Los Alamos

18

Later, he remembered the day as overbright, every piece of landscape sharp and hard-edged under the white sun. Emma, pretty in a pale blue dress that seemed part of the cloudless sky, drove him in her car, past the empty east gate and down the switchback road to the valley floor. With the windows down, the air smelled of juniper. The afternoon had been still and expectant, and even now, toward its end, Santa Fe seemed asleep. Connolly fidgeted in the unfamiliar uniform, shifting the gun in his pocket to arrange its outline in a shapeless bulge. His cap, folded, hung over his belt like a protective flap.

“It’s not going to go away, you know,” Emma said. “Can you see it?”

“Only when I look. Shall I keep it in my bag?”

“Then I would have something to worry about.”

“Actually, I’m a crack shot. I grew up in the country, you know.”

“Crack shot with what?” he said skeptically.

“Well, skeet,” she admitted. “You don’t really think you’ll need it, do you?”

“No. Should I leave it here? It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Just keep your hand in your pocket. You know, playing with change.”

“Playing with change.”

“Well, men do.”

They were driving along the Alameda, approaching the Castillo Street bridge at the foot of Canyon Road.

“I’ll walk from here,” he said at the corner.

“Two blocks,” she said. “Goodness, look at the crush.”

The street was lined with cars, some double-parked near the gallery entrance. It seemed the only party in town.

Her voice, cool and efficient, cracked when he reached to open the door. “Michael.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with panic. “You’ll be careful.”

“Nervous?”

“I am, actually. Funny, after all this.”

“I know. This time it’s real.”

“It doesn’t feel real.” She straightened her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.”

He smiled at her. “You couldn’t. Anyway, maybe it’s just an audition. Maybe nothing will happen.”

She looked at him, her eyes scanning his face. “That would be worse, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded. “Okay, let’s go. Act naturally. Look at the pictures.”

“And not at you. I know.”

“I’ve got Holliday outside. Just in case.”

She looked up at him quizzically, unfamiliar with the name.

“The police.”

“Oh,” she said. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Take your time parking,” he said, moving away.

Holliday, out of uniform, sat in a car in the next block. Connolly stopped to light a cigarette, and when he spoke it appeared he was fiddling with his lighter. “Everything all right?”

“Could’ve made a fortune in parking tickets here. What’s wrong with these people, anyway?”

“No cops.”

“What’s that in your pocket?”

“My wallet,” Connolly said, looking at him. “I like it in front. You can’t be too careful in a crowd.”

Holliday sighed. “Just watch your back.”

“Spot anybody hanging around?”

“Not yet. Just you.”

Connolly grinned and continued walking, glancing at both sides of the street. The gallery doors were open and people had spilled onto the side courtyard, talking in small groups, their voices like the murmur of bees. Inside the noise was louder, mixed with the tinkling of coffee spoons and ice cubes. A long table had been set up in the front room with a coffee urn and plates filled with sugary sopapillas. At the other end were bottles of wine and cheese cut into cocktail cubes. The crowd was as Emma had predicted, the women in floppy hats and long skirts cinched with silver-turquoise belts, the men in suits with bolla ties. Connolly noticed with a little relief that there were a few other uniforms, all officers, presumably local friends unconnected with the Hill.

He made his way slowly through the crowd, feeling obvious and self-conscious, but no one seemed to notice him. Busy with their friends or the paintings, they assumed he belonged to someone else. And after a while he began to feel the invisible anonymity of a large party, as if he weren’t really there at all. There were fewer people in the two rooms that led from the main room in a circle around the patio, and he wandered through these, looking at paintings, aware that he’d be more easily seen. Cowboys. Pueblo landscapes. Prickly-pear cactus in flower. No one approached him.

He circled back to the main room and took a glass of wine, looking around. Suppose no one came? Or someone had already seen him and decided not to risk contact? Maybe there’d be another message, a proper one this time, with a guidebook and a quiet place. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Emma come in. He stepped back into the second room. Between the paintings were pedestals with sculptures and wide terra-cotta pots painted in geometric Indian designs. There was a painting of the park by the Alameda, the river visible behind the trees, and Connolly stood in front of it as if he’d found the prearranged meeting place. There were the bushes where they’d found Karl. He peered at the lower right-hand corner for the artist’s name. Lothrop, in tiny block letters.

“Hello,” a voice said. “The gentleman with the turquoise, isn’t it?”

He turned slowly, prolonging the moment. For a second he couldn’t place him. Then he recognized the man from the jewelry shop. Chalmers? Something like that. Sonny. Behind the wire glasses, his eyes were bright.

