Los Alamos (42 page)

On the patio, people moved away as Connolly approached, afraid to make contact with the violence. “Ask them,” he said to Holliday. “Somebody must have seen them leave.” Holliday glanced at him and turned to a group standing next to one of his men, already reporting details of the fight.

But it was Chalmers, finally, who came forward, hypnotized by the blood on Connolly’s face. A black Chevy, yes. Emma’s car. Heading down toward the bridge. Not the Cerrillos Road, to Albuquerque. The bridge. He thought they’d been too frightened to stay. Two of them, yes. He hoped it wasn’t wrong, their leaving the scene—

Connolly grabbed Holliday, moving him toward the street, so that a few people, puzzled, thought, that it was the chief who was being taken into custody.

“They’re going to her ranch,” Connolly said, getting in the car. “Up past Tesuque.”

But when they reached the Alameda, one of Holliday’s men, on traffic duty, had seen the car going west. “Hell of a way to get to Tesuque,” Holliday said.

“The Hill,” Connolly said.

“Now why would they do that?”

“I don’t know.”

Just in case, Holliday ordered the traffic cop to check the road to Albuquerque, then turned sharply onto the Alameda, wrenching the gearshift hard so that the car shuddered as they shot forward.

Connolly was wiping his face, the handkerchief stiff now with dried blood.

“How’s your rib?”

“It hurts. Maybe just a bruise.”

“You ought to get that taped. You could puncture a lung.”

Then they were out of town, rounding one of the low hills to an open stretch of yucca and gray mesquite. “Can’t you go any faster?” Connolly said, still anxious.

“If they’re going that fast, somebody’s likely to pick them up. Save us the trouble.”

“She wouldn’t be thinking that clearly. She just wants to get away.”

“She capable of killing her?”

“Yes,” Connolly said grimly.

“Then we better not let her see us. First rule of pursuit—the minute they see you, they’ll go that much faster.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to slow down.”

“Well, that looks to be them up ahead.”

In the distance, Connolly saw the dark speck of a car heading toward the Jemez foothills. “How long have you known?” he said, looking at Holliday.

“Few miles. You ought to calm down—you’d see more. ‘Course, when you do this for a living you get a feeling for it. Now look at that,” he said, as Emma’s car took a curve wide. “Not a very good driver, is she?”

“No.”

“Someone special to you?”

“Yes.”

“Funny thing. Someone back there thought it was a woman hit him.”

“No. Me. The statue was on the floor. I grabbed it just in time.”

“He was on the floor, was he?”

“Bent over. He was leaning over to pop me.”

Holliday was quiet for a minute. “It could have happened that way, I guess.”

“It did,” Connolly said, looking at him. “I don’t think anybody could’ve seen it clearly. He was blocking the way.”

“And of course it all happened so fast.”

“That’s right.”

“What’d you say to him, got him so excited?”

“I told him we had proof he killed Bruner.”

Holliday paused. “That would do it.”

The road was climbing now, out of the Rio Grande Valley, and it was more difficult to keep the car in sight.

“Sure does look like they’re heading for the Hill.”

“Don’t lose her.”

But a huge cattle truck, lumbering off a secondary road, swung onto the highway to block their view.

“Pass him,” Connolly said.

“Now just where in hell do you expect me to do that?”

They crept up behind the truck, close enough to see the cattle watching them through the slats. The truck ground upward, slowing at each incline, spewing clouds of diesel exhaust. Connolly leaned over to beep the horn, but there was nowhere for the truck to go; the narrow shoulders rimmed the side of the hill. There was an agony of waiting as the truck made its way up the high grades of Highway 4, trapping Holliday’s car and another behind it. Finally, a few miles before the turnoff for Frijoles Canyon, the truck slowed nearly to a stop and turned onto a dirt road that dropped precipitously to some canyon where lonely grazing land was waiting.

Holliday, in a hurry now, lurched forward, spinning around a curve so tightly that Connolly was thrown against the door. Pine trees passed in a blur. Connolly craned his neck, hoping to see the car around each turn, but they still hadn’t spotted it by the time they reached the turnoff for the west gate. Improbably, a sign posted in the middle of the road announced that it was closed.

