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Pria said, “And what if the atoms get pissed off?”

I regarded my water glass. I wished it wasn’t tinted, although if there was something to worry about in the water I wouldn’t be seeing it. I said, careful, “Travel time of a contamination plume in groundwater is measured in years. Lots of them. So this water’s safe to drink.”

“Buttercup speaks truly.” Hap stuck his pencil behind his ear and passed the sketchbook to Pria. “You like?” He poured himself a glass of water and tipped it to us. “To your health.”

* * *

Soliano joined us and I rose to lead him away, to tell him about Point D in private, but he paused behind Pria’s chair for a look at the sketchbook.

I leaned in to see what had caught his eye. It was not the sketch of Pria’s hands. She’d flipped the pages to another sketch, another pair of hands. She was studying it, feathery hair brushing the page.

Soliano said, “You know these hands?”

“Maybe the ring.”

I came alert.

Soliano took a seat, gingerly, the way you’d move around a skittish cat. “Tell me about this ring.”

It was the sketch of Jardine’s hands, the one Hap had made two mornings ago in Walter’s suite. I looked anew at that puzzling Rorschach ring.

Pria said, “That Badwater race.”

Hap peered anew at his sketch. “Well I’ll be darned.”

Soliano’s face sharpened. “Tell me about this Badwater race.”

“It’s a bunch of fools what come here in the heat of the summer,” Hap said, “and for no good reason under the blistering sun they runs theyselves from Badwater halfway up Mount Whitney.”

Reflexively, I looked. I couldn’t see it because the Panamints were between my line of sight and the Sierra Nevada, but I knew it was there. Mount Whitney had to be more than a hundred miles from here.

“Big deal is, Badwater’s the lowest elevation in the continental states,” Hap said, “and Whitney’s the highest.”

Soliano frowned. “That is a feat, but…”

“It’s stupid,” Pria said.

“But you have seen the race? You know the ring. What is this, a prize?”

“My cousin got one. He didn’t win. He just ran. He’s stupid.”

Soliano turned to Hap. “I find this odd. Roy Jardine allowed you to draw his hands, and he was proud enough of his feat to wear this ring, and yet he did not tell you about his race?”

“Boy ain’t a braggart. One of his endearing qualities.”

Soliano’s gaze fell to the sketchbook. “What does this tell us about him?”

I said, “He’s into extremes.”

“Worse than that,” Hap said, “he’s into irony. Badwater. Baaaad water.”

32

“There is a saying I learned my first year at Quantico.” Soliano glanced at his watch. “Close counts in horseshoes.”

I said, “Only.”

Soliano’s attention shifted to a woman in a peach uniform coming our way across the lawn. I recognized her. Gloria. Tiny, pretty, looked about twelve. I’d borrowed a tiny swimsuit from her.

“What?” Soliano said to me, eyes on Gloria.

“Close counts only in horsehoes. But there’s another saying, one I learned my first year in the lab…”

“Que?” Soliano said, to Gloria.

She halted. She spoke fast.

Soliano leaned forward. “Aqui?”

She pointed beyond the terraced edge of the lawn.

We both looked. There was nothing.

“What is it?” I asked Soliano.

“Somebody is hurt.”

I looked around. I saw Hap and Pria, artist and subject, once again engrossed in her hands. I saw no one else.

Gloria raised her palms to the sky. “Por favor.”

Soliano and I headed toward the far end of the lawn where a stone monolith rose from the stone wall. Beyond the monolith were more walkways. My foot struck something hard. I looked down. A green croquet ball was camouflaged in the grass.

Soliano did not slow. “What saying did you learn?”

It took me a moment. “You don’t get there unless you get close first.”

He laughed.

Alli,” Gloria called, behind us.

From behind the monolith, a shoulder and stretch of leg came in and out of view. Someone was approaching, jerky. The lower arm bent inward. Someone was hurt and cradling a wound. And then she lurched so suddenly out from the monolith’s shadow that it seemed she’d been tossed. She doubled over, face to knees.

“Dios mio,” Soliano whispered.

She looked up grinning.

There was no wound. The only marks on her white shirt and white jeans were streaks of dirt and something yellowish that reminded me of the egg yolk stain on my shirt before Hap sent it to be laundered.

She was grimacing, not grinning. The lax skin bunched around her mouth.

“What’d you do, Chickie?” Pria was suddenly beside me.

Hap joined us. “Hold onto the girl.”

I circled her waist. She twisted and yelped. I glimpsed, beyond the struggling Pria, Walter rushing out of his room. He came up on the other side of her. I let her go and she tunneled into him.

Chickie made an animal sound.

“Hector,” Hap said, “you better call Scotty and tell him to get his RERTs on the scene.”

Soliano was already dialing. He kept his eyes on Chickie, the same way he’d fixed on the radiation-sick bat on the garden lawn. “Might she carry contaminants? On her person?”

“I’m sure gonna assume that.” Hap picked up the croquet ball and tossed it a couple of feet in front of us. “Listen up, boys and girls, that’s the do-not-cross line. Y’all know about the inverse square concept? That’s the one where just a little distance from a point source makes a big difference in dose. Give the gents some space.”

Pria said, “She’s moving!”

Chickie was struggling to get to her feet.

“Miss Chick,” Hap said, “you’d best stay put and we’ll fix you up.”

I didn’t think so. Her eyes widened, lifting the loose lids to show the bloodshot whites. She crumpled and retched yellowish stuff into the emerald lawn. I didn’t think we were going to fix her up.

“Yuck,” Hap said, pulling on latex gloves.

Soliano said, “Wait.” His gaze settled on Chickie. “Ms. Jellinek. What happened to you?”

She spat. Yellow spittle webbed her chin.

“Ms. Jellinek. You have been where?”

Hap said, “Uh, Hector, interrogating a subject who’s woofin her cookies is kinda a no-no in this country.” He snapped his gloves down tight. “Ain’t it?”

Soliano said, icy, “This is not the flu.” He made another phone call and I caught the word “lockdown.”

I felt the heat. The sun was out from behind the clouds, sucking me dry. The smell of Chickie’s vomit washed our way. I gagged. I noticed that nobody was in sight but us. The swimmers had left the pool. Gloria had disappeared. Where were the gardeners? Where were the sunburned Germans? Had everyone abandoned ship but us? Or maybe the lockdown was already in force. Chickie was on her haunches. Her mouth squirmed and she doubled over again only this time there was no egg yolk, just dry heaving. And here we stood staring like we’d stopped at the scene of an accident. All we could do was wait for Scotty with his shower and long-handled brushes. I recalled how that shower felt, only I’d worn protective clothing. Chickie wore white cotton and raw skin. She straightened, hands braced in the grass, like some fat white bulldog.

Soliano said, “You went where, Ms. Jellinek?”

I said, “Do we need to do this now?”

“If this will move us closer.”

“It’s not goddamn horseshoes.”