Joseph Kanon - Los Alamos

“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.

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.”