“Hello,” Connolly said. The man seemed slighter outside the shop. Connolly tried to imagine him with his arm raised, holding a crowbar. No, it didn’t seem possible. Unless the eyes had been furious, the body coiled in surprise.

“I thought it was you. I didn’t realize you were in the service,” Chalmers said pleasantly. “Do you like the pictures?” He glanced toward the wall to see what Connolly had been looking at. “Ah yes. The park.” He turned to face him. “I often wondered, did you find what you were looking for?”

The question floated as casually as an inquiry about the weather. Connolly met his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

“Good,” Chalmers said. “Good. What happened to the turquoise pieces?”

“I still have them.”

“Perhaps you’re interested in selling them.” So this was how it was done-the new meeting, a chat back at the store.

“Maybe. I don’t think I ever introduced myself. My name is Steven Waters.”

“A pleasure,” Chalmers said easily, nodding. Just a name. “Are you”-he hesitated-“with somebody?”

Connolly, caught off-guard, had the unexpected feeling that Chalmers might be making a pass. Or was he just making sure Connolly had come alone? “No,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

Chalmers fluttered, embarrassed. “Forgive me. I thought I knew everyone here, that’s all. It’s my gallery, you see. You’re very welcome.”

“I am supposed to be meeting someone here,” Connolly said, another try.

“Yes, I see. Well, I hope you enjoy the pictures. If you do wish to sell the turquoise, come and see me at the shop.”

“Any particular time?”

Chalmers looked at him, puzzled. “Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

Connolly watched him move away, turning to another group of guests like a concerned host. But was he anything more? Connolly walked out to the patio to have a cigarette, feeling oddly deflated. Had they made contact or not? Is that all that happened, the suggestion of another time and place? After all the waiting, the anxious drive down, did he turn now and go? Or had he imagined it all? Perhaps the man was simply checking his guest list or looking for a new friend. The fact was, Connolly didn’t want it to be Chalmers, so unprepossessing and ordinary that he seemed hardly worth the long search. But why not him? A drive to the church, a quick meeting, a meeting afterward with someone else, and it was done. No fog and trenchcoats, just business as usual. But what had Chalmers really meant? He went over the conversation in his mind. Was it possible-almost a comic thought-that the language of espionage was no different from that of a pickup, all the words that meant something else, verbal sex, the invitation not really offered until it was accepted?

He looked around. All over the room people were making contact. He put his hand in his pocket, feeling the gun. The late afternoon sun flooded the patio. In broad daylight, he thought. Maybe this was how it was done. A nice middle-aged man, a harmless exchange that might mean anything. But there had been nothing casual about the meeting at San Isidro. Except they’d already known Eisler. This was just a sighting. Connolly tried to imagine himself as the other man. What would he be looking for? An amateur. A soldier, nervous, looking around. Someone new to it, who needed to be approached with more than the vague promise of the jewelry shop. But carefully. Connolly realized then that if it was going to happen, he was already being watched.

He went into the gallery rooms, moving toward the refreshments, then back again, staring openly at people now, a soldier looking for someone. He caught Chalmers glancing furtively at him, but with no more purpose than a proprietor keeping an eye on the stock. Emma avoided him, talking to a man in a double-breasted suit who was probably asking her too whether she was with somebody. A woman jarred his elbow, brushing past toward the cheese. So where was he? Hadn’t he made himself visible enough? He moved into the interior room, empty now as people, finished with the paintings, clustered on the patio with drinks. He walked slowly, pretending to study the pictures on the wall. The cathedral in the snow. A Soyer imitation of the bar at La Fonda. A heavy metal statue of a rider-where had they got the scrap? — his horse reared back, hooves sticking up. A giant cob of corn. “Do you like it?” A woman’s voice, throaty.

He turned around. The bobbed hair. The eager eyes. “Hannah,” he said.

She looked up at him, startled for a minute, then said, “Oh, it’s you. Emma’s friend. Forgive me, I didn’t recognize—” Her voice wavered, still puzzled. “But have you joined the army?”

Hannah. He felt the hair on the back of his neck. She had approached a soldier. He stared at her, frozen, as still as the moment on the trail at Chaco. Hannah. Not a man.

“Just for the day,” he said.

But only he had made the leap. “I don’t understand,” she said, disconcerted by his stare. Then, quickly, catching herself, “But where is Emma?”

“She’s not here,” he said. “I was looking for you.”

Hannah. Eisler had been billeted at the ranch.

