Guilt by Silence

by Taylor Smith

  “If he’s driving, he could be anywhere by now—including New Mexico,” Pflanz said angrily. “Could the woman have flown there, as well?”

  “We’re checking that, too. Meantime, you might want to head out.”

  “I’m on my way. You’ve got the number for the phone in the Lear. Call me as soon as you know anything.”

  “Roger.”

  As they left the Albuquerque plains and traveled north toward Santa Fe, following the old Camino Real-Chihuahua Trail, the flat, scrubby terrain gave way to the increasingly rugged peaks that mark the southernmost tail of the North American Rocky Mountains. The air grew crisp and clear as the road climbed steadily upward, until at Santa Fe, Mariah and Chaney found themselves breathing deeply to capture the thin air.

  When Chaney pulled into a gas station, Mariah climbed out of the car and stretched limbs cramped from too many hours spent sitting. Her day had begun eleven hours and two time zones earlier, and they still had a long way to go before it would be over. There would be another hour’s drive until they reached Taos at about three that afternoon, she calculated as she slipped off her watch to make the adjustment for local time.

  While Chaney filled the gas tank, Mariah went into an adobe café for coffee and sandwiches. Waiting in line at the cashier, she scanned a front-page article in a newsstand copy of U.S.A. Today. It was an interview with Libya’s Moammar Gadhafi, denouncing what he called Washington’s efforts to dictate to the world, now that Moscow no longer blocked its way.

  “Freedom-loving peoples everywhere,” Gadhafi was quoted as saying, “must use any tactic—any weapon—to repel the Yankee dictator and bring him to his knees. If acts of so-called terrorism are what is required to teach a lesson to America and its global pawns, then so be it.”

  Mariah added the paper to her purchases and tossed it to Chaney as she slipped into the driver’s seat a few minutes later. “Gadhafi’s saber-rattling again,” she said, pulling back onto the highway and heading north toward Taos.

  Chaney perused the front page of the paper as he sipped his coffee. “When he says ‘any weapon,’ you know he means it, too,” he said. “God! Twenty thousand Soviet warheads in a rickety cupboard guarded by people who can’t get enough to eat—that’s a pretty tempting target for lunatics like this.”

  Mariah nodded. “It’s insane, that kind of firepower. And the worst of it is, we started this stupid deadly game and God only knows what price we’ll end up paying for it.”

  Chaney refolded the paper and munched thoughtfully on his sandwich. “I always found it strange that David could have been involved with nuclear weapons. He was such a conscientious guy. How did he ever get into it in the first place?”

  “Those guys just seem to drift into it. It’s like a scientific Mount Everest that they can’t resist climbing just because it’s there. They start out fascinated by the beauty of the atom, and the next thing you know, they’re completely caught up in the challenge of developing a physics package and engineering a mechanism for a desired effect. They don’t even call them bombs—in the lab, they’re just referred to as ‘gadgets.’ ‘Getting the gadget to work’—that’s the name of the game.”

  “But they must think about the consequences of what they’re creating.”

  “Oh, sure, sometimes. But by the time they do, they’re so entrenched in the organization and seduced by the salaries and state-of-the-art equipment that they find ways to justify it in their minds. Defending democracy. Doing unto others before they do it to us. Whatever.”

  “Why did David quit?”

  “I like to tell myself that it was because of me. I came with him when he first got the job at Los Alamos, but I wouldn’t stay there. The fact is, though, he kept at it for almost two more years before he finally followed me to Washington.”

  “What changed his mind?”

  “There was an accident in his lab, a fire. One of his technicians got caught in it and suffered massive radiation exposure. He was just a kid—twenty-three years old. It took him two weeks to die, and I guess it was pretty horrible. David was really shaken and walked away from the job not long after.”

  “They say radiation sickness is an awful thing to watch. The victim just sort of rots from the inside out.”

