Los Alamos

by Joseph Kanon

  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.”

  “What about the other one?” the cop said.

  Connolly looked up, surprised. The other one. Flames were eating around the back of the car now, the air pungent with oil smoke. The one who would have killed her. Without thinking, he plunged back down the hill, stumbling, his body shaking with a fury he had never felt before.

  “Get away from there!” Holliday shouted. But he had to see.

  She was lying flat against the passenger door, her neck twisted, Mills’s gun still in her right hand. He looked down into the car, wanting to hurt her more, and then suddenly felt nothing. Her skirt was hiked up, thrown back when the car overturned, and he felt oddly embarrassed. Had she died when the car hit the tree, snapping her neck? Or had she had a few awful moments when the car tumbled over, falling, and she knew. No more secrets. But she’d kept her last one—now she’d never tell him anything. And there was no one else. Connolly had lost them all.

  There was another pop as the fire spread from the back seat. He knew he should run, but he stood there transfixed, watching it creep along until it reached her and she too began to burn, her clothes scorching and smoky. He drew his head back, away from the flames that had begun to engulf the car, and through the smoke he thought he saw her body fold into itself, curling up like a secret message burning in an ashtray.

  19

  THE RAIN WOKE her. The blinds in Eisler’s old hospital room blew in with a small gust, then flapped back against the half-open window. There had been hail earlier, the nurse had told him, but the violent clouds had passed, leaving patches of evening drizzle. She stared at him for a minute, adjusting her eyes to the dim light, to any light. Her face, wrapped in bandages, moved faintly in a dreamy smile. Sitting on the bed, looking over her, he was all she could see.

  “Where am I?” she said in a whisper, trying out her voice to see if it was still there.

  “On the Hill. The infirmary.”

  She tried to move and winced with pain. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Broken ribs. Dislocated shoulder. Leg fracture. Shock. Multiple lacerations. Some internal bleeding they’re watching.” He paused. “You’ll be all right.”

  She smiled at the medical report. “I must look a sight.”

  He felt her unbandaged hand. “Terrible.”

  “Am I on drugs?”

  “Painkillers.”

  “So I’m not dreaming. This is all real.” She moved her eyes again, focusing. “Why do you have your clothes off?”

  He was shirtless, his lower chest wrapped in white adhesive tape. “Oh, this,” he said, fingering the tape. “Hector.”

  Her eyes clouded. “What happened to him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead,” she repeated, dismayed.

  “I didn’t mean to hit him so hard,” he said slowly. “It must have been the angle.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, confused.

  “I hit him with the statue,” he said, looking at her directly. “It was self-defense. That’s the way it makes sense. There won’t be any more questions. He knocked you over—do you remember that?” He waited for her nod. “He killed Karl.”

  She watched him as he spoke, then closed her eyes. For a second he thought she had drifted back to sleep. “You got your man,” she said.

  “We did.”

  “So it’s finished?”

  “Yes, finished.”

  She opened her eyes. “Hannah?” she said, remembering.

  “She was the contact. The end of Matthew’s chain.”

  “But she never—at the ranch.”

  “She didn’t know. She only knew Eisler.”

  “All this time,” Emma said vaguely, lost in her thoughts. “I thought she was my—”

  “She was. She liked you.”

  “Then why?”

  “You got in the way. Like Karl.”

  “Like Karl,” she repeated, trembling.

  “Get some sleep,” he said.

  But she grabbed his hand more firmly. “No, don’t go. Stay. I don’t want to dream about it. I want to be awake.”

  “You can be awake tomorrow. You’re really going to be all right, you know. You’re lucky.”

  She smiled, her eyes closing again. “Yes, lucky.”

  “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “Call Daniel. I want to see him.”

  Connolly nodded. “They’re putting a call through. He’s at the site.”

  “It’s finished now,” she said, not hearing him. “I can sort things out.”

  He looked at her nervously. “What are you going to do?”

  “When I saw him hitting you,” she said slowly, “I knew. So clear. Just like that. I killed him, didn’t I?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She opened her eyes. “Not the story. The truth.”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “I thought so. You see what that means? To kill for someone—If I felt that way, Daniel must know. Maybe all along. All those lies. Not his bed. But he knew.”

  “He never said anything.”

  “He was waiting for me. To see if it would pass. Like the others. This time he was waiting for me. It was all right, you see, until it was someone—”

  He raised her hand to his lips. “I can talk to him.”

  “No. Me. It’s time. When it’s so clear. We always think we have time for everything,” she said, her voice drifting.