“Me?” she said, a nervous laugh, uncertain. “But I didn’t know I was coming myself. It’s so difficult to travel now.”

Back and forth to Los Angeles. There would be people there, the next link. No need to risk another meeting in Santa Fe.

“But you sent me an invitation.”

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. You’re mistaken. It must have been the gallery. Of course, if I had known—” She looked away from him, turning her head as if she wanted to be rescued from the conversation. “But there she is. Emma!” she said loudly, calling her over, but Connolly had glanced up and caught her eye. He shook his head, stopping her at the door.

Hannah turned back to him, bewildered. “I thought you said—”

“She doesn’t know,” Connolly said evenly. “I’ve brought you a message from Corporal Waters.”

Did her eyes widen, or was it his imagination?

“And who is that?”

“Me.”

She looked at him for a moment in disbelief, not saying anything. “Is that your name?” she said finally, polite. “I’m sorry. I forgot. There must be some mistake.”

“No. The invitation was for me.”

Her eyes, shrewd and cautious, darted across his face, trying to see behind the words. Then she closed herself off and looked away. “You are mistaken,” she said, so simply that for an instant he wondered if he was wrong. Everything was supposed to fit. Everything counts in murder. How could it be her? Another European story?

She had turned her head, searching for something, and he followed her look out onto the patio, to the tall Mexican in a denim jacket leaning against the adobe wall. Her right hand. Ajax. A classical name. No, Hector. The constant companion. As if he were taking snapshots, Connolly looked from the patio to Hannah, then again to the Mexican, his mind back at the blackboard. Connect everything. The workboots. Hector’s job on the Hill. Of course he’d be with her, just in case. Strong enough to carry a man. Strong enough to kill one. Two people, one to drive the car back. A wrench, some tool. Had she watched? Had she turned away, like Eisler, or had she watched? Eisler was meeting her, the person off the Hill, but Hector had to return. He worked there now. The car. The back gate.

When he turned back to Hannah, he saw that she had been following his eyes, watching him fill in his crossword. “There’s no mistake,” he said. “Eisler’s dead. He talked to me before he died. I know.”

And then he did know. It was in her eyes. One look, one unguarded point of recognition. “Who are you?” she said softly.

He didn’t answer.

“ ‘I know,’ ” she said. “What does that mean?”

“I know what information Eisler gave you. All of it, every detail. I know about the meeting at San Isidro. I know what happened to Karl.” For a second her face held a question, and he realized she had never known Karl’s name. “The man you killed there. You and your friend.”

She looked at him closely, then shook her head. “Phantastische,” she said. “Poor Friedrich. A delirium. Why would he say such things? But it’s often like that at the end. The fantasies, the paranoia. And you believed him? All this nonsense in his sleep.”

“He was wide awake,” Connolly said flatly. “I interrogated him.”

“Ah,” she said, her voice wry with scorn. “So now we have the Gestapo too. Like the movies. The rubber hose. The castor oil. Some drug? Is that how he died?”

“No. He killed himself.”

She looked up at him, interested. “Why?”

“Remorse, I think.”

“Remorse.”

“Not about you. He was loyal to the end, Eisler. A good party man. But Karl-that was something else. I don’t think he’d ever seen a man killed before. That shook him. I guess he didn’t know your lover was the hot-blooded type.”

“My lover,” she said, her voice cold with contempt, and Connolly thought of that day at the ranch. Something had happened between them. Not a lovers’ quarrel. No. She’d been angry with him for putting them at risk.

“Maybe he just didn’t know his own strength,” Connolly said.

“Enough foolishness.” She turned slightly to go.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice hard.

She froze, looking up at him.

“That’s right. You don’t want to make a scene. Not here. Not in front of the customers. We’ll go somewhere else. Then we can talk some more.”

“You must be crazy. You come up to me here, in this place, with these-what? Accusations? The rantings of a dead man. ‘I know.’ ‘I know.’ You don’t know anything. Leave me alone.”

“I have a gun,” he said quietly.

She stopped. “Now the melodrama too?”

“It’s over, Hannah. There was a witness at San Isidro,” he said. “He’s identified your friend. And you.”

She looked at him again, assessing. “It’s a lie.”

“Is it?”

“Then why wait so long? All this—” She spread her hand toward the room.

“We wanted to see if they’d send someone else. But they didn’t, did they? Your friends. What if it’s a trap? Send Hannah. She’s expendable. Now that Eisler’s dead. They’re closing you down too.”

