nobody’s ever really cared about this except you.”
“I can’t now,” Oppenheimer said, coming out of the building. “I’m already late. I’m flying to Washington. Can’t it wait?”
“No.”
“Ride with me to Albuquerque if you like,” he said, nodding to the driver, who held the door for him.
“I’ve just come from Albuquerque. Two minutes.”
“Then ride with me to the gate. I really am late. Just like the White Rabbit.” He smiled, climbing into the car as if it were the hole in the tree. Connolly followed.
“Bad news?” Oppenheimer said as they passed the Tech Area.
“That depends on how you look at it. I thought you should know. The police in Albuquerque have arrested someone.”
“Splendid. Anybody we know?”
“No. Some kid who knifed a guy down there a few weeks ago. They got him to confess to both crimes.”
“Poor Bruner,” Oppenheimer said indifferently, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Well, it’s a relief in a way, isn’t it? One less thing to worry about.” He looked up when Connolly didn’t answer. “Isn’t it?”
Connolly shook his head and nodded toward the driver, a slight fair-haired soldier, but Oppenheimer waved his hand.
“He’s the wrong man.”
“Do you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Do they?”
“Maybe. They don’t care.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He killed their man. He didn’t kill Karl. But it suits them to wrap it all up, I guess. Neat and tidy. Anyway, they’re doing it.”
“You said they had a confession?”
“He’s lying. It wouldn’t hold up for five minutes in court.”
Oppenheimer looked at him, frankly puzzled.
“But no one’s going to challenge it. The police want to believe it, and Kelly-that’s the guy-wants them to believe it. He thinks he’s making a deal.”
Oppenheimer took this in. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing we can do. But I wanted you to know. It’ll be in the papers. Are you seeing Groves? He’ll want to know. He’ll want to believe it.”
They had reached the gate, and Oppenheimer asked the driver to pull over. “What exactly do you want me to tell him?”
“That I’m continuing our investigation and you support it.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, if you want to get to the bottom of this. Of course, you can go along with the police and send me back to Washington.”
Oppenheimer smiled. “Oh, I’m in no hurry to do that. I rather like playing Dr. Watson.” He hesitated. “Do I understand that you’re seriously suggesting there’s a miscarriage of justice—”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And we’re not going to do a thing about it?”
“Not now. What do we get by that? Officially, Karl was rolled in the park having sex with a street thug. Case closed. Theirs, anyway.”
Oppenheimer looked out the window. “It’s a hell of an epitaph, isn’t it? That’s how Karl’s going to be remembered.”
“That’s what the papers will say anyway. We don’t get to write our own obituaries.”
“No, we don’t,” Oppenheimer said. “So. The expedient thing. What do you want me to do?”
“Agree with them. Case closed. I’ll just go about my business in my own way. Officially, you’re relieved it’s over.”
“I’ll be relieved when it’s really over.”
“Yes,” Connolly said, opening the door to get out, “but imagine how relieved the real killer is right now.”
But having cleared things with Oppenheimer, he now found himself at loose ends, tired, unsure where to begin again. At the office he talked with Mills, now sheepish after hearing about Kelly’s interview, and leafed absentmindedly through the savings files. He thought about Holliday’s reconstruction of the night of the crime. But why San Isidro in the first place? It was an unlikely rendezvous-there was always the chance of tourists or parishioners. He made a note to check the schedule of services, but more out of thoroughness than conviction-he couldn’t imagine Bruner meeting someone at mass. In fact, he couldn’t imagine Bruner meeting someone at all. And yet he must have. He must have arranged it somehow, without telephones, from a city so secret it didn’t exist, just a post office number in the high desert.
He was thinking about Los Alamos, the communications procedures, when Emma came into the office. She nodded to him but dealt with Mills, filling out a req for an overnight off-site pass.
“Do you need the whole route? I’m going to Chaco. I’ve been before, so you’ve probably got it all somewhere.”
“Purpose of visit?” Mills said, bored.
“See the bloody ruins. What do you think? There’s nothing else there.”
“Archaeology?” he said, pencil still poised to write.
Emma laughed. “No. Hiking, put ‘hiking’ down. That covers everything.”
“Tourism,” Mills said, writing.
Connolly shuffled papers, not trusting himself to look at her, but when he did he found her staring directly at him, her eyes shining.
“Number where you can be reached?”
“Not for miles and miles. That’s the point. You ought to get out once in a while,” she said to Mills. “You’ll get pasty in here. Ever see the Anasazi sites?”
“Not yet,” Mills said, completing the form.
“You really ought to. Get some proper hiking shoes and start with Bandelier. It’s closer. Chaco’s a bit remote. You have to leave here at six to have any time there at all, but it’s worth it.”
Mills handed her the pass. “Don’t talk to strangers,” he said, smiling.
“That’s what my father used to say.”
And then she smiled at both of them and was gone. Connolly stared back at the desk, afraid to watch her out the door, and realized it had all been arranged. The time. The plan. What he’d need to take. A clandestine meeting, all fixed in the security office itself. That easy. Why had he ever imagined Bruner couldn’t do it? Everything that mattered was secret, arranged under the thin cover of the visible world.
He had dinner with Mills in the commissary, then walked over to the movie. He couldn’t go home. He’d lie there on Bruner’s chaste bed, thinking about tomorrow, tempted to slink over to the Sundt apartments in the dark. Instead he sat on a folding chair in the crowded auditorium, dazzled by color. It was a musical, bright and glossy. There was a nightclub. There was a misunderstanding. There was a spot with Carmen Miranda. Afterward, he couldn’t remember anything about it. People filed out, complaining about the night chill, and drifted away in pairs, just the way they did on Main Street. He was too tired to go back with Mills for a beer, so he found himself alone, the street suddenly empty, smelling of woodsmoke and resin.
“Excuse me.” The voice startled him, coming from behind. “Could I speak to you for a minute?”
Connolly turned and tried to make out the face in the dim light, eyes blinking nervously under short blond hair.
“You’re the driver. Today.”
“That’s right. I couldn’t help overhearing. I mean, I—” He faltered.
“What?”
He took a breath. “I wasn’t going to say anything. I mean, I’m not saying anything now. It’s just you seem like an all-right guy.” It was a question.