  “You’re not dying.”

  “No. But look how fast. When did all this happen? This afternoon? One afternoon.”

  “We’ll have lots of time.”

  She raised her hand to the side of his face. “We’ll go dancing,” she said.

  “I thought you were dead. In the car.”

  She moved her hand along his cheek, soothing him.

  “Marry me,” he said softly.

  She smiled. “A proposal. Don’t you think I have enough husbands?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Everybody always wants to marry me,” she said dreamily. “Why is that, do you think?”

  “You’re a nice girl.”


  She looked at him as he kissed her hand. “Am I?”

  “Hm. I’ll even ask your father.”

  A faint smile. “He hates the Irish.”

  “I’ll bring him around.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise me?” she said seriously. “No lies. Not even little ones.”

  He was leaning over, brushing her lips, when the nurse came in. “Telephone,” she said, looking at him with disapproval. “She’s supposed to sleep.”

  “You heard her,” he said to Emma, getting up from the bed.

  “Don’t worry him,” she said. “Tell him I’m all right.”

  “You are all right.”

  He turned to go, but she stopped him. “One thing,” she said, her eyes bright now. “That place they go? Reno? Do you think they’ll do two at once?”

  He laughed at her. “Use two judges.”

  On the phone at the nurse’s station he was asked to verify that the call was an emergency before he was patched through. The connection was scratchy, as if the rain were on the line with them.

  “This is Michael Connolly. We met at—”

  “I know who you are,” the voice said coldly.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but your wife has had an accident. A car accident. She’s all right, but she’s pretty banged up.” A silence. “You still there?”

  “Yes. She is all right, you said?” His inflections were still European.

  “She has a serious fracture. Shock.”

  Another pause. “You were with her?”

  “No,” Connolly said, surprised. “Not in the car.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Here on the Hill. In the infirmary. There wasn’t time to get her to Santa Fe. I thought you’d better know.”

  “Thank you,” Pawlowski said politely. “May I talk to her?”

  “She can’t come to the phone—she’s in bed. You can see her, though. Can you leave right away?”

  “Leave? Tonight? But the test—”

  “Sorry,” a voice interrupted. “This is the security officer. I have to remind you this is an open line.”

  “Listen,” Connolly said, annoyed, “I’m security too. The man’s wife is in the hospital.”

  “Sorry, sir. Orders. Have you finished?”

  “No, we haven’t finished. Pawlowski, did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes. But if she’s all right …,” he said, his voice drifting in the static. “It’s difficult, you see. I can’t leave here. Not tonight. It’s not permitted,” he finished stiffly.

  “Permitted? It’s Emma. She’s in the hospital. Just tell Oppie—”

  “I’m going to have to interrupt this call,” the other voice said. “The use of names is—”

  “No, don’t. Please,” Connolly said. “Pawlowski, you still there?”

  “Thank you for telling me. I’ll be there tomorrow. Tonight it’s impossible. I’m needed here.”

  “That’s it?” Connolly said.

  “I’m sure you will look after her,” Pawlowski said.

  This time Connolly heard the edge. “What do you want me to tell her, then?” He paused. “Shall I give her your love?”

  There was a silence, then he said, his voice cold again, “Yes, Mr. Connolly, give her my love.”

  He was still holding the phone, disconcerted, when Mills appeared at the door.

  “Something wrong?” Mills said, noticing his expression.

  Connolly shook his head. “Just a bad connection,” he said, putting down the receiver.

  “She going to be all right?”

  Connolly nodded.

  “What about you?” Mills said, indicating his taped chest.

  “I’ll live,” he said absently. “You’re up late.”

  For a moment neither of them spoke, then Mills moved further into the room. “Who’s Hector Ramirez?” he said finally.

  “Is that his name? I didn’t know.” He looked up at Mills. “You’ve been busy.”

  “I mean, who is he to you?”

  “He killed Karl.”

  Mills looked at him steadily. “Want to tell me why?”

  “Later,” Connolly said, turning back to the hospital room. “That can wait.”

  “Not for long,”

  Connolly stopped, his eyes raised in question.

  “Lot of curious people over at the office,” Mills said. “The switchboard’s been lighting up. Even the boys in Washington. Seems everybody wants to talk to you all of a sudden.”

  Connolly paused. “I have to see Oppenheimer first.”

  “Why is that, I wonder? Or is that something else I’m not supposed to know?” Connolly said nothing.

  Mills shrugged. “Anyway, you’re not going to see him tonight. Everybody’s down at the site. Hadn’t you heard? All the cats are away.”