He had touched some anger. “You fool,” she said, glaring at him. “Do you think that matters? There’ll be someone else. Always. That’s why we win. Yes, we,” she said, catching his look. “Who do you think won this war? The baby GIs with their Hershey bars? We won it. Communists. Such a dirty word to you. But we knew. We stopped them. You think politics is about elections? No-bodies. So, one more, one less? What difference?”

“Then we’ll start with you.”

She tossed back her head. “Yes, start with me. Take your time. You think you have so much time? Idiot,” she said in German. “It’s already too late. What did you think? We could sit by and watch you do this? And not protect ourselves? Children-you’re all children here. Do you think we would give a gun to a child?”

“Do you think we’d give one to a gangster?”

She paused, a flicker of a smile on her face. “No. He would have to take it. While the child was playing, perhaps.”

“For his own good.”

“Yes, for everybody’s good. But very carefully. So he wouldn’t know. We had to be very careful.”

Connolly paused. “And yet here you are.”

“For exactly one more minute. Then we are going to smile-it’s very pleasant, the gallery, yes? — and people will say, ‘You see, not so serious. They must have been talking about the art.’ You think you know something? Where is your proof? Friedrich? I was always very careful with Friedrich. When they put him at the ranch, I thought it was a trap-I wouldn’t even look at him. And he thought I had arranged it, so clever. But you know, there is luck in America. Not like Germany. Everything is lucky here. They thought he’d feel at home speaking German. But we never did. All that time, we were too afraid to talk. We couldn’t believe our luck, you see. But afterward, that was more difficult. So I had to be careful. No paper. No strings. Nothing. Nothing to connect us at all. Now what do you want to do? Arrest me? With your gun? Over nothing at all? I don’t think so. Who would believe such a thing?”

“Do you really think you’re just going to walk out of here?”

“No. I have to say goodbye to some people first,” she said coolly, “but then-It’s getting late. You can follow me, of course. But what will you find? Friedrich’s gone. So there is no Corporal Waters. Then my work-well, that’s over. You see, I don’t even have to be careful anymore. Unless you have something else to tell me?”

Then, smoothly, she began to turn away, and Connolly, in an instant of panic, looked around the room-Emma still lurking by the doorway, the kitschy art, people laughing outside-and felt everything slip away. Without thinking, he grabbed her arm, jerking her back toward him.

“It’s not about Eisler. It’s about Karl. You’re not listening. I don’t have to prove a thing about your ‘work.’ I’m arresting you for murder.”

“Let me go.”

“That wasn’t careful, killing Karl.”

“Let me go,” she said, pulling her arm away, but Connolly held it. “What do you think you’re doing? On whose authority? Whose authority?” Her voice, louder now in the empty room, caused a few people out on the patio to look up.

“The police are outside. On their authority. You can say your goodbyes later.”

Her face, gone white, now twisted itself in a cold rage. “Take your hands off me,” she said, so self-possessed that Connolly obeyed the order and dropped her arm. “Madman. I never killed anybody.”

“Yes, you did. Technically, you might get away with being an accessory,” he said. “I don’t think so. Either way, you’ll be gone for years and years. I’ll see to it.”

“You,” she said, almost spitting the word.

“What’s the problem?” A deep voice: Hector, looming next to them.

“Come,” Hannah said, another order.

Connolly looked up at him, feeling suddenly dwarfed. Black eyes. “Hannah says you killed Karl all by yourself,” he said, improvising. Again the question mark. No one had known Karl’s name. “The man in the alley at San Isidro. You shouldn’t have done that, Hector.”

Hector glanced at her, then stared at Connolly, stunned. He seemed to lean back, as if he had been struck.

“Don’t listen to him. He’s crazy,” Hannah said.

“All by yourself. We thought she helped, but she said no, you did everything.”

Hector’s confusion made him jumpy. Connolly could see the tension creep into the broad, impassive face, the eyes as alert as an animal’s.

“You should have thrown away those boots,” Connolly said, pointing at his feet. “We matched the prints.” A lie, but would Hector know? “Just like a fingerprint. All over the bushes. When you pulled his pants down.”

Now the eyes, no longer confused, took on a shine of menace.

“Come,” Hannah said. “Foolishness.”

“You weren’t trying to kill him. I know. Just knock him out, the way you do.” As he said it, another blackboard leap. Someone else looking up at the tall, glowering man, black eyes flashing. “Like Batchelor. The soldier at the PX. You weren’t trying to kill him. Just teach him a lesson, right?”

“Shut up,” Hector said, his voice a low rumble.

