And then I came to a harder choice: a Y-shaped intersection, two four-foot tunnels angling to the right and left. No main line to make the decision easy for me anymore; two choices, with no way to know what I’d find in the one I chose — and no way to know what I’d miss in the one I didn’t.
As I reached the intersection, the concrete walls around me gave way to a wider chamber made of brick. Iron bars jutted from the bricks — the rungs of a ladder set into the wall. Overhead was a large black disk; water poured down on me through a dozen or more holes spaced evenly inside its circumference. I was directly beneath a manhole, and I was confronted by not two alternatives but three.
I shone my faint light on each. I didn’t much like the tunnel branching to the right; it seemed to be carrying more water than the one to the left, so between the current and the stooping, the going would be extremely difficult. Of the two, I’d be inclined to take the left fork.
But there was also the manhole. A world of freedom, an infinite number of paths to freedom, lay just beyond that barrier of iron. I made my choice. I grasped a rung and began to climb.
As I neared the top, some ten rungs up, doubts and questions set in. Would she have seen the manhole, if she didn’t have a light? Would she be able to raise the heavy disk? Would I be able to raise it? Well, if you can’t, she probably didn’t, I realized. Might as well try it.
Gripping the topmost rung with my left hand, I leaned back slightly into the vertical shaft and pushed upward at one edge of the manhole cover. It did not move. I tightened my grip and pushed harder, and the disk lifted slightly. I shifted my feet on the iron rung and put more force behind the push. The cover tilted upward — six inches, a foot, more — and then the iron rung in my right hand tore from the mortar between the bricks, and I was falling. When I hit the water, the shock of the fall and the chill of the water nearly claimed my consciousness. I struggled to regain my footing but the current was too swift, the walls were too smooth, and I was too weak. I felt myself swept along, down the dark passage, down toward icy oblivion. And then, just as I felt myself slipping into inner darkness, I shot out into a deeper pool of water, into a world lit by strobing blue lights, and unseen hands were bearing me up to safety.
CHAPTER 44
Okay, here’s what we’ve been able to piece together so far,” said Thornton. “Alvin and Theresa Morgan were young American missionaries who went to Japan in 1935, right after their marriage. By virtue of some incredibly bad luck, they settled in Nagasaki. In August 1945, Theresa was eight months pregnant. She was badly injured by the bomb. The doctors couldn’t save her, but they did manage to save the baby. Newspaper stories in Japan called him ‘the Nagasaki miracle.’ That baby was Isabella’s father, Jacob Morgan.”
“That’s a hell of a beginning,” I said. “What next?”
“He was adopted by another missionary couple. Raised in Japan. Married another Nagasaki survivor — a young woman who was the daughter of a Japanese nurse and an Italian physician. He took his wife’s family name, which was Arakawa.”
“So Isabella was only one-quarter Asian,” I said. That was why, despite her dark, exotic beauty, she didn’t look Japanese. “But why turn killer? Lots of people lost parents or grandparents in the bombings without becoming murderous.”
“Isabella’s mother died of bone cancer when Isabella was ten. Her father was treated for prostate cancer in his fifties. I’m sure she blamed the bomb for their cancer as well as her grandmother’s death. I suppose, for someone looking to avenge a Nagasaki family’s suffering, the guy responsible for the success of the plutonium reactors seemed a logical target.”
Miranda shook her head sadly. “Three generations of fallout from Nagasaki,” she said. “Gives a sad twist to the term ‘radioactive daughter product,’ doesn’t it?” Nobody smiled at the grim pun. “But if Isabella’s Japanese heritage mattered so much, why’d she change her name from Arakawa — that was the name on her master’s-degree thesis — to Morgan?”
“Two reasons, I suspect,” said Thornton. “First, in memory of her grandmother, the one who was killed by the Nagasaki bomb. Second, to make her connection to her father and to Japan harder to trace, once she set the wheels in motion.”
“Say some more about her father’s part in all this,” I said.
