Braun wondered what would come of it all. Was the Manhattan Project really something valuable? The little scientist was sure, but Braun remembered from his time at Harvard how full the highbrow intellectuals could be of themselves. A new weapon? It sounded fantastic. How much power could be found in splitting a few atoms? Time, perhaps, would tell.
Chapter 30
Lydia sat in the dark surrounded by a mass of people. They were laughing at the antics of Abbot and Costello on the big screen. The smell of popcorn and candy sweetened the air, further sugar to coat the bitter reality that was the world outside.
Alice Van DeMeer sat next to her, dressed properly for the matinee in a conservative skirt and modest flats. Alice had called with the invitation at noon, but Lydia was sure it had been arranged by her mother, who'd been coming up with diversions all week. Shopping trips, excursions to the beach — anything to get Lydia s mind off the indelicate fact that she was now a widow at the age of twenty-five. Alice was two years younger, properly reared, and single. A perfect companion in Mothers eyes, Lydia supposed. And, of course, Alice was still full of that joie de vivre so common in young women not encumbered by the weight of dead husbands on the bottom of the ocean.
The movie had started thirty minutes earlier, but Lydia stared blankly. Any positive leanings in her mood had been ruined by the newsreels. The first had been about the battle in the Pacific, smiling young soldiers, boys jousting and ribbing one another lightheartedly before throwing themselves onto another death trap of a beach. But it was the second news clip that had imprinted so awfully in her mind. Footage of more American boys, these liberating a concentration camp — dead bodies stacked like cordwood, skeletal figures whose very shapes seemed to defy biology. It played over and over in her head, like a terrible song whose lyrics couldn't be pried away.
A roar of laughter erupted in the theater. Alice Van DeMeer doubled over in a very unrefined guffaw. Lydia could take no more. She jumped up and shoved rudely past ten sets of legs to reach the aisle. When she burst onto the street the brightness took her gaze down. It was just as well — she didn't want oncomers to see the tears streaming down her face.
Lydia walked quickly, though she doubted Alice would try to catch up. The whole affair had been awkward, Alice trying to be cheery and Lydia in a supremely dark mood. More importantly, she thought, the entire afternoon had been a waste. Another day of idleness, nothing done to help.
Lydia gathered herself as she walked. She passed a WAC, a smartly uniformed brunette of the Women's Army Corps. Why couldn't I have done that? Lydia thought. She could have been a nurse or a messenger. She could have gone to work in a factory building trucks or airplanes. Her mother would have been apoplectic. But Edward would have permitted it. Kind Edward would have seen how important it was to her. Instead, she had played tennis and gone to parties. She had learned how to drive, taking joyrides with no concern for the rations of fuel and rubber. While the world had suffered, she had gone to tea.
The afternoon heat bore down as Lydia walked home, fitting the ideas that were simmering in her head. Self-pity turned to self-loathing as she succumbed to the painful facts. She had let Alex seduce her, and the rest had followed directly.
As awful as it was, this realization brought great clarity. She had failed Edward. That was done. If there was any redemption to be had, it would be in helping to find Alex. And that would never happen until she finally took control of her life.
When Lydia arrived at Harrold House she was hot in sweat. Her mother was the first to see her.
"Where have you been, dear? Alice called to say that you'd left the matinee in a state."
"Where is Father?" she demanded.
"Lydia, I don t like that tone of voice. There's nothing respectable about being—"
"Where is he?" Lydia shouted.
Her mother stood back. She pointed toward the back lawn.
Lydia strode out to find her father seated in a chair at the bottom of the lawn, a cold drink in one hand, a newspaper in his lap. He seemed to be staring at the dock, where Mystic bobbed gently against her lines. Lydia stomped to a halt at his side. I must be a sight, she thought. She hoped her eyes were not puffy, evidence of her breakdown. She had to be strong.
Her father did not look up, but instead kept looking at the boat. His thumb and forefinger cupped his chin in contemplation. "I'm going to sell her," he murmured.
Lydia looked at Mystic. She was stunned. The boat had been Edward's joy. Something inside her snapped.
"No!" she shouted. "Absolutely not!"
Her father looked up patiently. Patronizingly.
"I won't allow it," she insisted. "Edward loved that boat. It was his, and now it's mine. I will never sell it. Never!"
Her father's response was to raise the newspaper. He began a study of the financials.
Lydia took a deep breath. "I'm going to New Mexico."
"New Mexico? Really, Lydia —"
"I want to help Major Thatcher find the man who killed my husband."
The paper still hid his face. "The major is very competent, dear. You mustn't worry—"
Lydia swatted the Times to the ground. Her father looked up in amazement.
"I do worry! I… I apologize for my impertinence, Father, but I'm going. I have sat around here far too long playing silly games and living a gilded life. The rest of the world is dealing with death and starvation. It's time I pitched in to help. And I'll do it with or without your approval."
Lydia braced for his rage. He would rise and tower over her to deliver the verbal dressing-down that would end her little rebellion. And then what would she do? What would she do when he denied her?
Strangely, her father sat still for a moment, and his expression turned to something else. Something very unexpected. If Lydia was not mistaken, it was pride.
"All right then," he said, "go."
Braun had hidden the old Indians truck in a derelict barn on the outskirts of Santa Fe, not sure if he'd even go back to it. But Heinrich had been right about one thing — Santa Fe was crawling with Army G-2 men, and probably the FBI. Braun knew he couldn't stay here.
He decided it was likely that the authorities had found the remains of the Luscombe and the body of the Indian. If so, they'd be looking for the truck. But they'd also be watching the train and bus stations. If he traveled at night, the truck remained his best bet.
He headed south at midnight. In three hours he passed only four cars, one a police black and white that fortunately showed no interest. During the drive Braun reflected on his meeting with Die Wespe. He would not see the scientist again until their rendezvous in the Pacific. And as soon as Braun was in possession of the trove of documents, he would dispose of the little Nazi. The question then became what to do with it all. If the information about this atomic weapon concept was indeed valuable, Braun had to find a way to sell it — to a country, most likely. Given the present dynamics of world affairs, there was one obvious choice.
Braun arrived in Albuquerque just before dawn, rattling along with a nearly empty gas tank. With daylight less than an hour away, he had to find a place to dump the truck for good. He found it on the southwest side of town, along the banks of the Rio Grande. A junkyard sprawled out behind a wooden fence, five acres of metal, rubber, and glass to blight the landscape.
He paused in front long enough to be sure no one was around. The "office" was little more than a shack, and a pair of guard dogs came running — German shepherds, perhaps, with something else mixed in that made them thicker in the chest and jaw. They barked and snarled behind the fence, and made Braun doubly sure that no one was inside the place.