Everything that concerned him now seemed inconsequential. This could never be a secret, so what had it all been about? A murder solved. Would Oppenheimer care? And it was Oppenheimer he wanted to see. One last thing.
He’d forgotten about Daniel. They passed the group of soldiers outside the base, collecting sensors and measuring devices in the desert, then stood idly at the camp, not quite sure where to go next. When the man approached him, he did not, for a minute, remember who he was. The project had aged him. Connolly had thought of him as young, a gentle student. Now his face was sharp and stern, as if the blast had pulled back his skin, leaving the cheekbones and receding hairline of an older man.
“Oppie said you wanted to see me.”
“Yes,” Connolly said, surprised and then embarrassed. Had he really asked to see him? He seemed a figure from before, when nothing was inconsequential. “I thought you’d need a lift back. To the hospital.”
“You’re very solicitous,” Pawlowski said stiffly.
“She thinks you’re already on your way,” Connolly said. “She’ll be worried. You can tell her they sealed the base. It’s true enough.”
Pawlowski narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were there. Wasn’t that enough?” he said, his voice unexpectedly arch.
“She asked for you,” Connolly said. “Stop blaming her.”
“I don’t blame her,” he said slowly. “I blame you.”
Connolly shrugged. “You want to take a poke at me? It’s a good time for it. I assure you, I wouldn’t feel a thing.”
“Is that why you came here? To fight?”
“No, I came to help.”
“Help me?”
“Mills over there can drive you,” Connolly said, nodding his head toward the car. “You’d never forgive yourself. What are you trying to do, get even with me? I don’t matter.”
Pawlowski glanced over at the car, then back again. “I wish that were true,” he said, his body slumping a little, tired. “So. A car. Is that the American custom?”
“It’s just a car.”
“And you think I would accept this from you?”
“Just go see her. She needs to see you.”
“So she can tell me everything? The guilty conscience? I already know, Mr. Connolly. I always know. You. The others. Do you think you’re the first?”
“But you stay.”
He paused. “Yes, I stay,” he said quietly. “You wonder how I can do that.”
“No. I think you’re in love with her.”
Pawlowski stared at him, his eyes dull with fatigue. “Why have you come here?”
Connolly said nothing.
“So it’s over. Now the apologies.”
“No. It’s not over,” Connolly said pointedly.
Pawlowski moved toward the building and leaned against it, deflated. “She wants to leave me?”
“She wants you to let her go.”
He looked down at the ground, then up at Connolly, a last spurt of anger. “For you? And I have no feelings in the matter. Is that what you think?”
“No,” Connolly said quietly.
For a minute Pawlowski said nothing, looking at the drying street. “I was right,” he said finally. “You’re not like the others. It’s not enough for you, just to take? You want-what? A collaborator?”
“I want her to be happy. She won’t be happy if she hurts you.”
“So you want me to pretend?”
“Sometimes it’s better.”
Pawlowski looked at him, the faint trace of an ironic smile on his lips. “Than the truth? Yes,” he said slowly. “Perhaps. Each time, you know, I thought, ‘Why am I not enough?’ Each time.” He pulled himself up, moving away from the building. “You’re embarrassed? To hear this? You want me to pretend to you too?”
“I’m sorry,” Connolly said.
“Maybe it’s a relief for me, to say it once.” Pawlowski straightened himself to go. “Emma’s not a prisoner. She’s free to do as she likes.” He looked out toward the blast area. “It seems a small point now.”
“Not to her. Help her.”
He looked straight at Connolly and then over toward Mills. “Ah,” he said wearily, “I forgot. In America, always the happy ending. Better than the truth. And so easy. Even a car and driver.” He took a step, then turned. “But always there’s the loose end, you know. Even here.” He looked away, then pointed to a jeep farther along the road. “That needs to go back to the bunker. You’ll return it?”
Connolly nodded.
“Straight out that road. You can’t miss it. There’s nothing else there now.”
Connolly watched him walk heavily over to the car and open the back door, nodding to Mills as he got in, not turning around.
The road to S 10,000 was busy with vehicles, visitors returning from the blast area, and soldiers still collecting sensors. Connolly saw Oppenheimer’s porkpie hat outside the door of the control station, bobbing in a sea of heads. Somebody was taking a picture. He parked the jeep and sat for a few minutes, not wanting to interrupt, looking out across the waste. When the group broke up, Oppenheimer spotted him and walked over, his face no longer pale, as if it had colored with excitement and was just calming down.
“How about a lift?” he said.
“Sure. Where?”
“Out there,” Oppenheimer said, indicating the far edge of the blast area. “I want to get away for a bit. It’s quite safe as long as we don’t go near the crater. You need a lead-lined tank for that.”
