Body Farm 04 - Bones of Betrayal (26 page)

AND WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THAT STORY?” HER VOICE
sounded far away. I looked around, halfway surprised to find myself sitting in a sunny living room on a bright winter morning with a silver-haired woman. In my mind, the gunshot was still echoing, the whispers of conspiracy still hanging in the heat of a long-ago August.

“I think it still has a few loose ends,” I said. “Did you kill Novak, too?”

“Christ, of course not. What makes you think I would?”

“Because he was about to spill your secret to the documentary guy?”

“I could spill his, too,” she said. “And I told him I would, if he breathed a word of mine. Mutual Assured Destruction, right up to the end. Leonard and I were good Oak Ridgers, in our different ways. He kept his secrets, I kept mine. Besides, where would an old bat like me get a lethal source of radiation?”

She had a point there. “Did you give the film of Jonah’s manuscript to the Soviets?” She nodded. “Why didn’t you go to Russia after the war? Surely you could have found a way to get there.”

“Russia? Why on earth would I want to live in Russia? I was a spy, not an idiot.” I had to laugh at that. “So what happens now?”

“We wait for Detective Emert or Agent Thornton to show up. I called them from the car when I got here to say I thought you’d killed Jamison. As soon as I told Emert, he said, ‘Then she was the spy, too.’ I didn’t believe it. I guess he’s smarter than I am.”

“Not smarter,” she said. “Less trusting.” She raised her glass to her lips—she’d left the drink untouched during her story—and drank deeply. She gave a slight shudder, then drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “You’re a good man, Bill. I’m going to miss you.”

“Oh, I’ll still come see you,” I said.

“Ah, but you can’t,” she said. She raised her glass in my direction, then drained it. “Not where I’m going.”

“Beatrice? What have you done?”

“I said there were many forms of prison, and many forms of death. Leonard died a hard death. I’ll die an easy one. Vodka and Nembutal, which I bought from an obliging veterinarian last time I was in Mexico. I hear the combination’s quick and painless.”

Nembutal was a barbiturate, I knew—a powerful sedative, used mainly to euthanize suffering animals. I groped in my pocket for my cell phone.

“Too late,” she murmured. “Far too late.”

Just as I flipped it open to dial 911, the glass slipped from her hand and shattered on the terrazzo floor. In a voice that sounded sleepy and peaceful and somehow young, she murmured “Hold my hand, would you, dear? I do so hate to sleep alone.”

I knelt beside her and took her hand in both of mine. She clutched my hand with both of hers, and her grip tightened. Then it slackened, and she was gone. I felt for a pulse, and there was none. Still I knelt there, her fingers laced through mine, her head leaning against one wing of the chair back. Thornton found us that way when he arrived.

“She’s dead,” I said.

He looked at her closely, then studied me. “What’d you do, interrogate her to death? Squeeze her hand really, really hard?”

I hesitated, unsure whether to tell him about the Nembutal. Would there be any harm in not telling him? It wasn’t as if Beatrice had given away any secrets in the past half century. True, she’d murdered Jonah Jamison, but she had just executed herself. Why not leave her a bit of privacy and a shred of dignity?

Because, I realized. Because I remembered something Art Bohanan had said to me a year or so before, when he and I went to confront a man who had murdered a serial pedophile: If you cross the line once, it’s easier to cross a second time, and it gets steadily easier, until finally you lose sight of the line altogether. “She killed herself,” I said. “She drank vodka and Nembutal, and I had no clue until it was too late.” I caught his gaze and held it. “I thought about not telling you,” I said. “Seemed almost like a sleeping dog. But I couldn’t let it lie.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Otherwise it would’ve been awkward when I heard the recording.”

“Recording?”

“We got a warrant for audio surveillance before your first visit,” he said. I must have looked startled. “Leonard Novak was once a high-level atomic scientist,” he explained, “and somebody killed him with an intense radioactive source. The director con
sidered this case a high priority. He’d be very disappointed if I didn’t investigate every angle thoroughly. And I’d be very disappointed if you held back the truth.” He hesitated. “But I guess I’d also be disappointed if you hadn’t given some thought to an elderly woman’s reputation. Even if the old gal was an under-handed, soulless Commie spy.”

I laughed and sighed and shook my head all at the same time. “How’d you end up as a cop instead of a diplomat?”