Thornton nodded. “Remember, Jacob Arakawa lost his mother and his wife and maybe his prostate to the bomb,” he said. “So it’s possible he raised his daughter on hatred. But that’s just speculation. What we do know is this. Four weeks ago, he retired from Pipeline Services, Inc., on the eve of the company’s financial collapse. Three weeks ago, according to credit-card transactions at gas stations, he drove from New Iberia to Oak Ridge. The very next day, he turned around and drove home again.”
“So he made the trip just to bring the radiography camera he’d stolen,” said Emert.
“Looks that way,” said Thornton. “Shortly after he got back to Louisiana, he showed up at a hospital ER in New Orleans. Two days ago, just as we were closing in on him, he died of acute radiation sickness.”
“From removing and handling the iridium source,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Thornton. “We’ll probably never know which one of them put it into the vitamin capsule Novak swallowed, or how they got the capsule into Novak’s pill bottle. From the burn you saw on Isabella’s hand, she must have handled it at some point — probably longer than Miranda did, but not as long as Dr. Garcia.” Miranda shot me a look of pain, and I knew she was grieving for Garcia’s hands.
“So,” I said to Emert, “where’s Isabella now?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “It’s like she’s evaporated. She never showed up at her house, never came back for her car. Every officer in Oak Ridge has her picture committed to memory. If she surfaces here, we’ll nab her. But I think she’s gone. She knew we were onto her, Doc. She was about to skip out when you showed up at the library.”
I turned to Thornton. “What about you guys? What are y’all doing?”
“We’ve frozen her bank account,” he said, “we’ve tagged her credit cards, and her picture’s at every international airport and border crossing in the country. We’re also talking to everybody she worked with here and down at Tulane during graduate school. So far, we’ve got nothing. An elusive woman and her dead father. If she could find a way to get there,” he went on, “she might try for Japan. Her whole sense of identity seems to revolve around Nagasaki. Turns out she’s been there five times in the past ten years. But I don’t see how she’d get out of the country now.”
The memory of her hands, and how she’d cried out when I’d pried her fingers from the gun, stabbed at me.
Miranda shifted in her chair. “I hate to be the one to bring this up,” she said, “but is there a chance she’s still underground? Still somewhere in the sewer system?”
“Come on,” said Emert. “It’s been a week. Surely you don’t think she’s been hiding out down there in the dark for a week?”
“No,” she said quietly. “That’s not exactly what I was thinking.” She glanced in my direction, saw the pain in my eyes, and looked away.
“Ah,” said Emert awkwardly. “Well, we haven’t been able to search all the tunnels yet. Some of the pipes are fairly small, and the folks who work on the sewers all seem to be fairly stocky guys.” He seemed to have something more to say, but he stopped. Nobody else seemed to want to say it, either.
“You might want to call Roy Ferguson,” I finally said. “And Cherokee.” The room was silent except for the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights. I stared at the table, and at my hands, which rested on it, the fingers spread slightly. “If there’s scent from…human remains…in one of the tunnels…” I had to pause; I took a breath, and then another. “The scent would spool downstream with the water. The dog should be able to detect it at the outfall near the library.” I focused on the right index finger on the table and willed it to move. The finger lifted slightly, yet still it seemed not quit
e my own. “Excuse me,” I whispered.
I left the room and turned down a dim inner hallway, heading for a rectangle of light — a glass door to the outside world. Just as I reached it, I heard a voice behind me. “Dr. B.?” I turned, and saw Miranda running toward me. She stopped a foot away. In the light pouring through the glass, her eyes shone with such kindness and compassion, I wondered what I could possibly have done to deserve them. Maybe nothing; maybe — like grace or mercy — they were unearned yet freely given, dropping as the gentle rain from heaven. I started to speak, but she held up a hand to stop me. “I need to say something to you,” she began, “and it’s really hard for me to say, because I know it will be hard for you to hear. I’m sorry about Isabella — that’s the truth, but that’s not what’s hard, because the fact is, you barely knew Isabella. But you did know Jess, and you did love Jess, and deep down, I think you’re still not over Jess’s murder. Not by a long shot. I think you’re lost in a maze of love and grief — more lost than you know — and you’re having a tough time finding your way out. It’s not just my fingertips or Eddie’s hands or some old scientist’s guts that are in tatters, Dr. B.; it’s your heart. And it’s not the storm sewers of Oak Ridge that are the labyrinth; it’s your life.” Miranda’s words shocked me — shocked me with the force of pure, blindsiding truth. “If you can work your way out of the maze, fine,” she went on. “Work as if your life depends on it, because it does. But if work isn’t the way out, then find another way instead. Talk to a therapist, take a sabbatical, get a dog, go on a pilgrimage. Whatever it takes to heal, do it. Do it for those of us who love you. Do it for Jess. Do it for yourself.”
