by Joseph Kanon
“They told me he liked to drive around.”
“Yeah, in that Buick of his.” So he noticed.
“Did he ever have anyone with him?”
The soldier looked at him, puzzled, as if he hadn’t understood the question.
“Did he?” Connolly asked, pressing.
“Sometimes. You’re asking an awful lot of questions,” he said, cautious again.
“Just one. Who used to go with him?”
The soldier looked away. “Is this some kind of investigation or something? What do you want to know for?”
Connolly stared at him.
“I mean, he’s dead. I don’t want to go making trouble for nobody. That was his business. Now it’s just hers, I guess.”
“Hers?”
“Well, sure. I figured they was just—scootin’ off, you know? None of my business.”
“You’d better make it your business. I mean it. You know who she was? What she looked like? I need to know this.”
The soldier looked flustered. “Well, hell, I thought you did know. I didn’t mean to start nothing.”
“How would I know?”
“Well, I thought she was a friend of yours too.”
Connolly stood still. When he finally spoke, his voice had the low steadiness of a threat. “Are you trying to tell me it was Mrs. Pawlowski?”
The soldier retreated a step. “Well, God Almighty, you kept askin’. Now don’t go and blame me.”
“How many times?” Connolly said, his voice still unnaturally steady.
“A few.”
“Where were they going?”
“Where?” And now his face, no longer frightened, filled with a sly grin, as if the question were irrelevant. “I guess you’ll have to ask her.”
11
HE DIDN’T SEE her until the end of the week. He sat listlessly at his desk or lying on Karl’s bed, absorbed in his own mystery. The days were hot and dry, a steady wind scratching at everyone’s nerves. The talk was of drought and an outbreak of chicken pox in the school and the frequent caravans to Trinity. The scientists seemed never to appear, locked full-time in the labs. There were no parties. A fight broke out in one of the enlisted men’s barracks, something to do with an insult taken, but really about the new tension of the work and the constant dry wind that made everything feel as suspended as dust.
Connolly didn’t notice any of it. Something had detonated in him, like one of Kisty’s tests, and he sat shuffling through the pieces, repeating her conversations in his head, wondering what had been meant, what she wanted him to believe. Mills avoided him, sensing the black mood that was smothering him, and when Connolly noticed him at all, it was only as a figure of a more cheerful betrayal. He read through Emma’s file, and Daniel’s, as if they were new characters on the Hill, people he’d never met. Why had she married him? He’d never asked. How many others? The mood festered in him, silently, until the surprise and hurt became pure anger, and when that happened he stopped thinking about anything else.
One day he saw her walking past Ashley Pond and he wanted to run over and take her by the shoulders. Why did you lie to me? But he couldn’t bring himself to ask her, and he realized with a sick feeling in his stomach that it was because he still wanted her. The wind blew her clothes against her and there was that rider’s stride, quick and straightforward, utterly without deceit. But why lie? What had she to do with Karl, with any of it? He drew his imaginary blackboard map, but she didn’t fit anywhere. Instead, she was in another map, an X at Theater-2 and the punch bowl, lines to Santa Fe, to Chaco, to—and he saw that she was everywhere on this personal map, it was about her, everything that had happened to him. Was any of it true? Where had they gone? Maybe just a lift into town. But the soldier hadn’t thought so, with his stupid, sly grin. The MP at Trinity hadn’t thought so either. In this hot, lazy afternoon with nothing to do but brood, no one was innocent. Not even him. He’d just been the next in line.
When they did meet, he was disarmed by her smile, easy and guileless, as bright as the day. Daniel had gone down to the test site again, and they went to the ruins at Bandelier, dodging the hot sun on the shady path along Frijoles Creek, down toward the waterfall that finally emptied into the Rio Grande. She was glad to see him, talking happily about nothing, pleased to be out. She hiked briskly along the trail in the boots and shorts she had worn at Chaco, when things were different. But in fact it all seemed the same, so clear and bright that for a moment he felt the weight of the past few days was nothing but an anxious dream, one of those nights whose gloom and dread were burned off by morning. She laughed when she washed her face in the stream, splashing him. He watched her, how easily she moved through her part, and he smiled back, unwilling to let her see him watching. He wanted her to say something, a disingenuous moment, so he could begin, but she hiked back in high spirits, and he waited. They ate a picnic near the Tyuonyi kiva, again like Chaco, with the sun overhead. There were no sounds but the stirrings of lizards and the faint hot breeze that blew the cottonweed seeds like bits of snow.