“Didn’t want to end up huddled in an embassy compound in some plague-infested, two-bit, Third World shithole,” he said.

“Too bad,” I said. “With that silver tongue, you’d have made one hell of an ambassador.”

“Damn skippy,” he said. “By the way, I wouldn’t be surprised if we wanted this kept fairly quiet. The Bureau and the NSA are still trying to track down quite a few Cold War spies. We might not want to let on that we’re wise to Beatrice.”

The logic seemed flimsy, but then I had another thought. “Agent Thornton, is it possible? Is there a bleeding heart somewhere behind that FBI badge?”

“Not a chance,” he said. But I thought I saw a hint of a smile as he called for an ambulance to ferry Beatrice to the afterworld.

I SPENT ALL THE NEXT MORNING AND MOST OF THE
afternoon at the hospital with Miranda and Carmen. A hand surgeon cut three fingers from Garcia’s right hand and amputated the left hand entirely, because everything below the wrist had died. There was a good chance, the surgeon assured Carmen, that Garcia could resume his work someday, with the help of sophisticated prosthetics and extensive rehabilitation. What the surgeon didn’t say was that there was also a chance Garcia might yet die from a runaway infection or internal bleeding.

Miranda’s fingertips, thank god, had begun to show signs of healing. She’d lost some tissue from the tips of her thumb and first two fingers, but Sorensen predicted she’d be left with little or no permanent scarring. She was getting off far more easily than she might have. Miranda had driven Carmen to the hospital, and once Garcia was back in his isolation room, still sedated, Miranda drove her home.

The light was fading and a cold, pitiless rain had begun to fall as I parked at the library in Oak Ridge. Thornton had left a message on voice mail while I was out of signal range inside the hospital. They’d identified a suspect in the radiography-camera theft—a Japanese-American immigrant named Arakawa—but he had died just as the agents were about to question him. He died, said the message, of radiation poisoning.

Opening my briefcase, I removed the large, padded envelope Miranda had handed me just before my drive to Oak Ridge and stared at it again. A yellow Post-it note on the outside, in Miranda’s handwriting, said, “Only grad student named Isabella who’s done a thesis on Oak Ridge.” The envelope itself was from UT’s Interlibrary Loan service; inside was a bound copy of a master’s-degree thesis, sent from the History Department at Tulane University. “The Role of National Myth in Legitimizing Mass Murder,” read the title. “From Oak Ridge to Nagasaki,” the subtitle added. The author of the thesis was listed as Isabella Arakawa, M.A.

My mind was careening and ricocheting in directions I didn’t want it to go. One by one, the billiard balls of fate seemed to be dropping into corner pockets and side pockets that were dark and bottomless. But I saw Isabella’s Prius tucked into the far corner of the parking lot, and that gave me a shred of hope as I pulled in beside it and parked.

I ducked, dripping, beneath the protective overhang of the library entrance just as one of the staff was locking the door. It was the gray-haired woman who’d seemed suspicious of me the other day. “You must have heard the news,” she said, with a sympathetic smile. “She’s very sad. I gather she and her father were very close.” The woman held the door for me and patted my shoulder as I went in. The library’s interior, usually filled with light and
people, was silent and dim, lit only by a few of the fluorescent fixtures.

She wasn’t at her desk. I turned to the left and checked the Oak Ridge Room, but it was dark. Water dripped from my coat and pants onto the blue carpet as I tried to make the pieces of the puzzle fit together some other way, any other way.

A slight movement caught my eye. Something—someone—was within the darkened glass of the history room. It was Isabella; she was fumbling with a bag on the table. “Isabella,” I called. I ran to the door and pulled, but it was locked. She whirled and faced me, and even in the dimness of the unlit room I could see the wildness in her eyes.

“Isabella, open the door,” I said, rapping on the glass with a knuckle, then beating on it with the heel of my fist. She was looking at me, but also looking through me, beyond me. I’d seen versions of that distant look before. I’d seen one version in the haunted eyes of Robert Oppenheimer; I’d seen another in the vacant stare of Jonah Jamison. Without taking her eyes off me, she reached into her bag and pulled out a gun. She raised it, the barrel pointing at me, and then she turned it toward herself. “No!” I tore at the door handle with both hands. The glass door rattled and strained against the lock, and then the handle broke off in my hands, sending me staggering backward. She closed her eyes and pressed the barrel against her temple.

