a glass of wine, looking around. Suppose no one came? Or someone had already seen him and decided not to risk contact? Maybe there’d be another message, a proper one this time, with a guidebook and a quiet place. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Emma come in. He stepped back into the second room. Between the paintings were pedestals with sculptures and wide terra-cotta pots painted in geometric Indian designs. There was a painting of the park by the Alameda, the river visible behind the trees, and Connolly stood in front of it as if he’d found the prearranged meeting place. There were the bushes where they’d found Karl. He peered at the lower right-hand corner for the artist’s name. Lothrop, in tiny block letters.

“Hello,” a voice said. “The gentleman with the turquoise, isn’t it?”

He turned slowly, prolonging the moment. For a second he couldn’t place him. Then he recognized the man from the jewelry shop. Chalmers? Something like that. Sonny. Behind the wire glasses, his eyes were bright.

“Hello,” Connolly said. The man seemed slighter outside the shop. Connolly tried to imagine him with his arm raised, holding a crowbar. No, it didn’t seem possible. Unless the eyes had been furious, the body coiled in surprise.

“I thought it was you. I didn’t realize you were in the service,” Chalmers said pleasantly. “Do you like the pictures?” He glanced toward the wall to see what Connolly had been looking at. “Ah yes. The park.” He turned to face him. “I often wondered, did you find what you were looking for?”

The question floated as casually as an inquiry about the weather. Connolly met his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

“Good,” Chalmers said. “Good. What happened to the turquoise pieces?”

“I still have them.”

“Perhaps you’re interested in selling them.” So this was how it was done—the new meeting, a chat back at the store.

“Maybe. I don’t think I ever introduced myself. My name is Steven Waters.”

“A pleasure,” Chalmers said easily, nodding. Just a name. “Are you”—he hesitated—“with somebody?”

Connolly, caught off-guard, had the unexpected feeling that Chalmers might be making a pass. Or was he just making sure Connolly had come alone? “No,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

Chalmers fluttered, embarrassed. “Forgive me. I thought I knew everyone here, that’s all. It’s my gallery, you see. You’re very welcome.”

“I am supposed to be meeting someone here,” Connolly said, another try.

“Yes, I see. Well, I hope you enjoy the pictures. If you do wish to sell the turquoise, come and see me at the shop.”

“Any particular time?”

Chalmers looked at him, puzzled. “Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

Connolly watched him move away, turning to another group of guests like a concerned host. But was he anything more? Connolly walked out to the patio to have a cigarette, feeling oddly deflated. Had they made contact or not? Is that all that happened, the suggestion of another time and place? After all the waiting, the anxious drive down, did he turn now and go? Or had he imagined it all? Perhaps the man was simply checking his guest list or looking for a new friend. The fact was, Connolly didn’t want it to be Chalmers, so unprepossessing and ordinary that he seemed hardly worth the long search. But why not him? A drive to the church, a quick meeting, a meeting afterward with someone else, and it was done. No fog and trenchcoats, just business as usual. But what had Chalmers really meant? He went over the conversation in his mind. Was it possible—almost a comic thought—that the language of espionage was no different from that of a pickup, all the words that meant something else, verbal sex, the invitation not really offered until it was accepted?

He looked around. All over the room people were making contact. He put his hand in his pocket, feeling the gun. The late afternoon sun flooded the patio. In broad daylight, he thought. Maybe this was how it was done. A nice middle-aged man, a harmless exchange that might mean anything. But there had been nothing casual about the meeting at San Isidro. Except they’d already known Eisler. This was just a sighting. Connolly tried to imagine himself as the other man. What would he be looking for? An amateur. A soldier, nervous, looking around. Someone new to it, who needed to be approached with more than the vague promise of the jewelry shop. But carefully. Connolly realized then that if it was going to happen, he was already being watched.

He went into the gallery rooms, moving toward the refreshments, then back again, staring openly at people now, a soldier looking for someone. He caught Chalmers glancing furtively at him, but with no more purpose than a proprietor keeping an eye on the stock. Emma avoided him, talking to a man in a double-breasted suit who was probably asking her too whether she was with somebody. A woman jarred his elbow, brushing past toward the cheese. So where was he? Hadn’t he made himself visible enough? He moved into the interior room, empty now as people, finished with the paintings, clustered on the patio with drinks. He walked slowly, pretending to study the pictures on the wall. The cathedral in the snow. A Soyer imitation of the bar at La Fonda. A heavy metal statue of a rider—where had they got the scrap?—his horse reared back, hooves sticking up. A giant cob of corn. “Do you like it?” A woman’s voice, throaty.

