Connolly shrugged his shoulders. “Be right back.”
“You’d better hope this is important.”
It was Mills, sounding elated. “I thought you’d want to know-they got him.”
“What?”
“The killer. Holliday called. Albuquerque police nailed him. Both crimes. Looks like you can start heading back to the bright lights.”
But Connolly realized with a sharp pang that it was the last thing he wanted.
“You still there?” Mills said, louder now, as if he feared a bad line.
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“Brother, you don’t give up, do you? They closed the case. Fermata, as we say in the Rio Grande. He’s Mex, by the way. Just like they thought.”
“I want to see him.”
Mills paused. “Holliday said, if you asked, to tell you that the Albuquerque police want you both to politely butt out. They’ll send a copy of the report, but-”
“Tell him I’ll be there tomorrow. I have to get Oppenheimer back tonight.”
“He said they’re pretty firm about it. Probably got some bug up their ass about the army coming in-”
“You listening? Tell Holliday I’ll be in Albuquerque tomorrow and I’ll interview the suspect then. If I’m not interviewing the suspect tomorrow, I’ll be on the phone to General Groves and he’ll be talking to the governor of New Mexico and he’ ll be dealing with a severe manpower shortage on the Albuquerque police force. Clear?”
“Could you really do that?”
“Probably. I don’t know, but it’s a risk he’s not going to want to take.”
“All right, calm down. I’ll see what I can do. You don’t sound very happy. I thought you’d be pleased as hell.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just don’t believe it. He’s not the guy.”
“Mike, you’d better believe it,” Mills said calmly. “He confessed.”
They drove through the night, Eisler asleep in the back seat, Oppenheimer hunched down in front in a counterfeit of sleep, restless but quiet. The road was completely deserted, their headlights the only points of light in miles of darkness, but Connolly was alert, rubbed by the tension beside him, Oppenheimer wanting to ask about the call and Connolly not telling him.
He wasn’t sure why. Oppenheimer had a right to know. What could be more conclusive than a confession? It was useless to pretend he could offer any reason to doubt it. The rest of the story wrote itself now: Oppenheimer’s wry thanks and a ticket back to Washington; his billet in the house on L Street, shared bathroom down the hall; another year or so of shuffling paper, until the war came to its end; his discharge to a life that wasn’t there anymore. But it wasn’t finished yet, not the case, not anything about Los Alamos. He wasn’t ready to go. The truth was that he felt alive here, somehow on active service at last, a part of the project. He understood for the first time how the scientists felt, unwilling to think about anything else until the main point was reached, until it went off. There would be time later, but there wasn’t any now. They were so close. And as long as he had his case, his peripheral investigation, he could still be part of it. Didn’t he owe it to Bruner to follow this through to the end?
But even he could see that he was building an absurd house of cards. You can talk yourself into anything if you try. It wasn’t his project. He didn’t owe Bruner anything except an apology for trying to use his death to do something interesting with his own life. A Mexican pickup, a senseless crime. Life was like that. Maybe his refusal to accept it had a simpler reason: if he left the project, he’d be leaving her. He glanced over at Oppenheimer. He deserved to know. Connolly’s silence bordered on military insubordination. Dereliction of duty. All because it might interfere with his urge for a woman? Was that really what it came down to? Still, Oppenheimer didn’t care, and what did it matter? He wasn’t asking for a lot of time-just enough to be sure, before he gave it all up.
They were still south of Santa Fe when first light streamed over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, lifting mist off the sage and the juniper trees. It was going to be another spectacular morning, erasing all the uneasiness of the night, clear and uncomplicated. Oppenheimer, exhausted finally from whatever worries had preoccupied him in the dark, now fell sound asleep. Eisler, who confronted demons and then offered a roll, was snoring softly in the back. The car felt safe and ordinary again. Why was the night always filled with ultimatums? Go one step at a time. In the new light, he would see what he would see.
