Lydia nodded. "She must have been terribly worried about you.
He seemed put off, and Lydia eyed his wedding ring.
"Actually," he said in a quiet voice, "my wife was killed in the Blitz."
"Oh, God! Michael, I'm so sorry. I only assumed—"
"No, no. It's all right. I still wear the ring — can't get it off, actually."
Lydia looked at her own wedding band. Would the thought of taking it off ever come? She watched Thatcher as he buttered a piece of bread. His face was rather bony and narrow in the dim light, angular and at odds with itself. The eyes, however, seemed soft, more so now than she'd noticed before. But then every other time she'd seen him he'd been engrossed in his hunt for Alex.
"Do you miss her?" she asked.
"Yes. Terribly."
Lydia felt a new pain emerge, one that the drugs could never help. "I miss Edward too." She felt a tear fall freely down her cheek. "You know, it's funny. When Edward was alive I could only see the worst in him. Wrinkled shirts, working weekends, the spots where he'd missed shaving. Now I only think about the flowers he gave me, and the trip to Niagara Falls he wanted to take over the holidays."
"Yes, I know. Madeline and I had so many plans. But the last thing I ever said to her was something stupid about a wing — what you call a fender — that she'd bent on our car."
Lydia shook her head. "But for me it's worse, Michael. You see, it's my fault Edward died."
"You can't believe that."
"I brought Alex here."
"He was an old college flame who thought—"
"No! When he came back, I should have turned him away. But instead I embraced him. I led Alex on, without a thought for my husband!"
He offered up a handkerchief and she began to wipe.
"Lydia, Alex is the killer."
"No! He couldn't have done it without me! Michael—" she felt the confession rise, "I carried on with him!" The tears began to flow, but she couldn't stop. "Right in this house, with Edward only a few rooms away!" Lydia fell forward on the table, sobbing into her folded arms. She felt his hand on her shoulder.
"You must think I'm disgraceful."
"I think you're human."
Thatcher made no attempt to dissuade her from her guilty thoughts. He simply sat in silence until her convulsions eased.
"And useless. I'm so damned useless! I failed Edward, and I've been a failure through this entire war. I just heard today that our former cook's son, Mario, was killed in the Pacific — one of those dreadful kamikazes. I grew up with Mario, he and I played together when we were children. He goes off to the war and makes that sacrifice, while my biggest concern each morning is… is what shoes to wear!"
Thatcher said nothing.
Lydia straightened up in her chair. "Look at me. I'm a blathering mess."
"Yes, you are. But I suspect there are at least a thousand like you at kitchen tables across the country at this very moment."
She eyed him thoughtfully.
He said, "This war has caused incredible suffering, Lydia. No one has come through untouched."
"I suppose you're right. But my wounds are self-inflicted. I only have myself to blame."
She handed back his handkerchief, now a soggy ball of cotton. Thatcher then helped her up the stairs to her room where she collapsed on her bed. He gestured to the pill bottles on her nightstand. "Are you sure you don't need these?"
"I'm sure," she said. "Please take them away."
He did. "I've got to go and catch my bus now." Thatcher took her nearest hand, which had a nasty bruise, and rubbed lightly over the mottled patch of skin. "Time heals, you know."
"Does it?"
Lydia thought his smile looked strained.
"Take care of yourself, Lydia."
And with that, he was gone.
PART III
Chapter 29
It took two days for Thatcher to reach Santa Fe. After a short night in a hotel, he called Sargent Cole.
"Have you heard anything new?"
Cole had been getting regular updates from the Newport Police regarding the almost certain murder of his son-in-law. He was Thatcher s source for current information.
"Yes. They tracked the airplane through a series of fuel stops. Last night it turned up — he crashed in New Mexico, about fifty miles east of Santa Fe. Near some little place called Villanueva."
"And Braun?"
"The airplane hit hard, but it clipped a couple of trees perfectly— ripped both wings off. The police figure that absorbed the impact of the crash. The cockpit was pretty banged up, but it was in one piece. They found blood inside, but not Alex."
"Blast! Does this man have no end of luck?"
"Oh, it gets better. Right next to the wreck was the body of some poor old Indian — had a nice hole in his chest. Apparently he was out hunting. Must have seen the crash, gone to help and —"
"And Braun gets another!"
"Looks that way. The guy's rifle and an old beat-up truck are missing."
Thatcher asked for a description of the truck, but Sargent Cole couldn't help. "Have you talked to Jones?" he asked.
"God damned right I did! When I heard about this I called and ripped him good. He says he's working on it, but not very hard if you ask me. He seemed more interested in you, Thatcher."
"Me?"
"Yeah, they seem to have lost track of you. I told him you were back in England, as far as I knew."
"Good. How is Lydia holding up?"
"Its been rough. They haven't found Edward's body yet."
Thatcher was not surprised. "They may never."
"I'm worried about her."
Thatcher understood perfectly. And it wasn't only Lydia. He heard it in Sargent Cole's voice as well — grief combined with anger. Thatcher knew how frustrating it could be, how it burned constantly from the inside. At that moment, he considered telling Sargent Cole the truth — that finding Braun would not end his family's misery. Life as they'd known it would never return. The pause was a long one.
"Thatcher? Are you still there?"
" Yes.. Yes. Give her my best, would you?" He then gave Sargent Cole the telephone number of his hotel. "Call me if you find out anything else."
Karl Heinrich looked nervously toward the entrance of Los Cuates. He mixed the last of the food on his plate, stirring rice and chicken into the green chili sauce. He'd be leaving New Mexico soon, yet for all he disliked about the place, Hatch green chili was the one thing he would miss.
The place was dark, more resembling a cave than a restaurant. Heavy wood beams held up the roof, and the walls were adobe, the mud and grass medium that dominated nearly every building, fence, and wall in Santa Fe. Heinrich had always wondered why it all didn't wash away in the heavy rains of monsoon season. The floor was dull and unvarnished, smooth not from fine craftsmanship, but rather years of wear. It was caked in a layer of brown dirt, probably swept in by the incessant wind. The wind he would certainly not miss.
He'd arrived an hour earlier — fifteen minutes before the place had opened for lunch — to ensure he got the correct table. It had probably been overkill. Even now, approaching noon, only three other tables were occupied. Eleven thirty, the time for the rendezvous, had come and gone. And still he was alone.
Again the questions gnawed. What if no one came? How would he reconnect with the Reich? His information was of such value, certainly vital to the rebuilding effort. Heinrich knew that his last contact, Klaus, had been killed by the Americans. This surprised him — even if they were the enemy, the Americans seemed a civilized lot, the type to handle prisoners in a fair and honorable manner. He could only assume that such severe justice was reserved for spies. Spies like him.
It had been a massive relief to find the new message last month, coded in a newspaper classified advertisement. A new contact would be made, someone to escort him back to the folds of the Fatherland. Heinrich again looked desperately around the restaurant. So where was he?