“You didn’t kill him, just roughed him up a little. I can’t blame you. So why’d you kill Karl? We thought she told you to.” He nodded his head toward Hannah. “But she says she wasn’t there.”

Hector turned and looked at her, obviously surprised.

“Don’t say anything,” she said coldly.

“We know you killed him,” Connolly said quickly. “We didn’t know you did it alone. See, the way we saw it, you knocked him out-he’s just out. Messed up. But she said you had to kill him, you had to finish it. Did you even know who he was? Did she tell you? Eisler said you didn’t know.”

“Shut up,” Hector said again, louder now.

“It was smart making it look like the murder in Albuquerque. To tell you the truth, we thought that was her idea too.”

“Hector, come,” she said, a pet command, and took his arm to lead him away.

Connolly glanced from one to the other, feeling he had to do something, say anything to hold him.

“But that was you. See, I didn’t put two and two together until you beat up the guy at the PX. I didn’t realize you were queer too.”

The fist, exploding, came up and smashed into Connolly’s face. He staggered back against the wall, blood spurting out of his nose in a rush.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” Hector said, moving toward Connolly and chopping his fist down against the side of Connolly’s neck, forcing him to drop to his knees, stunned. He heard a woman scream in the other room, saw in a hazy flash of peripheral vision people turning on the patio to see what was going on. Connolly leaned forward for a second, catching himself, afraid he would black out.

“Hector, no!” Hannah shouted.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said, pushing her aside, heading for Connolly.

But it gave Connolly the second he needed. He brought the gun out of his pocket and held it up before him with two hands. He saw that they were shaking, one of them smeared bright with blood. “Stop,” he said, the word garbled by the blood in his mouth.

More screams. Footsteps. Hector looked down at him, hesitating for a split second, then, sneering, brought up his foot and kicked from the side, knocking the gun out of Connolly’s hands. It slithered across the polished wood floor toward the corner, and Connolly lost sight of it as the workboot came up again, kicking him. He fell over, his face hitting the floor with another crack.

“Stop it!” Emma’s voice. Dimly, Connolly saw her pounding Hector’s back. His face raging, Hector turned away from Connolly and flung her aside as if her fists were nothing more than wasp stings. She fell against the pedestal, the scrap-metal cowboy crashing to the floor beside her.

Connolly tried to stand, but Hector’s foot caught him in the stomach, and when he fell this time he put his hands around his head, curling his body into itself to protect it from the blows. “Stop it!” he heard Emma scream again. Then there was another kick to his chest. He groaned. Hector kicked him again, a machine now, uncontrollable. Connolly realized that if he didn’t move, he was going to die, bludgeoned to death like Karl. Then, in some bizarre transference, he turned to look up and saw not Hector but Emma, her hand held high in the air, swinging the metal down toward him, just the way it must have happened at San Isidro. When he turned his head slightly to protect his eyes, he heard the statue connect, a crack, a thud into flesh, and heard Hector grunt, rearing his head back so that the force of the smash was strengthened and the horse’s hooves pushed into his scalp. There was an explosion of blood from Hector’s head, spattering in a circle around them, an oil well of blood, before he fell over, partially covering Connolly, his body twitching in one long drawn-out spasm.

Connolly heard the statue fall to the side. Now there were lots of voices, screams of surprise, and he knew it was almost over. He looked along the floor to the gun in the corner, but it was gone. Raising his head to see better, he felt the nausea that he knew meant he would black out. He stretched his fingers to grasp the statue and drew it toward him by the hooves, so that when the crowd finally arrived it was clutched in his hand, and with his breath crushed by the weight of the body on top of him and his face sticky with blood, he did pass out.

He couldn’t have been out more than a minute. He felt Hector’s body being lifted off him, then hands hooked under his arms, pulling him to his feet, holding him from behind. “Jesus Christ,” someone said, and Connolly looked at Hector too, his head still oozing blood. Connolly weaved, dizzy, trying to draw breath through the dull pain in his chest. For a moment nobody moved, and Connolly saw the drops of blood on the painting next to him, the end of the arc. One of the guests was leaning over Hector’s body, turning it so that his face, absolutely still, stared up at them. His legs, twisted, hadn’t moved with the rest of him. Connolly tried to move toward him, but someone still held his arms, restraining him.

“Somebody get an ambulance,” the man kneeling over Hector said, feeling the side of his neck for a pulse.

Connolly saw Holliday run into the room, people moving aside in a wave to let him through. He stopped in front of the body, taking in the scene-Connolly with his arms pinned, the statue still dangling from one of his hands, the giant body lying on the floor, blood spreading out from the head in a small lake.