  Mariah nodded. “Radiation destroys the body’s ability to regenerate cells. Since our cells are dying off all the time, this creates something of a problem, to say the least. David said that when they pulled the kid out, he looked fine, aside from suffering smoke inhalation. But they knew when they checked his dosimeter badge that he was a dead man. He started getting sick a few hours later. Over the next several days, his gums and then his face blistered and started peeling away. Ulcers spread all over his body. The membranes lining his intestines and blood vessels eroded, and he started hemorrhaging and swelling up like a balloon until, finally, his skin just split open. There was nothing they could do except give him morphine for the pain. When he died at last, David said, it was a blessing.”

  “What a horrible way to go,” Chaney breathed.

  “After that, David just couldn’t stomach the work anymore. He quit and moved back in with me and got a university teaching job.” A shadow of a smile passed briefly over Mariah’s face, then faded. “The day he showed up on my doorstep was one of the happiest of my life. I just can’t understand why it all had to end the way it did.”

  Dieter Pflanz was sitting in the copilot’s seat of the Lear, when a beep from the cabin indicated an incoming telephone call. Flipping a switch to transfer the call to the cockpit, he picked up a headset. “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “This is not a secure line,” Pflanz warned.

  “I know,” Neville said. “We’ve traced one of those missing items we were discussing. It was misfiled under another name. The cargo was shipped to Albuquerque this morning.”

  “All right. I’ll alert our receiving office to watch for it.”

  “I’m going to head out there to pick it up. I’ll meet you this evening. In the meantime, you should try to locate it, but you are to take no further action until I arrive.”

  Pflanz scowled.

  “No action,” Neville repeated sternly. “Is that clear?”

  “Clear,” Pflanz grumbled.

  17

  “Are you sure this is the place?” Mariah whispered. As she and Chaney walked through the front door of the Trinity Bar, she squinted while her eyes adjusted to the dim, windowless room after the midafternoon sun outside.

  Except for a languid pool game going on in the corner, the place was largely deserted. Two men in perspirationstained cowboy hats moved around the table while another three or four lounged nearby, watching, their boots tapping on chair rungs to the rhythm of Garth Brooks on the sound system. A bartender was wiping glasses, chatting with a woman leaning on the bar. Her teased blond hair and white ruffled blouse reflected the roseate glow of a neon beer advertisement on the wall above her.

  “Unless there’s another Trinity Bar in Taos, this is it,” Chaney said, sounding dubious himself.

  Years of accumulated beer, sweat and cigarette odors permeated the walls and carpet of the room, the smell heady. With its Formica tables and scuffed wooden chairs, the place was decidedly untrendy as watering holes went, Mariah thought. It didn’t look like the kind of place that anyone would spend an hour driving to in order to impress foreign visitors.

  Several pairs of eyes watched as Mariah and Chaney approached the bar. “Help you?” the bartender asked, never pausing in his wiping.

  Chaney settled his lanky frame onto a bar stool and nodded. “I’ll have a beer,” he said, glancing at Mariah. She hiked herself up beside him and nodded, as well. “Make that two—Coors, I guess.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Mariah studied the room in the reflection of the mirror behind the barman. The woman at the end of the bar, she noticed, was standing straighter, examining herself in the mirror. A forefinger with a long magenta nail subtly wiped l
ipstick at the corner of her mouth as the woman’s gaze shifted almost imperceptibly from her own image to that of the new arrivals. The game of pool continued in the corner, but the conversation dwindled. Mariah had the distinct impression that ears were tuned in their direction.

  “Not much snow out there,” Chaney observed, taking one of the cans the barman laid down on the counter. Mariah took the other and watched a head mushroom as she poured the beer into a glass.

  “Not so far,” the barman agreed, returning to his wiping. “Had some a few weeks ago.”

  “Must be rough on the skiers.”

  “Guess they’ve been using the snow-making equipment on the hills, trying to get ’em ready for the Christmas rush. Don’t see too many skiers in here.”

  “How about people from up the mesa?” Chaney asked, taking a sip from his glass.

  “Los Alamos, you mean?”

  He nodded. “Do they come in much?”

  The barman pursed his lips as he shook his head. “Nope. We get local people here. The tourists, they like the fancier places in town and at the resorts. And those lab people—don’t see them ever. They’re kinda in their own little world up there, I guess.”

  “But you did get some, didn’t you? One night, a few weeks ago?”

