“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.
19
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