“No!” I shouted again. I had fallen against a table, one hand clutching at the back of a square-cornered wooden chair. I seized the chair, lifted it over my head, and hurled it at the glass. The air itself seemed to explode as the glass curtain shattered and sheeted down. I heard a scream; I didn’t know if it came from her or from me or from both of us. When the cascade of glass sub
sided, I expected to find her down and shattered, too—bloody fragments on the floor, a bullet in her head—but still she stood, frozen, dazed. Her arms were crossed in front of her face; shards of glass glinted in her dark hair.

I sprang forward, through a wall that no longer existed. I grabbed the gun with one hand, her wrist with the other. She cried out when I pried her fingers open and wrested the gun from her. There was dismay in the cry, but there was pain, too—physical, primal, wounded-animal pain. I looked at her hand, and it was as if I were seeing a far worse version of Miranda’s hand. Her fingertips were raw, oozing sores. “Oh dear God, Isabella,” I groaned, staring at her hands and all the terrible things they confirmed. “What have you done?”

Tears began to roll down her face, as if shards of shattered glass and shattered lives were pouring out of her. “I never meant to hurt so many,” she said. “Not Dr. Garcia. Not Miranda. Least of all you. Please believe that. Only Novak: his life for my grandmother’s life. My grandmother and all the other grandmothers and grandfathers and parents and children of Nagasaki. He was the only one I meant. I thought I could keep it pure.”

“Pure? What on earth does that word mean to you?” I tried to reconcile what she’d just said with what she’d done. How could grief for an unknown grandmother move her to murder an old man who had once been a cog—a crucial cog, but a cog nonetheless—in the machinery of the Manhattan Project? How could the loss of an ancestor so unhinge this bright, sensitive woman?

“It was too big for me, it got away from me,” she said. “I should have known it would. I should have learned more from all this history.” She reached up to the back of her neck. “Here,” she
said. “I want you to have this.” She flinched as she fumbled with the clasp, and whimpered, and this whimper—unlike the whimper of desire I’d once heard from her—was excruciating. She lifted the silver pendant from within her shirt and held it out, suspended between us. “It’s the Japanese symbol for ‘remembrance,’” she said. “I had it made ten years ago,” she said, “when I decided to kill Leonard Novak for my grandmother’s sake. In ten years, I’ve never taken it off except for the night I was with you. I take it off forever now.” Her tears were falling faster now, and I felt answering tears on my own face, too. “My mother died long ago. My father is dead now, too. And I am a walking ghost.”

She stretched her arm toward me, offering the pendant. I reached to take it, but just before my fingers closed around it, it fell. I lunged to catch it, and in that instant she darted past me, over the ridge of crumbled glass, out into the main reading room. I turned in time to see her duck into the darkened stacks of books. I followed, racing from stack to stack, aisle after aisle, without a glimpse of her. Then I heard footsteps racing through the lobby, and the thud of a distant door banging. I sprinted after her, out into the twilight, splashing through the puddles and pools accumulating on the sidewalk and the parking lot.

By the time she reached the Prius I was gaining on her. Fifty yards, now forty, now thirty. She struggled with her keys; I thought I heard another cry of pain, and I saw the keys splash at her feet. She hesitated, then spun and began running again—out of the parking lot and across the wet grass of the park behind the library. Half scurrying, half sliding, she flung herself down an embankment and into the small stream that bisected the park.

As I watched in astonishment Isabella disappeared, leaving
only a black, empty circle and rushing water where she had been. She had scrambled into the end of an immense pipe, which could only have been the outlet of the city’s storm-sewer system.

Isabella had vanished into a subterranean maze—a labyrinth constructed beneath the very foundations of the Secret City in the year 1943.

I SLID DOWN THE BANK AND INTO THE ICY WATER OF
the creek, which swirled around my thighs. The tunnel was a tube of concrete six or eight feet in diameter. The water pouring from it looked to be knee-deep; the blackness appeared infinitely deep.

I flipped open my cell phone and hit the call button; the phone automatically dialed the last number in its memory, which was Thornton’s. The call went immediately to his voice mail, which meant he was on another call. “It’s Brockton,” I said. “Isabella killed Novak. She knows we know. She’s in the storm sewers under Oak Ridge. Between the library and the police station. I’m going after her. Tell Emert.”