  “You federal agents or something?”

  “Reporter,” Chaney said, pulling a business card out of his wallet. “Paul Chaney, CBN News. This is Mariah Bolt.”

  Ex-reporter, you mean, Mariah thought. Of course, Chaney stood a good chance of being recognized, and there wasn’t much to be gained by saying that he was unemployed—nor by revealing her own affiliation.

  “I thought I’d seen you before!” the woman at the end of the bar exclaimed.

  Chaney smiled at her, then addressed the barman. “We’re looking into that accident where the five scientists got wiped out by the gasoline tanker. Wondered if you could tell us anything about the night they came in here.”

  The bartender shrugged. “I never spoke to ’em. Cheryl here waited on ’em, though.”

  Chaney turned and held out his hand to the woman down the counter. “Hi. Could we talk with you for a minute—Cheryl, is it?”

  The woman moved up beside him, blushing as she took his hand. She nodded briefly at Mariah before turning her gaze back on the reporter. “C-H-E-R-Y-L. Miller—M-I-LL-E-R,” she said, articulating the letters as if he were holding a pen poised for the information. “I talked to the police, too. Told them I remembered those guys real well. Funny bunch, they were. Really stood out, you know? Not the type we usually see in here.”

  “Did you know they were from Los Alamos?”

  “Oh, yeah. They all had these briefcases, see. I tripped over one of them—nearly lost a whole trayload of drinks—and I saw the name of the lab written on them.”

  “There were some Russians in the group?”

  “Yeah,” Cheryl said, rolling her eyes. “Real dudes—new Levi’s and cowboy hats. Guess they can’t get that stuff over there, huh?”

  “Guess not.”

  The woman glanced around. “You got cameras outside? Is this gonna be on TV?”

  “We’re doing background research. I’m not sure if there’s a story here or not. Could I count on you for an interview later, if necessary?”

  “Sure!”

  “Great,” Chaney said, nodding. Cheryl moved a step closer. The barman was leaning on the bar now, listening intently.

  Mariah suppressed the urge to gaze heavenward. Here was vintage Chaney, doing his thing, weaving the spell. And the amazing thing was, it worked on both men and women—Mariah had seen it in Vienna. She had always found it difficult to handle the casual banter with strangers that was the stock-in-trade of the diplomatic cocktail circuit. She would listen to the babble and the laughter, feeling shy and awkward, wondering why it was that everyone in the room seemed to be in on some secret joke that no one had ever told her. But Paul, she had noticed, could talk to anyone about anything—make them feel significant, like their lives counted for something. Even the most suspicious and taciturn would eventually warm up to him, open up to him. It was probably the secret of his success as a reporter. And yet, watching him now, she saw that there was respect there. He genuinely liked people, and he telegraphed the promise that he wouldn’t abuse their trust. It was a promise, she realized with sudden shock, that she had come to believe in herself.

  “So,” Chaney said, looking from Cheryl to the bartender and back again, “you guys know your clientele and you knew these characters from Los Alamos were out of place. Did you talk to them, Cheryl?”

  “Not really, just kinda chatting, you know?”

  “How did they seem?”

  “They were okay. Especially the old guy—the American. Good tipper, sweet guy. The Russians, too. Kinda corny, but nice, you know?” She shook her tousled head sadly. “Really awful what happened to them. Eddie Ortega there said they never stood a chance.”

  “Eddie Ortega?” Chaney asked. He glanced over her shoulder to the group by the pool table that she had indicated with a cocked thumb.

  “He’s one of the firemen who went out that night.” Cheryl swiveled to face the men across the room. “Hey, Eddie! Come over here a minute, will you?”

  A barrel-chested man with a long black braid running down his back looked over at them and then around at his friends. With a shrug, he detached himself from the group and ambled slowly toward the bar, the wooden heels of his cowboy boots thudding hollowly on the carpet-covered plywood floor. Mariah watched the black eyes over high cheekbones as they assessed her and Chaney, one after the other. Eddie Ortega, she knew, had deep roots in this land, far deeper than those of the skiers or artists—or scientists—who had made New Mexico their home in recent years. His voice, when he spoke, was a contrabass rumble, possibly the deepest voice she had ever heard.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Ortega, my name’s Paul Chaney. I’m a reporter for CBN News. This is Mariah Bolt. We’re looking into that tanker accident where the five nuclear scientists died a few weeks back. Cheryl here tells me you were one of the fire fighters on the scene.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “I understand it was a pretty bad accident.”