“Let him go,” he said to the man behind Connolly, and Connolly, his arms suddenly free, slumped against the wall. He watched Holliday bend over and examine the pupils, then close the lids of the Mexican’s eyes.

“Oh my God,” someone in the crowd said.

“Call my office,” Holliday said to the man next to him. “Get some of the boys over here. Quick.” Then, turning to Connolly, “You all right?”

Connolly, still breathing heavily, nodded, feeling another wave of nausea as he moved his head.

“This the guy?” Holliday said simply.

Connolly nodded again. The nausea was gone now, and he took a handkerchief from his back pocket to stanch the blood in his nose.

“Broken?” Holliday said. Connolly nodded. “Anything else?”

“Maybe a rib. I don’t know.”

“He’s lucky to be alive,” a woman said. “He was kicking him, kicking him. It was awful.” Everyone seemed to be talking.

Holliday turned toward the guests. “You folks want to give me a little room here?” His voice, easy and unhurried, stopped them. “How about all of you wait outside till the boys get here. But don’t anybody run away now- we’ll need to make a report,” he said, slipping into his small-town police manner.

“I saw everything,” the woman said, beginning to cry. “It was awful. Awful.” Someone took her arm to lead her away. The room began to empty, some people craning their necks to get a last look.

Holliday looked at the body, then up at Connolly. “He’s dead,” he said simply. “You kill him?”

Connolly nodded.

“Well, that’s a hell of a thing. He come after you?”

“It was him. He killed Bruner.”

An ambulance siren wailed outside, rising over the voices on the patio.

“Who was the woman with him?” Holliday said calmly.

“Hannah. His boss.”

But where was she? Connolly looked around the empty room, suddenly panicked. “Where’s Emma?” he said, but Holliday didn’t know what he was talking about. “Doc, come on.” He moved away from the wall, but Holliday stood up, blocking him.

“Take it easy. I don’t want two bodies on my report.”

“I’m all right.”

“Well, we got a killing here.”

“Doc, she’s got the gun.”

“Who?”

“Hannah,” he said impatiently. “The other one. I’ll explain it later. She’s got the gun.”

Holliday stared at him as the ambulance crew rushed into the room, carrying a stretcher. Connolly could see police uniforms moving through the crowd on the patio.

“Doc, now,” he said. “She’ll kill her.”

Holliday looked at him for another minute, deciding. The ambulance crew swarmed around them. Then he said, “I’ll drive.”

On the patio, people moved away as Connolly approached, afraid to make contact with the violence. “Ask them,” he said to Holliday. “Somebody must have seen them leave.” Holliday glanced at him and turned to a group standing next to one of his men, already reporting details of the fight.

But it was Chalmers, finally, who came forward, hypnotized by the blood on Connolly’s face. A black Chevy, yes. Emma’s car. Heading down toward the bridge. Not the Cerrillos Road, to Albuquerque. The bridge. He thought they’d been too frightened to stay. Two of them, yes. He hoped it wasn’t wrong, their leaving the scene-

Connolly grabbed Holliday, moving him toward the street, so that a few people, puzzled, thought, that it was the chief who was being taken into custody.

“They’re going to her ranch,” Connolly said, getting in the car. “Up past Tesuque.”

But when they reached the Alameda, one of Holliday’s men, on traffic duty, had seen the car going west. “Hell of a way to get to Tesuque,” Holliday said.

“The Hill,” Connolly said.

“Now why would they do that?”

“I don’t know.”

Just in case, Holliday ordered the traffic cop to check the road to Albuquerque, then turned sharply onto the Alameda, wrenching the gearshift hard so that the car shuddered as they shot forward.

Connolly was wiping his face, the handkerchief stiff now with dried blood.

“How’s your rib?”

“It hurts. Maybe just a bruise.”

“You ought to get that taped. You could puncture a lung.”

Then they were out of town, rounding one of the low hills to an open stretch of yucca and gray mesquite. “Can’t you go any faster?” Connolly said, still anxious.

“If they’re going that fast, somebody’s likely to pick them up. Save us the trouble.”

“She wouldn’t be thinking that clearly. She just wants to get away.”

“She capable of killing her?”

“Yes,” Connolly said grimly.

“Then we better not let her see us. First rule of pursuit-the minute they see you, they’ll go that much faster.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to slow down.”

“Well, that looks to be them up ahead.”

In the distance, Connolly saw the dark speck of a car heading toward the Jemez foothills. “How long have you known?” he said, looking at Holliday.