“You can see why they’d come here,” she said, her voice lazy and contented. “Water. Bottomland. Storage bins.” She pointed toward the caves hollowed out in the soft lava tufa above them. “Nothing like Chaco.”
“But they left.”
“Yes,” she said, facing the sun with her eyes closed. “Strange, isn’t it?”
In the quiet they heard a muffled explosion from one of the distant test canyons, a wave of intrusion from the Hill. They looked toward the sound, alarmed, but then it was over and everything was still again. She leaned back, closing her eyes to blot it out.
“Did the Germans come here too?” he said, stalling.
“I suppose they must have,” she said, not opening her eyes. “Or maybe it was the priests. It’s always the priests, isn’t it? Some bloody archbishop leading them to the promised land. Some idea. The Navajos were frightened by it, when they came. Found all these ready-made cities and never moved in. Wouldn’t touch them.”
“Maybe they were the Germans.”
“No. At least, we don’t think so,” she said, a seminar we. “No sign of fighting at all. Anyway, they’re not like that. They’re lovely. In the creation myth, one part of the darkness makes love to another and the one on top becomes light and rises up to be the first day. It’s lovely, that,” she said, her voice soft. “Think of ours. God blundering about making this and that, busy. Everything done in a week. No wonder we blow things up.”
“What happens after they have sex, the dark and the light?”
“They make the wind, the life force. I love the Navajos for that—everything beginning in bed.”
“They really say that?”
“Of course,” she said lightly. “Would I lie to you?”
“I don’t know. Would you?”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, but he didn’t say anything more and she let it pass. “There’s quite a lot of sex in the myth. The earth and the sky make love, and the moisture between them, the sweat, waters the earth and makes everything grow. Do admit, it’s a lot nicer than God just waving his hand here and there, making zebras and things. It’s funny, though, they don’t seem sensual at all, the Indians. But I suppose they must be.”
Her voice drifted away, so that in the quiet it seemed she had been talking to herself. She sat up and lit a cigarette, staring out at the swath of green near the creek, waiting for him to speak.
“A penny for your thoughts,” she said finally. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Why should anything be wrong?”
“I don’t know. You’re all—coiled. You haven’t touched me all day, so something must be wrong. You’re not the Navajo type.”
He said nothing, working a stick in the ground, making idle patterns. “I want to ask you something, and I’m not sure how.”
He felt her stiffen beside him, an almost imperceptible movement, like one of the tiny lizards flitting behind a rock.
&nbs
p; “Oh. Perhaps you’d better just ask, then.”
“Tell me about you and Karl.”
She exhaled smoke as if she had been holding her breath, and continued to look ahead. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Oh, everything.”
“You told me you scarcely knew him, but that isn’t true, is it? You were seen with him.”
“Quite the detective.” She paused. “Is it so important?” she said softly.
“Of course it’s important. He was murdered.”
“Well, I didn’t bloody murder him,” she said, facing him.
“Why did you lie to me?”
“I didn’t lie to you. It’s nothing to do with this. It wasn’t any of your business.”
“You did lie to me.”
“Have it your way, then,” she said, getting up. “It’s still none of your business.”
“Tell me,” he said, standing.
“What does it matter? It was over.”
“Tell me,” he shouted, his voice breaking through the still air like the far explosion.
“Tell me,” she mimicked. “All right, he was my lover. Better?”
Her words hung in the air, as if neither of them wanted to pick them up.
“Why?” he said finally.
“Why. Why. He asked me, I suppose. I’m easy. You ought to know.”
They glared at each other.
“Tell me,” he said quietly.