  Ortega nodded. “Closed the highway for a whole day until they could resurface the road.”

  “Were the bodies brought here to Taos?”

  “What bodies?”

  “The bodies of the scientists and the driver of the tanker.”

  “Weren’t no bodies.”

  “No bodies?”

  “Nope. Vaporized by the fire.”

  “Nothing left?” Chaney asked. “Nothing?” Ortega shook his head. Chaney frowned and took a long, thoughtful sip from his glass, then looked up at the man again. “Mr. Ortega, how long have you been a fire fighter?”

  “Seventeen years next March.”

  “That’s about how long I’ve been a reporter,” Chaney said, nodding. “Covered some pretty hairy places. Africa. The Middle East. Seen wars, plane crashes, terrorist bombings. Covered a volcano eruption once. Personally, I’ve never seen a fire where a bunch of people died and they didn’t find a single trace of any of them.” The fire fighter shifted and watched the floor intently. “Have you, Mr. Ortega? Seen many fires where absolutely nothing was left?”

  The room was silent.

  “Teeth,” Ortega rumbled finally. “Tungsten pins.”

  “What?” Mariah said.

  “Tungsten pins. They said the older American guy—Kingman, his name was?” Ortega asked, glancing at Cheryl. She nodded. “Said he had bad knees. Had pins in ’em. Those pins are usually made of tungsten. Just about indestructible. Fire wouldn’t have melted ’em.”

  “Or the teeth, right?” Chaney prompted. Ortega shrugged. “Mr. Ortega, there were six men in those two vehicles. That means one hundred and eighty or so teeth among them, give or take a few that might be missing. Have you ever seen a case where a fire was so unifor
mly hot that not one of those teeth would have survived? Even after a plane crash, they usually find something—teeth or bone fragments or porcelain dentures. Or tungsten orthopedic pins, as you say.”

  “We tried,” Ortega protested. “We was siftin’ through the debris when they made us pull out.”

  “They?”

  “Feds. FBI, maybe, I’m not sure. Coroner should know—if he’s sober this week. Once the feds move in around here, you get the message pretty quick that you should just back off and shut up.”

  “What exactly happened?”

  “Feds came in, said it was a national security issue and they was takin’ over the investigation.” Ortega snorted, shaking his head. “Never saw nobody destroy a scene like that before.”

  “What do you mean?” Mariah asked. “What did they do?”

  “Just bulldozed it and carted it away—ashes, twisted steel and all.” Ortega looked at Mariah and Chaney in turn. “You know, them feds, they figure we’re all just rubes or dumb Indians or somethin’ up here. Well, this may not be the Big Apple or nothin’, but we know how to do a job right. I been takin’ courses to get my fire inspector’s certification and I’ll tell you this—any of us suggested that’s how you handle forensic evidence, we’d be shot.”

  “Park here and we’ll walk back,” Mariah said.

  Chaney pulled the car into a parking lot at one of the few spots on the highway where the valley widened a little. For most of the way between Taos and Española, NM 68 was a narrow, winding two-lane road wedged between the Sangre de Cristo peaks on one side and the Rio Grande and the Jemez Mountains on the other. But at Pilar, about twelve miles south of Taos, a parking area had been leveled next to the river, allowing access for hikers and the river-rafting companies that every summer launched daily loads of tourists looking for a white-water thrill.

  Racing against the sinking sun, Mariah and Chaney quickly hiked back up the highway a thousand yards or so to the place where the accident had happened. Although Eddie Ortega had marked the spot on their map, they realized that it was pretty hard to miss. About five hundred feet of roadbed had been recently resurfaced, and the hills and scrub beside the spot were scorched and blackened. Mariah shaded her eyes from the sun, dropping rapidly now behind the Jemez Mountains, and scanned the highway in both directions.