She refused any money, waving off their thanks, and then turned the bar lights off and was gone.
“Our suite at the Waldorf,” Emma said, smiling at the linoleum and the narrow bed.
Connolly stood under the light bulb, unbuttoning her blouse.
“I don’t think I can move,” she said.
“No, don’t,” he said, kissing her.
“The light,” she said. He reached up and pulled the cord, turning the room black. In the pitch dark there was only touch, the gritty feel of dust, and the smell of sweat and liquor, and when they fell on the bed, their bare skin against the rough blanket, they finally made love, slow as dancing, as if they had already gone to sleep.
10
They found the car on May 8th, the day the war ended in Europe. Connolly had spent the afternoon at a motel on the Taos road, a motor court with faded cabins that had become their usual place, and had stayed late. Daniel had been spending most of his time at the test site, but he was back again this week, so they had to steal what time they could, a few hours of afternoon on old sheets, the sun dimmed to evening by dusty Venetian blinds. At first Mills had been titillated by Connolly’s absences, but now, finally bored with someone else’s affair, he scarcely raised an eyebrow.
“More research?” he said when Connolly turned up.
“You ought to at least check in once in a while.”
“Why? Did I miss something?”
It was a standard joke between them. For days, weeks now, there had been nothing to miss. Ramon Kelly had been convicted, a one-day excitement for the Santa Fe New Mexican, a longer run for the Albuquerque papers, and the Hill had shrugged off the news with indifference and gone back to work. Karl Bruner, even as gossip, was gone, a few paragraphs on the crime blotter. Corporal Batchelor, a little nervous now at having come forward at all, had found nothing to report. Doc Holliday checked in regularly, but more out of boredom than progress. The files on Mills’s desk sat undeciphered, dusted once a week by the cleaning staff, waiting for a new key. All around them life on the Hill intensified-furloughs canceled, lights blazing at night as eighteen-hour workdays raced to some uncertain deadline-so that by contrast they seemed at a standstill, just holding their breath. Connolly, to his surprise, didn’t mind. He lived in the hurried, measured hours of motel rooms. There would be time enough later for everything else.
“The car,” Mills said. “They found Karl’s car. One of Kisty’s men.”
“Down at S Site? It’s been here all along?”
“No.” Mills smiled. “Nothing that good. One of the box canyons off the plateau.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Join the club. Hell of a place to stash a car.”
“Wrecked?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you.” He glanced at his watch. “For hours, in fact.”
“Well, let’s go.” Connolly led the way out of the office.
“Relax, it’s not going anywhere. We’ve got a guard posted.”
“We ought to call Doc.”
“I did. He’ll wait for us at the west gate.” Mills met Connolly’s glance. “I told him you’d be back by five.”
“Why five?”
Mills shrugged. “I’m in security, remember? I notice things. You’re always back by five.”
“Why is that, I wonder.”
“I figure somebody’s got to be home.”
“A detective.”
Mills smiled. “It passes the time. Quiet around here lately.”
“Feeling neglected?”
“Me? I like it quiet. The Germans surrendered, by the way, in case you haven’t heard.”
Connolly nodded. “You’d never know it here.” He looked around the Tech Area, as busy and undisturbed as ever.
“Oh, they’ll pop a few corks tonight. You know the longhairs-work first.”
“Unlike some of us, you mean.”
“No. I figure you’re pretty busy.” He grinned. “Just thinking about it is what gets me through the days.”
They drove past S Site, the explosives unit at the opposite end of the plateau, a new industrial plant of snaking steampipes, smokestacks, and hangars of heavy machinery. The Tech Area was the university, but S had the raw utility of a foundry, where blueprints were hammered into casings and people risked accidents.
“Who found it?”
“They were setting up a new firing range in one of the canyons off South Mesa. You know they like to keep the explosives off the Hill.”
“Yes, it’s comforting.”
Mills grinned. “Lucky this time, anyway. We never would have found it otherwise.”
At the end of a road thick with conifers, they found Holliday standing at the gate, chatting with the young sentry.
“You took your time.”
The sentry, recognizing Connolly, gave an innocent half-salute.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Mills said, catching the gesture. “All this time and I’ve never used this gate. You?” he said to Connolly.
“Once in a while,” Connolly said, not looking at him.
“Well, I don’t blame you,” Holliday said to Mills. “My friend here says they don’t get much traffic anytime. Nights they just close the road, so you’d have to drive all the way around to the front. Pretty discouraging if you didn’t know that.”
“But everybody does,” the sentry said, his voice liquid with the South. “It’s just for Hill people. Trucks go to the east gate.”
“And all us folks from the outside, eh?” Holliday said.
“Ain’t nobody from outside on the Hill.”
“No. Well, I guess that’s right. And here I was with my nose pressed against the screen, just like always.”
Holliday followed their car as they skirted the plateau on winding switchbacks. The mesa was like a giant hand with a series of deep canyons between its fingers, some in turn breaking off into smaller box canyons that dipped away under the pine cover, lying as hidden as secrets. The car was in one of these, a mile or so from the entrance turnoff, at the end of an old dirt road partly overgrown with brush. An MP was posted where the car had driven off the dirt to carve its own path into the canyon floor. Mills cleared them and they moved toward the car, looking at the broken brush along the way.
“Why the road?” Connolly said.
“Probably an old logging road,” Holliday said. “They used to take a fair amount of timber out around here. You notice that canyon just before this one? There’s a real road there. They probably just gave up on this one.”
“That’s the test range,” Connolly said.
“What exactly they firing there?”
“I don’t know.” Then, catching Holliday’s look, “Honestly.”
“They’re measuring projectile velocity,” Mills said.
They looked at each other, then at him. He laughed. “Well, I asked. That’s what they told me.”
“You mean like how fast an arrow goes when you shoot it?” Holliday said.
“Something like that.”
“Sure are chewing up the trees to find out.” He pointed toward the end of the canyon, where a series of test explosions had opened a rough clearing.
“But why come here?” Connolly said.
“Well, if they hadn’t started shooting things up around here, nobody would have found it.”
“You know what I mean.”
Holliday looked at him. “You mean why so close to the Hill.”
Connolly nodded.
“I don’t know. Let’s see what we got first. Maybe it’s not even his.”
But there had been no attempt to disguise the car; the Hill license plate, the glove compartment registration were intact. The paint in front had been scratched by the drive through the brush, but otherwise the car was as Karl might have left it. The keys were still in the ignition switch.
“That’s a nice touch,” Holliday said. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“Can you have them checked for prints?”
“I could, but I’ve got no jurisdiction here.”
“Nobody does. You’re just assisting the Manhattan Project of the Army Corps of Engineers.” Connolly smiled at him. “War work.”