“Well, what the hell,” Holliday said.

“They put it there. So nobody would follow. Just drive in.” Even as he said it, he remembered the extra security, sealing the Hill before the test. But where else would they go?

Holliday drove around the sign and sped down the gate road. The same Georgia cracker was on duty at the sentry post. He came out carrying a rifle, clearly upset to see the car.

“Can’t you fucking
read?”
he said, his twang turned mean. “This road’s closed.”

“Black Chevy come through here?” Connolly said.

“Ain’t nobody come through here. Road’s closed. Can’t you
read?”
He took up the rifle.

Holliday flashed his badge out the car window. “Put your dick back in your pants,” he said. “Now, that car come through here or not? Two ladies.”

“No, sir,” the soldier said sullenly.

Holliday turned to Connolly. “Now what?”

They’d been on Highway 4. He’d seen them. Had they slipped into one of the canyons? Frijoles? Those were traps, nature’s dead ends. It had to be the Hill. But they didn’t know the gate road would be closed. They’d have no choice but to continue on. Maybe she had even planned it that way. Anybody trailing them would come here, following the wrong scent.

“They’re still on 4,” Connolly said.

“They could have turned off. They could be anywhere.”

“She’s not hiding. She’s running.” All the way to the Pacific, he thought. “Come on, just a little farther.”

They saw nothing for miles. They drove by the green valley of the caldera, Connolly thinking of that other drive, to Chaco, when everything had changed.

“If you’re wrong, we’re just going farther and farther in the wrong direction,” Holliday said. “This road’s a bitch.” They were driving into the sun, and at this speed the curves and hills came at them like an obstacle course. There was no other traffic—Sunday.

“She’s heading for 44,” Connolly said. “Why else would they come this way?”

“If they did.”

And then, minutes later, coming down from the caldera, the views began to open up and they saw the car below them, moving through the landscape like a figure in a child’s picture book.

“Get closer,” Connolly said.

“Why?”

He imagined the Chevy for a minute on a canyon road, a short detour, one shot. How long would Hannah feel she needed her? “I want to see if they’re both still there.”

Holliday glanced at him, then nodded quickly. “You’re the boss.”

The car, already going fast, speeded up, taking one dip in the road so quickly that for a moment they felt suspended. When their stomachs followed them down, Connolly groaned.

“Open the glove compartment,” Holliday said.

Connolly leaned over and pushed the button. The door of the compartment flapped down. He stared at the gun, struck by its size, the bulky carved handle and long, thin barrel. A Western gun. It was like looking at a snake, threatening even when it was still. He touched it, as cold as dead flesh, and held his hand there, feeling another death. But the violence ended with Hector. Karl to Eisler to—The chain had to stop now.

“Ever use one?” Holliday said.

“No,” Connolly said, taking it out. A cowboy gun. Chasing the runaway stagecoach across the screen. A prop. Heavy. One shot. “We need her alive,” he said, taking his hand away. “She’s the key.”

“Who?”

“Both of them.”

Holliday took a breath. “Leave it on the seat. Just in case.”

“Could you hit one of the tires?” Connolly said.

“You don’t want to do that. Not at this speed.”

Connolly placed it carefully on the seat next to Holliday. It wasn’t finished. Guns go off. For a second he wanted to stop the car, stop everything in time before it moved the next notch. Hannah was bound to be caught, somehow. He saw her at a train station, melting into the crowd, leaving Emma in the car. But Emma was still, slumped against the door.

When he looked up, he saw the sign for Jemez Springs. Everything now reminded him of that other drive. They were still dropping, literally putting a mountain between them and the dead man in Santa Fe.

“They see us,” Holliday said.

The car in front of them jerked with a new burst of speed. Connolly imagined Hannah’s panic. Her one chance was to lose herself in all the empty space, leaving the past behind the mountain. You could do that in the West. Now it was following her, a bogeyman always just over her shoulder. No time to be careful. She would have the gun on Emma, watching her steer, then looking out the window behind, trapped.

“Not too close,” Connolly said. “She has to stop sometime.”

“She’s not going to stop,” Holliday said quietly.