He turned around. The bobbed hair. The eager eyes. “Hannah,” he said.

She looked up at him, startled for a minute, then said, “Oh, it’s you. Emma’s friend. Forgive me, I didn’t recognize—” Her voice wavered, still puzzled. “But have you joined the army?”

Hannah. He felt the hair on the back of his neck. She had approached a soldier. He stared at her, frozen, as still as the moment on the trail at Chaco. Hannah. Not a man.

“Just for the day,” he said.

But only he had made the leap. “I don’t understand,” she said, disconcerted by his stare. Then, quickly, catching herself, “But where is Emma?”

“She’s not here,” he said. “I was looking for you.”

Hannah. Eisler had been billeted at the ranch.

“Me?” she said, a nervous laugh, uncertain. “But I didn’t know I was coming myself. It’s so difficult to travel now.”

Back and forth to Los Angeles. There would be people there, the next link. No need to risk another meeting in Santa Fe.

“But you sent me an invitation.”

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. You’re mistaken. It must have been the gallery. Of course, if I had known—” She looked away from him, turning her head as if she wanted to be rescued from the conversation. “But there she is. Emma!” she said loudly, calling her over, but Connolly had glanced up and caught her eye. He shook his head, stopping her at the door.

Hannah turned back to him, bewildered. “I thought you said—”

“She doesn’t know,” Connolly said evenly. “I’ve brought you a message from Corporal Waters.”

Did her eyes widen, or was it his imagination?

“And who is that?”

“Me.”

She looked at him for a moment in disbelief, not saying anything. “Is that your name?” she said finally, polite. “I’m sorry. I forgot. There must be some mistake.”

“No. The invitation was for me.”

Her eyes, shrewd and cautious, darted across his face, trying to see behind the words. Then she closed herself off and looked away. “You are mistaken,” she said, so simply that for an instant he wondered if he was wrong. Everything was supposed to fit. Everything counts in murder. How could it be her? Another European story?

She had turned her head, searching for something, and he followed her look out onto the patio, to the tall Mexican in a denim jacket leaning against the adobe wall. Her right hand. Ajax. A classical name. No, Hector. The constant companion. As if he were taking snapshots, Connolly looked from the patio to Hannah, then again to the Mexican, his mind back at the blackboard. Connect everything. The workboots. Hector’s job on the Hill. Of course he’d be with her, just in case. Strong enough to carry a man. Strong enough to kill one. Two people, one to drive the car back. A wrench, some tool. Had she watched? Had she turned away, like Eisler, or had she watched? Eisler was meeting her, the person off the Hill, but Hector had to return. He worked there now. The car. The back gate.

When he turned back to Hannah, he saw that she had been following his eyes, watching him fill in his crossword. “There’s no mistake,” he said. “Eisler’s dead. He talked to me before he died. I know.”

And then he did know. It was in her eyes. One look, one unguarded point of recognition. “Who are you?” she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

“ ‘I know,’ ” she said. “What does that mean?”

“I know what information Eisler gave you. All of it, every detail. I know about the meeting at San Isidro. I know what happened to Karl.” For a second her face held a question, and he realized she had never known Karl’s name. “The man you killed there. You and your friend.”

She looked at him closely, then shook her head.
“Phantastische,”
she said. “Poor Friedrich. A delirium. Why would he say such things? But it’s often like that at the end. The fantasies, the paranoia. And you believed him? All this nonsense in his sleep.”

“He was wide awake,” Connolly said flatly. “I interrogated him.”

“Ah,” she said, her voice wry with scorn. “So now we have the Gestapo too. Like the movies. The rubber hose. The castor oil. Some drug? Is that how he died?”

“No. He killed himself.”

She looked up at him, interested. “Why?”

“Remorse, I think.”

“Remorse.”

“Not about you. He was loyal to the end, Eisler. A good party man. But Karl—that was something else. I don’t think he’d ever seen a man killed before. That shook him. I guess he didn’t know your lover was the hot-blooded type.”

“My lover,” she said, her voice cold with contempt, and Connolly thought of that day at the ranch. Something had happened between them. Not a lovers’ quarrel. No. She’d been angry with him for putting them at risk.