She broke the stare, looking down to rub out her cigarette. “Last year. A few times. It didn’t mean anything.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Maybe I didn’t want you to think I was that kind of girl.”
“Where?”
“Where?” she said, exasperated. “Places. There are places, you know.”
“Santa Fe?”
“Nowhere we’ve been, if that’s what you want to know,” she said angrily. “Someplace on the road to Albuquerque. Look, it happened. I can’t help that. It was over. What do the details matter? You’ve no right.”
“Yes, I do. Did you love him?”
“Stop it.”
“Did you?”
“Of course I didn’t bloody love him. We had sex. I enjoyed it. I didn’t enjoy it. Is that what you want to hear? Anyway, it stopped. I didn’t want Daniel to know. I was afraid.”
“You’re not afraid of anything.”
“I’m afraid of you,” she said, then looked away. “You want too much. ‘Tell me everything. Where did you go? Did you enjoy it? Were you ashamed?’ All angry and wounded, as if it had anything to do with you. I didn’t even know you. It had nothing to do with anybody, really. Except him. And then later he was killed. What did you want me to do, run over and tell everybody in security that we’d been having it off in some motel down the road? I was relieved. I thought nobody would ever know.”
“And it didn’t matter that there was a murder investigation?”
“Why should it? I didn’t know anything about that.”
“Even when they said it was a homosexual murder.”
She looked stunned. “What are you talking about?”
“They thought Karl was homosexual. They still do. They convicted a man because they thought it.”
“But why?” she said, bewildered. “That’s crazy. He wasn’t that.”
“You never told them otherwise.”
She shook her head, confused and angry. “That’s not fair. I never knew. You never told me, come to that. He was killed in the park—that’s all I ever heard. A robbery. Why would anyone think—” She trailed off, still trying to digest it.
“You’re sure.”
“What do you want to know?” she snapped. “What we did in bed? Is that part of the investigation? It was lovely, all right? Maybe he thought I was a boy. How would I know? It didn’t feel that way to me.”
“Emma, whoever killed him tried to make it look like that kind of crime. Probably so we wouldn’t look anywhere else. He succeeded. There was no reason to think otherwise, no—history. Until now. That’s why I had to know. That’s all.”
“Is it? Is that what this is about? I only went to bed with him, you know. I didn’t kill him.”
He turned away from her, squinting into the sun, his voice toneless and quick as he questioned her. “Did you go to Santa Fe with him that night?”
“No, of course not. It was over long before that.”
“Did you ever go to San Isidro?”
“No. Yes, I suppose so, when I first came here. Everybody does. Oh, what does it matter? Stop this.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t. You’re putting me on trial. For what? Did I hurt your feelings? Well, I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t about us.”
She was biting her bottom lip. “Isn’t it? I thought it was.”
“Emma,” he said patiently, “he wasn’t killed, he was murdered. That means there was a reason. It’s important. You’ve got to help me.”
She looked at him, disconcerted by his tone. “What do you want me to do? Tell the police I slept with him? That they’ve made a mistake?”
“No. It wouldn’t make any difference. They don’t care.”
She stared at him for a minute, taking this in. “But you do.”
“I just want to know.”
“No, that’s when you were just a cop. Now you’re judge and jury as well. I’ve told you—isn’t that enough? I went with him. I’ve done it before. You weren’t the first.”
“Why him?”
“I don’t know. He was good-looking. Maybe I was bored. It just happened. Is that so hard for you to believe?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Does it disappoint you? Did you think I was better than that?”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said evenly, sure now. “It didn’t just happen.”
“How would you know? Oh, you think you know something. You don’t know anything. Leave me alone.”
She turned to walk away but he grabbed her arm, bringing her back and holding her. “You’re lying to me again.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Just a casual fling? With Karl? No. Karl wasn’t like that. He liked to know things, that’s what he cared about. He knew something about you. So you slept with him. Because he made you. Or maybe it was your idea, to keep him quiet. That’s what happened, isn’t it? Was it your idea?”
“Leave me alone,” she shouted, pulling her arm free and moving away from him.
“What was it, Emma?” he said to her back. “What was so important that you’d do that? Did you give him money too, or was the motel enough?”