With that she laid a hand on one of my cheeks, kissed me softly on the other, and then retraced the hallway and disappeared around a corner. I turned toward the light again, pushed open the door, and stepped into the cold February sunshine.
A slight breeze was sighing through the pines on the hill behind the police department. To my left, I saw a bright-yellow school bus stop at the entrance of the American Museum of Science and Energy. Dozens of youngsters, the age of my two grandsons, poured out of the bus and into the museum, with its displays and stories about the Secret City and the Manhattan Project. Below and to my right — just across the small stream emerging from a seven-foot circle of pipe — lay the blocky buildings of the Oak Ridge Civic Center and Public Library.
Straight ahead, through the trees and farther away, was a third destination, the one I chose. Approaching it from above, all I could see was a wooden, pagoda-like roof. Only as I descended the slope through the woods did the long, cylindrical shape of the Peace Bell come into view beneath the sheltering overhang.
The breeze kicked up slightly, and some of last fall’s dead leaves swirled around my feet. Most were brown, but some still bore traces of red and gold.
And fuchsia.
As I drew nearer the bell, a stream of fuchsia leaves flowed toward me from its base. But they were not leaves. Angular and sharply creased, they were paper cranes. Origami cranes. Hundreds of them; perhaps even a thousand.
I reached into my pocket, and my fingers closed around the hardness of silver and the softness of a silken cord.
I took the symbol of remembrance from my pocket and laid it at the base of the bell, amid a swirling flock of cranes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people, past and present, contributed to this story. Chief among them are the legions of scientists, engineers, soldiers, construction laborers, calutron operators, and other workers who brought the Manhattan Project to such swift, spectacular, and sobering fruition.
A number of physicians generously contributed their time and knowledge. Dr. Doran Christensen, of REAC/TS, answered countless questions about radioactive materials and acute radiation syndrome, as did REAC/TS health physicist Steve Sugarman, Department of Energy expert Steve Johnson, and State of Tennessee rad-health official Billy Freeman. Numerous other insights into emergency-room procedures, autopsies, and other medical matters came from Drs. Laura Westbrook, Shannon Tierney, Court Robinson, and Coleen Baird. University of Tennessee medical physicist Wayne Thompson provided remarkable and reassuring insight into how UT Medical Center could respond to a radiation emergency such as the one described in these pages. Special Agent Gary Kidder and Special Agent Chris Gay — both of the FBI’s Knoxville Field Office — offered valuable information about the Bureau and its WMD Directorate. Ron Walli, of ORNL’s Communications & External Relations Office, got us inside the fence and made us welcome, as did Al Ekkebus of the Spallation Neutron Source.
Bob Mann and Tom Holland — anthropologists and also fellow authors — provided helpful details about the Joint POW/MIA Accounting Command (formerly known as the Central Identification Laboratory — Hawaii) and about World War II-era military records. Bob also graciously forgave a phone call that unintentionally awakened him at 3 A.M. in Cambodia.
Oak Ridge historians Ray Smith and Bill Wilcox shared their knowledge generously and enthusiastically, as did Bill Sergeant, security guardian turned polio crusader; Barbara Lyon, founding editor of the ORNL Review; and Helen Jernigan, who grew up near a Tennessee POW camp that housed German and Italian prisoners. Ray Smith’s newspaper columns on Oak Ridge history made for fascinating reading and provided splendid anecdotes, and his help in reviewing the manuscript, securing photos, and accessing historic structures on the Oak Ridge Reservation went above and beyond the historian’s call of duty. So did the staff of the Oak Ridge Public Library, whose reference librarians are remarkably resourceful and helpful. Three other employees of the City of Oak Ridge offered extraordinary assistance: Cindi Gordon, ORPD Lt. Mike Uher, and public-works director Gary Cinder (the keeper of the storm-sewer tunnels). We’re also indebted to William Westcott (Ed’s son) for a guided tour of the labyrinth, and to Nicky Reynolds of the Oak Ridge Convention and Visitors Center for her swift, gracious photo help.
