Joseph Kanon - Los Alamos

“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.

“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.