Joseph Kanon - Los Alamos

“Don’t tie up the line. You’ll keep the general waiting. And by the way, tell your mother or whoever it is that it’s illegal to call here.”

Connolly shrugged his shoulders. “Be right back.”

“You’d better hope this is important.”

It was Mills, sounding elated. “I thought you’d want to know-they got him.”

“What?”

“The killer. Holliday called. Albuquerque police nailed him. Both crimes. Looks like you can start heading back to the bright lights.”

But Connolly realized with a sharp pang that it was the last thing he wanted.

“You still there?” Mills said, louder now, as if he feared a bad line.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Brother, you don’t give up, do you? They closed the case. Fermata, as we say in the Rio Grande. He’s Mex, by the way. Just like they thought.”

“I want to see him.”

Mills paused. “Holliday said, if you asked, to tell you that the Albuquerque police want you both to politely butt out. They’ll send a copy of the report, but—”

“Tell him I’ll be there tomorrow. I have to get Oppenheimer back tonight.”

“He said they’re pretty firm about it. Probably got some bug up their ass about the army coming in—”

“You listening? Tell Holliday I’ll be in Albuquerque tomorrow and I’ll interview the suspect then. If I’m not interviewing the suspect tomorrow, I’ll be on the phone to General Groves and he’ll be talking to the governor of New Mexico and he’ ll be dealing with a severe manpower shortage on the Albuquerque police force. Clear?”

“Could you really do that?”

“Probably. I don’t know, but it’s a risk he’s not going to want to take.”

“All right, calm down. I’ll see what I can do. You don’t sound very happy. I thought you’d be pleased as hell.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just don’t believe it. He’s not the guy.”

“Mike, you’d better believe it,” Mills said calmly. “He confessed.”

They drove through the night, Eisler asleep in the back seat, Oppenheimer hunched down in front in a counterfeit of sleep, restless but quiet. The road was completely deserted, their headlights the only points of light in miles of darkness, but Connolly was alert, rubbed by the tension beside him, Oppenheimer wanting to ask about the call and Connolly not telling him.

He wasn’t sure why. Oppenheimer had a right to know. What could be more conclusive than a confession? It was useless to pretend he could offer any reason to doubt it. The rest of the story wrote itself now: Oppenheimer’s wry thanks and a ticket back to Washington; his billet in the house on L Street, shared bathroom down the hall; another year or so of shuffling paper, until the war came to its end; his discharge to a life that wasn’t there anymore. But it wasn’t finished yet, not the case, not anything about Los Alamos. He wasn’t ready to go. The truth was that he felt alive here, somehow on active service at last, a part of the project. He understood for the first time how the scientists felt, unwilling to think about anything else until the main point was reached, until it went off. There would be time later, but there wasn’t any now. They were so close. And as long as he had his case, his peripheral investigation, he could still be part of it. Didn’t he owe it to Bruner to follow this through to the end?

But even he could see that he was building an absurd house of cards. You can talk yourself into anything if you try. It wasn’t his project. He didn’t owe Bruner anything except an apology for trying to use his death to do something interesting with his own life. A Mexican pickup, a senseless crime. Life was like that. Maybe his refusal to accept it had a simpler reason: if he left the project, he’d be leaving her. He glanced over at Oppenheimer. He deserved to know. Connolly’s silence bordered on military insubordination. Dereliction of duty. All because it might interfere with his urge for a woman? Was that really what it came down to? Still, Oppenheimer didn’t care, and what did it matter? He wasn’t asking for a lot of time-just enough to be sure, before he gave it all up.

They were still south of Santa Fe when first light streamed over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, lifting mist off the sage and the juniper trees. It was going to be another spectacular morning, erasing all the uneasiness of the night, clear and uncomplicated. Oppenheimer, exhausted finally from whatever worries had preoccupied him in the dark, now fell sound asleep. Eisler, who confronted demons and then offered a roll, was snoring softly in the back. The car felt safe and ordinary again. Why was the night always filled with ultimatums? Go one step at a time. In the new light, he would see what he would see.

He dropped both men, groggy, at the entrance to the Tech Area, then returned the car to the pool, eager now for a shower and a fresh start. But Los Alamos was still asleep, glistening and empty. Mills wouldn’t be ready for hours, and Albuquerque would be hours after that. Only a few trucks disturbed the peace. He could have coffee, check in at the office. He could take a walk, shake the drowsiness off by strolling around Ashley Pond. Instead, he stood at the edge of the dirt road, not doing anything. He started toward his dormitory, then hesitated. He turned toward the Admin Building, then stopped a second time. He was a teenager again, nervously looking for excuses in the street, when he knew what he had to do was go up on the porch and ring the bell.

He rapped softly on the door in the Sundt complex, afraid to wake the neighbors, but she must have been up early, because the door opened at once. Her hair was down, uncombed, and she was wrapped in a robe, a clinging prewar silk that draped slightly at her breasts. He felt the warmth she still carried with her from bed.

“Are you mad?” she said quietly. “You can’t come here.” Her eyes looked quickly to each side.

“Come out, then,” he said.

“Sssh. Someone will hear. Do you know what time it is?”

He nodded, but didn’t move.

She glanced around again, then swung the door open further. “Come on,” she said, drawing him in, then closing it behind her. “What is it? You look like hell.”

He had turned to face her, unconsciously pinning her back against the door, and stared at her for a minute, his face close to hers, as if the distance would lower the sound of their voices. “You don’t,” he said, moving his eyes over her face.

She gave a half-smile. “I asked for that, didn’t I?” she said softly. “At six in the bloody morning.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Not here.”

“He won’t be back till Friday.”

“It isn’t that. We can’t-not here.” But she didn’t move, and he could feel her in front of him, warm, their faces almost touching.

“I need to tell you. I may have to leave.”

She looked at him. “Will you?”

“I may. They found someone. I may have to leave.”

“Why are you telling me?” she said, her eyes still on him.

“I can’t promise you anything. You should know that.”

“I know.”

“It may be important to you. I don’t want to be unfair to you.”

She placed her hand along his cheek. “But you’re not fair,” she said, drawing him closer. “There’s nothing fair about you.” She kissed him. “You’re here,” she said, kissing him again, lightly, as if she were drawing a breath between words, “and then you’re not. It’s not fair. You’re warning me. What else?”

“I don’t want to leave,” he said, kissing her back.

“Then stay for a while. Now.”

“Are you sure?” he said, still kissing her.