Several people appear in these pages under their own names, with gracious permission. Ray Smith is one of those. Others are fingerprint guru Art Bohanan (whom our returning readers will remember from our prior books); legendary Manhattan Project photographer Ed Westcott, whose cameras brilliantly captured an amazing slice of history; K-9 handlers (and dear friends) Roy and Suzy Ferguson, and their amazing dog Cherokee, whose recent death was a deep loss; ORNL research scientist Arpad Vass, who really has developed a “sniffer” for the Department of Justice; darkroom wizard Rodney Satterfield; and Darcy Bonnett, James Emert, and Townes Osborn.
Putting a story into the hands of readers requires a surprising amount of work by a large number of people. We’re fortunate to have many bright and gracious people helping bring that to pass. Our agent, Giles Anderson, has been a wise and enthusiastic partner with us for six books now. Our first editor at William Morrow, Sarah Durand, was a wonderful colleague for five books, and we shall miss her. Our new editor, Lyssa Keusch, promises to be equally splendid. Assistant editors Emily Krump and Wendy Lee never cease to amaze us with their capable efficiency, and production editor Andrea Molitor remains a miracle worker. Our publisher, Lisa Gallagher, has been consistently, blessedly supportive; Morrow’s associate publisher, Lynn Grady, is also an enthusiastic and creative champion. Morrow’s sales and marketing staff have worked tirelessly and successfully to put our books in bookstores and readers’ hands; so has our hardworking and cheerful publicist, Buzzy Porter.
Other colleagues and friends have also played key roles in supporting our work. Heather McPeters offered crucial encouragement, a keen critical eye, and countless suggestions for turning fragmented drafts into a cohesive, compelling story. Sylvia Wehr once again provided a beautiful, peaceful writing haven along the banks of the Potomac River at crucial moments. JJ Rochelle offered Oak Ridge hospitality, friendship, encouragement, insights, and miles of running company along the gravel roads of Black Oak Ridge. Carol Bass is unfailingly supportive and loving; so are the many other members of the Bass and Jefferson clans. We love and appreci
ate you all.
ON FACT AND FICTION
It’s with no small amount of trepidation that we’ve dared to spin a fictional tale of murder and espionage against the epic backdrop of World War II, the Manhattan Project, and Oak Ridge. We’ve mentioned many historical characters, including General Leslie Groves and physicists Enrico Fermi and Robert Oppenheimer, because no story about the Manhattan Project would seem credible without those famous, larger-than-life figures. However, our plot and our main Oak Ridge characters — Beatrice, the storyteller; Novak, the murdered scientist; and Isabella, the librarian — are creations of pure fiction.
We’ve tried to follow the chronology of Oak Ridge and the Manhattan Project faithfully, with one notable, willful departure: the uranium storage bunker that figures prominently in the story was not built until 1947. But the camouflage scheme chosen for it by General Groves — a rustic Tennessee barn and silo — was simply too good to pass up.
About the Author
Jefferson Bass is the writing team of Dr. Bill Bass and Jon Jefferson. Dr. Bass, a world-renowned forensic anthropologist, founded the University of Tennessee’s Anthropology Research Facility — the Body Farm — a quarter century ago. He is the author or coauthor of more than two hundred scientific publications, as well as a critically acclaimed memoir about his career at the Body Farm, Death’s Acre. Dr. Bass is also a dedicated teacher, honored as “National Professor of the Year” by the Council for Advancement and Support of Education. Jon Jefferson is a veteran journalist, writer, and documentary filmmaker. His writings have been published in the New York Times, Newsweek, USA Today, and Popular Science, and broadcast on National Public Radio. The coauthor of Death’s Acre, he is also the writer and producer of two highly rated National Geographic documentaries about the Body Farm.
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