  Connolly looked at him. “So all the rats got busy,” he said slowly. “You playing too? They send you over here?”

  Mills shifted, leaning toward the desk. “They have a right to ask questions, Mike. The guy was a project employee, and he’s dead. That sets off a lot of bells. Van Drasek’s in a lather—what do you expect? And he’s got Lansdale jumping on him. You can practically hear him over the wire. They want to know what the hell’s going on.”

  “So they sent you,” Connolly said. “You the advance party? What are you supposed to do, grill me? Or just keep me company till the big boys arrive? Christ. A little friendly visit. They pick on you for old times’ sake, or did you volunteer for the job?”

  “Fuck you.”

  The sharpness of it caught Connolly and he looked away, embarrassed. “Okay,” he said quietly. “So you didn’t volunteer. Look, I’m not ready for bedtime stories just yet. Not until I see Oppenheimer and Groves. Don’t ask why. There are reasons.”

  Mills glanced at him, then looked toward Emma’s room, trying to work out his own puzzle. “Oppie’s not back until tomorrow night. I can’t stall that long. Don’t make this hard, okay? You’re supposed to be working with us.”

  “Us?”

  Mills hesitated. “Them.”

  Connolly smiled. “Okay, then let’s make it easy. You got here and I was already gone. Nobody knows where.”

  “Mike—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back by morning,” Connolly said. “Just give me one night. I need to see him. To square things.”

  “It’s not up to me. You won’t get off the mesa, Mike. They have orders to stop you at the gate.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Mills shook his head. “Remember New York? They’re still pissed off about that. They think you’re the slippery type.”

  Connolly looked away, thinking. “Then we’ll use your car. You went after me. You figured I was going to the site to see my buddy Groves. Going over everybody’s head again. They won’t stop your car.”

  “And where are you going to be—in the trunk?” Mills said sarcastically.

  “Just the back,” Connolly said easily. “Having a rest. They’re not going to search your car. Besides, you’re in a hurry.” He lowered his voice. “Come on, Mills. Take a chance. For once.”

  Mills colored, stung. “Why? More games,” he said, almost sneering.

  “Just one more. A little war game. Don’t worry, you won’t get shot. Nobody gets hurt, in fact. That’s the point.”

  “They’re not the enemy, Mike,” Mills said calmly.

  “They’re not on your side either, you know.” Connolly paused. “Just help me finish the case.”

  Mills stared at him. “Finish how? Another rewrite? Is that what we’re talking about? You going to rewrite this too?”

  “If I have to.”

  “For her sake?” Mills said, nodding toward Emma’s room.

  Connolly ignored the gesture. “Everybody’s. It’s better this way.”

  “How do you know? Just how do you decide what people ought to know?”

  “I was trained in it, remember? It’s how I sp
ent the war.”

  “Yeah. I thought you gave all that up.”

  “Almost. Anyway, I won’t have to do it much longer. The war’s over. Everybody will rewrite it now. Pretty soon nobody will know what happened.” He moved again toward the door. “Meanwhile, I could use a ride. Just a ride.”

  They were still staring at each other, not saying anything, when the nurse came back. She hesitated at the door, afraid of interrupting, then went over to the desk. “She’s asking for you,” she said to Connolly. “Two minutes. I’ve given her another shot.”

  Mills broke the stare and wearily, as if he had lost an argument with himself, turned to the nurse. “You on night duty?”

  She nodded.

  “No other visitors. That’s G-2 orders. You understand?”

  She raised her eyebrows but nodded again, a good soldier.

  “Thanks,” Connolly said to him.

  “She doesn’t talk to anyone until I get back,” Mills said to the nurse, ignoring Connolly. “I mean, not anyone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Her husband might show up,” Connolly said.

  The nurse looked at Mills. “I thought he was her husband.”

  “Him?” Mills smiled. “No, he’s working with us.”

  When he went back into the room, she seemed to be sleeping, and he stood there for a minute watching her, the sheet barely moving with her breathing. He thought of her at Costello’s, listening to the revisionist stories, somebody else’s Berlin.

  “Is he all right?” she said, her eyes still closed. “Did you tell him not to worry?”

  For a moment, still distracted, he didn’t know what she meant.

  “Daniel,” he said finally. “Yes.”

  “He’s coming?”

  He looked at her, hesitating. “Of course,” he lied. “I have to go pick him up. There’s no other transport.”

  “Oh, so far?” she said, looking at him now. “You shouldn’t be driving.”