Connolly saw the few buildings of town, Emma’s Chevy streaking through, past the wide porch of the old hotel, the gas station. Suddenly a police car pulled into the street behind her. Our old friend the speed trap, Connolly thought. Emma had been so annoyed. But not now.
Get out of the way
, he wanted to scream,
you don’t know
. But the traffic cop, jolted from his lazy afternoon watch, kept on them, his one chance for a ticket. When they didn’t stop, he turned on his siren.

The noise cracked the air like a long scream. Connolly felt his own blood pump faster, triggered by the sharp wail, and he knew that Hannah’s would be racing. The siren wouldn’t stop. It surrounded them, louder and closer, as if the air itself were chasing them. He imagined Hannah turning to see—not just Connolly’s car now, but the lights and the siren, a whole posse. She was being run to ground.

“Idiot
. He’s got to stop,” Connolly yelled to no one.

They flashed through the town and then they were back in the hills again, but the cop kept going, inching closer to the lead car.
It’s not speeding
, Connolly wanted to shout.
You’re ruining everything
. But that wasn’t the point anymore. Now it was Emma, hands clenched on the wheel, terrified, the air shrieking around her. And his own helplessness. He’d found out everything and it didn’t matter. He couldn’t help her.

When they started climbing the long hill, the police car gained on them, the siren still furious and insistent. Holliday, grim, was pushing their car as fast as it could go, flashing his headlights to get the cop’s attention. Nobody stopped. When Emma reached the top, the car shuddered for an instant, then banked into a sharp curve. Connolly saw it swerve. Then the squeal of tires as it slid toward the edge of the road, the crack as it hit the tree, so fast that it bounced away, fishtailing back in an uncontrollable circle until it flew off the road, plunging backward over the side. He heard the sound of metal crashing, louder even than the siren, a roar. Connolly’s mind went blank. He thought for a second that he could not see, but that was only because the car was gone.

At the top, he jumped from Holliday’s car even before it stopped, the momentum pitching him forward, past the traffic cop standing at the side of the road, over the rim, then down the hill in great leaps, sending up clouds of dust. The car was on its side, driver’s side up, steam rising from the hood. There was glass everywhere. Running, Connolly thought he heard a new siren, but it was his own screaming, shouting her name. He was still screaming for her when he fell against the car, unable to stop his run. Pain shot through his chest. He yanked the door handle, pulling with both hands until it finally came unstuck and popped open. The angle of the car made it snap back, hitting him on the shoulder, and he groaned, then pushed it again until it stayed open. She was flung over the steering wheel, her face covered with blood, not moving.

He reached in to pull her body out. Her head fell back. Was she breathing? He put his arm around her waist, pulling her toward him, straining with the weight. She was wedged against the steering wheel, so that finally he had to pull her out by her arms, the lower part of her body dragged along like a twisted stuffed animal. When she was halfway through the door, Holliday came to help lift her out.

“Is she dead? Is she dead?” Connolly was yelling, putting his ear against her mouth. There was a lot of blood, gashes along her arms from the windshield glass, her face almost covered with it.

Holliday quickly bent over, feeling for a pulse, checking for breathing. “She’s unconscious,” he said briskly. “Help me get her out of here.”

“We’re not supposed to move her!” Connolly shouted, out of his mind. “Don’t you know that? You’re not supposed to move her! You could break something.”

Holliday looked up at him, using the force of his stare to calm him, bring him back. “You’d better move her. This is going to blow.”

A small explosion, not deafening, then a whoosh of fire igniting. Connolly leaned over, covering her as if they were being bombed. When there was no after-explosion, he knelt back, nodding to Holliday, who grabbed her other side to carry her away from the car. They staggered uphill under the weight, finally stopping halfway up. Connolly wiped his face, thinking it was sweat, then saw that it was tears—had he been crying? hysterical?—and fresh blood.

“She’s breathing,” Holliday said. Then, to the traffic cop, “Here, give me a hand. We have to get her to a hospital. Connolly, out of the way. That’s not doing her any good.”

He was wiping some of the blood away, to see her face. Holliday touched him on the shoulder, pressing him gently backward, away from her body.

“She’s not dead,” Connolly said absently.

“Not yet,” Holliday said. “Come on.”