“Few miles. You ought to calm down-you’d see more. ‘Course, when you do this for a living you get a feeling for it. Now look at that,” he said, as Emma’s car took a curve wide. “Not a very good driver, is she?”

“No.”

“Someone special to you?”

“Yes.”

“Funny thing. Someone back there thought it was a woman hit him.”

“No. Me. The statue was on the floor. I grabbed it just in time.”

“He was on the floor, was he?”

“Bent over. He was leaning over to pop me.”

Holliday was quiet for a minute. “It could have happened that way, I guess.”

“It did,” Connolly said, looking at him. “I don’t think anybody could’ve seen it clearly. He was blocking the way.”

“And of course it all happened so fast.”

“That’s right.”

“What’d you say to him, got him so excited?”

“I told him we had proof he killed Bruner.”

Holliday paused. “That would do it.”

The road was climbing now, out of the Rio Grande Valley, and it was more difficult to keep the car in sight.

“Sure does look like they’re heading for the Hill.”

“Don’t lose her.”

But a huge cattle truck, lumbering off a secondary road, swung onto the highway to block their view.

“Pass him,” Connolly said.

“Now just where in hell do you expect me to do that?”

They crept up behind the truck, close enough to see the cattle watching them through the slats. The truck ground upward, slowing at each incline, spewing clouds of diesel exhaust. Connolly leaned over to beep the horn, but there was nowhere for the truck to go; the narrow shoulders rimmed the side of the hill. There was an agony of waiting as the truck made its way up the high grades of Highway 4, trapping Holliday’s car and another behind it. Finally, a few miles before the turnoff for Frijoles Canyon, the truck slowed nearly to a stop and turned onto a dirt road that dropped precipitously to some canyon where lonely grazing land was waiting.

Holliday, in a hurry now, lurched forward, spinning around a curve so tightly that Connolly was thrown against the door. Pine trees passed in a blur. Connolly craned his neck, hoping to see the car around each turn, but they still hadn’t spotted it by the time they reached the turnoff for the west gate. Improbably, a sign posted in the middle of the road announced that it was closed.

“Well, what the hell,” Holliday said.

“They put it there. So nobody would follow. Just drive in.” Even as he said it, he remembered the extra security, sealing the Hill before the test. But where else would they go?

Holliday drove around the sign and sped down the gate road. The same Georgia cracker was on duty at the sentry post. He came out carrying a rifle, clearly upset to see the car.

“Can’t you fucking read?” he said, his twang turned mean. “This road’s closed.”

“Black Chevy come through here?” Connolly said.

“Ain’t nobody come through here. Road’s closed. Can’t you read?” He took up the rifle.

Holliday flashed his badge out the car window. “Put your dick back in your pants,” he said. “Now, that car come through here or not? Two ladies.”

“No, sir,” the soldier said sullenly.

Holliday turned to Connolly. “Now what?”

They’d been on Highway 4. He’d seen them. Had they slipped into one of the canyons? Frijoles? Those were traps, nature’s dead ends. It had to be the Hill. But they didn’t know the gate road would be closed. They’d have no choice but to continue on. Maybe she had even planned it that way. Anybody trailing them would come here, following the wrong scent.

“They’re still on 4,” Connolly said.

“They could have turned off. They could be anywhere.”

“She’s not hiding. She’s running.” All the way to the Pacific, he thought. “Come on, just a little farther.”

They saw nothing for miles. They drove by the green valley of the caldera, Connolly thinking of that other drive, to Chaco, when everything had changed.

“If you’re wrong, we’re just going farther and farther in the wrong direction,” Holliday said. “This road’s a bitch.” They were driving into the sun, and at this speed the curves and hills came at them like an obstacle course. There was no other traffic-Sunday.

“She’s heading for 44,” Connolly said. “Why else would they come this way?”

“If they did.”

And then, minutes later, coming down from the caldera, the views began to open up and they saw the car below them, moving through the landscape like a figure in a child’s picture book.

“Get closer,” Connolly said.

“Why?”

He imagined the Chevy for a minute on a canyon road, a short detour, one shot. How long would Hannah feel she needed her? “I want to see if they’re both still there.”

Holliday glanced at him, then nodded quickly. “You’re the boss.”

The car, already going fast, speeded up, taking one dip in the road so quickly that for a moment they felt suspended. When their stomachs followed them down, Connolly groaned.

“Open the glove compartment,” Holliday said.