I snapped the phone shut and stepped up into the pipe. The water was shallower than in the creek, but it was moving more swiftly. I dug into my pocket and fished out my key ring, which had a tiny flashlight on it—one miniature bulb, about the size
of the iridium pellet that had killed Leonard Novak. I squeezed the switch on the side of the case and the bulb glowed blue-white against the darkness. It wasn’t much light, but then again I didn’t need much light: the sides and top of the tunnel were only a foot or two away, and the bottom was hidden by the swirling water. I could see, faintly, twenty or thirty feet before the gray-white tube faded into darkness. I hoped that would be enough.

I started slogging up the pipe, upstream against the current, which resisted every step I took, shoving each foot backward as I lifted it. It was like running into the surf at the beach, except the wave never broke and every step was work. I found myself lifting my knees higher and higher, and eventually I settled into an awkward high-stepping jog, which I knew I wouldn’t be able to maintain for long.

I hadn’t gone far—a hundred yards? two hundred? There was no way to tell how far I’d struggled against the blackness and the current—when I came to a side tunnel angling off to the right. This one was smaller, perhaps four feet in diameter, but still large enough for a person—large enough for Isabella, and large enough for me—though it would require stooping. Which would she have taken?

I kept to the main tunnel—if I were fleeing, I’d want as much distance and as much room as I could get, and the main tunnel seemed to offer more of those. Here and there, I passed small pipes, ranging from six inches to eighteen or twenty inches in diameter. I was grateful I didn’t have to decide whether she might have taken one of those, but they posed a different sort of problem: water shot from them into the main tunnel with enough force to strike the opposite wall. I had to force my way through them, and each one battered at me icily, sapping my strength
and my body heat. Desperate though she was, I was amazed Isabella could force her way through this. Was she moving in utter darkness and blind panic, or did she have some small glimmer of light, too?

I came to another side tunnel; again I chose the main line. The current was running faster now, or maybe I was just giving out. I could no longer lift my knees clear of the water; it was getting deeper and flowing faster, and I was exhausted. My teeth began to chatter. My tiny light seemed to be dimming as well, though perhaps it was an optical illusion, a trick played by the darker concrete in this section of pipe, or played by my own fatigue and despair.

And then I came to a harder choice: a Y-shaped intersection, two four-foot tunnels angling to the right and left. No main line to make the decision easy for me anymore; two choices, with no way to know what I’d find in the one I chose—and no way to know what I’d miss in the one I didn’t.

As I reached the intersection, the concrete walls around me gave way to a wider chamber made of brick. Iron bars jutted from the bricks—the rungs of a ladder set into the wall. Overhead was a large black disk; water poured down on me through a dozen or more holes spaced evenly inside its circumference. I was directly beneath a manhole, and I was confronted by not two alternatives but three.

I shone my faint light on each. I didn’t much like the tunnel branching to the right; it seemed to be carrying more water than the one to the left, so between the current and the stooping, the going would be extremely difficult. Of the two, I’d be inclined to take the left fork.

But there was also the manhole. A world of freedom, an infi
nite number of paths to freedom, lay just beyond that barrier of iron. I made my choice. I grasped a rung and began to climb.

As I neared the top, some ten rungs up, doubts and questions set in. Would she have seen the manhole, if she didn’t have a light? Would she be able to raise the heavy disk? Would
I
be able to raise it?
Well, if you can’t, she probably didn’t,
I realized.
Might as well try it.

Gripping the topmost rung with my left hand, I leaned back slightly into the vertical shaft and pushed upward at one edge of the manhole cover. It did not move. I tightened my grip and pushed harder, and the disk lifted slightly. I shifted my feet on the iron rung and put more force behind the push. The cover tilted upward—six inches, a foot, more—and then the iron rung in my right hand tore from the mortar between the bricks, and I was falling. When I hit the water, the shock of the fall and the chill of the water nearly claimed my consciousness. I struggled to regain my footing but the current was too swift, the walls were too smooth, and I was too weak. I felt myself swept along, down the dark passage, down toward icy oblivion. And then, just as I felt myself slipping into inner darkness, I shot out into a deeper pool of water, into a world lit by strobing blue lights, and unseen hands were bearing me up to safety.