But she was walking away from him. “Go to hell,” she said. The low wall of the kiva stopped her and she stood against the piled stones looking down the canyon, not crying but heaving gulps of air. Connolly moved toward her slowly, afraid a quick movement would make her bolt. When he spoke his voice was gentle, soothing a startled horse.
“Emma, you’ve got to tell me. He was killed. You were the only one who knew him.”
“I didn’t know him,” she said, her back still to him. “I just slept with him. They don’t always go together. I thought I knew you.”
“Karl was blackmailing someone,” he began again. “He was getting money. If it wasn’t you, it was somebody else. Don’t you see what I’m saying? There’s somebody else. I’ve got to find out who. You’re the only one who can help me.”
She turned to face him, her eyes moist. “I can’t. Please.”
“But I will find out. You know that, don’t you? I’ve got to.”
“Why? Why you?”
“Because there’s been a crime and this isn’t just anyplace. It isn’t New York, it’s not even Santa Fe. It’s a weapons lab. That’s what they’re doing here. Not science. They’re making weapons. Secret ones. So everything’s different. Why do people get killed? Money? There isn’t any money here. Sex? Maybe. That would have been convenient for everybo
dy. But what if it’s about the weapons? They can’t stop until they know. So they won’t. If it’s not me, it’ll be somebody else. Is there really anything so terrible you couldn’t tell me? You’ve got to trust me that much.”
“Do I?” she said, her face creased in a sarcastic smile. “I wonder why.”
“Because I’m going to find out anyway.”
She looked away, letting her shoulders slope wearily. “Yes, I suppose you will,” she said coolly. “For the good of the country or something. Nothing to do with you. A patriot. That was one lovely thing about Karl, he wasn’t a patriot. You can trust someone who doesn’t believe in anything. The rest of you—”
She walked back to where the remains of the picnic lay and lit another cigarette.
“Where do you want me to start? My first husband? He believed in everything. Mostly himself, it turned out.”
“You were married before?”
“Yes. Matthew. I seem to have a run of Ms. All great believers, too. Anyway, we were young—I suppose that’s no excuse, but we were—and he was a great rebel and so I adored him. He was fun. I don’t think you know how boring England can be. Sunday roast and all the eligibles in the Tatler and Matthew wasn’t having any of it. The people’s revolution was his line. God, all those treks to Highgate to see old Marx’s grave. My parents loathed him. So when he went off to Spain to fight the Fascists, naturally I went with him. My father always said I’d end up in Gretna Green—that’s where the wild girls elope to—but it turned out to be Madrid instead. That dreary registrar’s office. Not even a clergyman—you know how the comrades are about that. Actually, they weren’t very keen on marriage either, but free love in the trenches—well, it wasn’t madly me, was it? You can only take the country out of the girl so far. So there I was, Señora Matthew Lawson, International Brigade.”
“You were a Communist?”
She hesitated, as if his question had interrupted a reverie. “He was,” she said more seriously, drawing on her cigarette. “Party membership, the lot. You had to be, really, in the brigade. I was just—what? In love, maybe. Away. On my adventure. Not that I didn’t admire him for it. I did, tremendously. He believed in something. No one else seemed to. You know, the world is always coming to an end at that age and no one’s doing anything about it. Except then—well, it really was, wasn’t it? I thought he was right. Anyone could see the Germans were up to no good, and of course all the people one despised most didn’t seem to mind at all. Uncle Arthur. He actually went to the Olympics and said how inspiring it all was, the fool. That was typical. But Matthew, he knew, he actually did something. And then he was wounded. Nothing serious, a flesh wound it turned out, but I didn’t know that then. I thought he was going to die. You can see how romantic it was, me all weepy next to the cot in that awful field hospital and the comrades crashing around in Spanish, shooting anything that flew over, and my brave Matthew stopping the Fascists with his body while everyone back home was just out in the garden and being mean about the miners—oh, I was having my adventure. Sounds rather pathetic now, doesn’t it? It wasn’t, though. It was romantic. Exciting.”