Connolly leaned over and pushed the button. The door of the compartment flapped down. He stared at the gun, struck by its size, the bulky carved handle and long, thin barrel. A Western gun. It was like looking at a snake, threatening even when it was still. He touched it, as cold as dead flesh, and held his hand there, feeling another death. But the violence ended with Hector. Karl to Eisler to-The chain had to stop now.

“Ever use one?” Holliday said.

“No,” Connolly said, taking it out. A cowboy gun. Chasing the runaway stagecoach across the screen. A prop. Heavy. One shot. “We need her alive,” he said, taking his hand away. “She’s the key.”

“Who?”

“Both of them.”

Holliday took a breath. “Leave it on the seat. Just in case.”

“Could you hit one of the tires?” Connolly said.

“You don’t want to do that. Not at this speed.”

Connolly placed it carefully on the seat next to Holliday. It wasn’t finished. Guns go off. For a second he wanted to stop the car, stop everything in time before it moved the next notch. Hannah was bound to be caught, somehow. He saw her at a train station, melting into the crowd, leaving Emma in the car. But Emma was still, slumped against the door.

When he looked up, he saw the sign for Jemez Springs. Everything now reminded him of that other drive. They were still dropping, literally putting a mountain between them and the dead man in Santa Fe.

“They see us,” Holliday said.

The car in front of them jerked with a new burst of speed. Connolly imagined Hannah’s panic. Her one chance was to lose herself in all the empty space, leaving the past behind the mountain. You could do that in the West. Now it was following her, a bogeyman always just over her shoulder. No time to be careful. She would have the gun on Emma, watching her steer, then looking out the window behind, trapped.

“Not too close,” Connolly said. “She has to stop sometime.”

“She’s not going to stop,” Holliday said quietly.

Connolly saw the few buildings of town, Emma’s Chevy streaking through, past the wide porch of the old hotel, the gas station. Suddenly a police car pulled into the street behind her. Our old friend the speed trap, Connolly thought. Emma had been so annoyed. But not now. Get out of the way, he wanted to scream, you don’t know. But the traffic cop, jolted from his lazy afternoon watch, kept on them, his one chance for a ticket. When they didn’t stop, he turned on his siren.

The noise cracked the air like a long scream. Connolly felt his own blood pump faster, triggered by the sharp wail, and he knew that Hannah’s would be racing. The siren wouldn’t stop. It surrounded them, louder and closer, as if the air itself were chasing them. He imagined Hannah turning to see-not just Connolly’s car now, but the lights and the siren, a whole posse. She was being run to ground.

“Idiot. He’s got to stop,” Connolly yelled to no one.

They flashed through the town and then they were back in the hills again, but the cop kept going, inching closer to the lead car. It’s not speeding, Connolly wanted to shout. You’re ruining everything. But that wasn’t the point anymore. Now it was Emma, hands clenched on the wheel, terrified, the air shrieking around her. And his own helplessness. He’d found out everything and it didn’t matter. He couldn’t help her.

When they started climbing the long hill, the police car gained on them, the siren still furious and insistent. Holliday, grim, was pushing their car as fast as it could go, flashing his headlights to get the cop’s attention. Nobody stopped. When Emma reached the top, the car shuddered for an instant, then banked into a sharp curve. Connolly saw it swerve. Then the squeal of tires as it slid toward the edge of the road, the crack as it hit the tree, so fast that it bounced away, fishtailing back in an uncontrollable circle until it flew off the road, plunging backward over the side. He heard the sound of metal crashing, louder even than the siren, a roar. Connolly’s mind went blank. He thought for a second that he could not see, but that was only because the car was gone.

At the top, he jumped from Holliday’s car even before it stopped, the momentum pitching him forward, past the traffic cop standing at the side of the road, over the rim, then down the hill in great leaps, sending up clouds of dust. The car was on its side, driver’s side up, steam rising from the hood. There was glass everywhere. Running, Connolly thought he heard a new siren, but it was his own screaming, shouting her name. He was still screaming for her when he fell against the car, unable to stop his run. Pain shot through his chest. He yanked the door handle, pulling with both hands until it finally came unstuck and popped open. The angle of the car made it snap back, hitting him on the shoulder, and he groaned, then pushed it again until it stayed open. She was flung over the steering wheel, her face covered with blood, not moving.

He reached in to pull her body out. Her head fell back. Was she breathing? He put his arm around her waist, pulling her toward him, straining with the weight. She was wedged against the steering wheel, so that finally he had to pull her out by her arms, the lower part of her body dragged along like a twisted stuffed animal. When she was halfway through the door, Holliday came to help lift her out.

“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.