It took her most of the day scrambling on foot along the mesa to make her way back to Los Alamos. Her skin prickled with sharp stings of cold, and the winter air caused her to shiver. She had not dressed properly for overland hiking. The horse blanket around her shoulders kept most of the chill away, but it made running difficult.
The horse had pulled away from where she had tethered it at the top of Frijoles Canyon. Elizabeth stood panting, wanting to crumble to her knees as she stared at the empty spot. Hoof prints plunged off through the whiteness, back toward the stables. The clear snow showed no other paths ahead of her.
Somewhere below, Oppenheimer must have located the rangers by now. They were hunting her, finding her tracks. The gunshot had echoed between the narrow rock walls—how well had Oppie managed to determine the direction? Wouldn’t the rangers think to look in the ruins under the cliff overhang?
They would find where she had waited in ambush. Where she had failed her mission. She had not been able to get up the nerve to do what she had to. But Elizabeth was not a killer, no matter how well she could rationalize it in her mind. Logic could not decide such things. Even her emotional decision, while sitting beside Jeff’s grave, could not make her pass the moral wall she had erected.
Oppenheimer’s head had been in the rifle sight. She had intended to pull the trigger and splatter his brains on the snow. She had thought she would feel justified at the great victory she had accomplished.
She had tried to commit murder. I am become death…
The Los Alamos rangers would find her boot prints on the path up the canyon wall. The day looked blue and clear; snow would not cover her tracks for quite some time. She needed to get back to the chaos and well-traveled pathways of the site. She had to hide, she had to think, she had to snap herself out of this shock and self-loathing.
She avoided open spaces, fighting through low junipers, striding under tall ponderosa pines. Melting snow trickled from the branches, but everything else remained silent. She heard no sound of pursuit, no horses, no barking dogs, no gunshots.
What if she had lost the rangers? She didn’t consider herself skilled enough for that. But what if Oppenheimer hadn’t even reported the incident?
She paused and stood under a tree as the sun hovered on the Sangre de Crista mountains to the west, tinting them orange and magenta, not quite the deep red Christ’s blood for which they were named. She thought of what Oppenheimer had seen and heard that morning.
He had been riding alone. A single shot had sounded in the canyon, then nothing more. Oppie had fled on his horse—but he could not know the bullet had been aimed at him. Indeed, when Elizabeth dropped the rifle, the shot probably had not passed within a hundred yards of the intended victim. Other Project workers rode out to hunt jackrabbits and deer—didn’t it make sense to go hunting in the morning after a fresh snowfall?
Oppenheimer would never believe someone had tried to kill him. He seemed too naive. Easier to make up some other explanation.
Elizabeth plodded through the snow, approaching the outskirts of the town. That changed nothing. She had tried to kill a man. Her stomach tightened at the thought.
Dizzy, cold, and bedraggled, she walked past the women’s’ dormitory at dusk. She did not want to face the questions or concern of Mrs. Canapelli at the moment.
In the cold, she walked down A Street. The bustle of the Project took no notice of her as it wound down at the end of the day. A jeep drove by, splashing mud, but the driver did not turn to look at her. Nobody acted differently around her. She wondered if Oppenheimer had returned to his office after his morning’s ride, opened his door and gone about business as usual.
Elizabeth couldn’t think of that now. Her mind was a blank, scoured clean by her horror and astonishment.
She found herself at the outer door to the bachelor scientists’ quarters. She had walked with Graham Fox to the porch, but had always left. Now she looked on the weathered index card tacked to the posts on the porch, staring at the list of room numbers and names. Not caring if anyone noticed, she climbed the wooden stairs inside and found his door.
It was after dinner. She knew Fox ate early or late, never at the “normal” time—a carryover from his British upbringing. He might go back to his lab later or he might stay in his room, reading or scribbling notes. She prayed he would be in his room; she needed to be with someone.
Elizabeth stood at the door for a long moment, trying to get up the nerve to knock. Did she really want to see him? She felt afraid to depend on someone, afraid to open herself up and become vulnerable. She meant to be strong. Why should she be afraid of Graham Fox?
A man with thick glasses came out of another room down the hall and threw a glance at her. Without hesitation, Elizabeth took one more step forward and knocked on Fox’s door. The other man raised his eyebrows, but walked down the steps.
Fox opened the door and took a complete step backward upon recognizing her. “Elizabeth!” Then he paused again and his eyes widened, seeing her condition. She pictured herself with mussed hair, shell-shocked eyes, and drawn features. “What happened?” He looked around and narrowed his eyes. “Come in.” Touching her elbow, he applied gentle pressure that drew her inside, and he closed the door.
She was afraid Fox would ask a barrage of questions to ferret out what she had done”. She didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want to admit it to anyone. She just wanted to be beside another human being, not necessarily to say anything, just to feel invisible support, companionship.
Fox surprised her by not asking any questions. He seemed to have his own suspicions of who Elizabeth was and what she was up to, but he did not want to confirm them.
Elizabeth turned away from him, frightened to meet his eyes. Fox’s room looked pathetically barren, with a bed, a chair, and little other furniture. No pictures hung on the wall. A radiator ticked under the window and sent enough heat into the room that Elizabeth began to sweat again, though she couldn’t stop herself from shivering. A hot plate with a steaming pot of water sat on a small tabletop. From the books scattered on his bed, Fox seemed to prefer lying down to study rather than working on the cramped surface of the table.
“May I get you some tea, Elizabeth? I believe I have an extra mug.” She nodded, but didn’t really have any taste for tea at the moment.
Fox continued to say nothing, but it felt like a comfortable silence. He waited for her, not pressuring her to talk. If he did learn about the assassination attempt—if Oppenheimer himself reported it—he might figure it out for himself anyway.
He plunked a tarnished silver tea ball into her cup. Tea was strictly rationed, and his tea leaves had been used before, but he dunked the ball repeatedly until the water turned brown.
Elizabeth took the cup, looked down and saw her reflection between the ripples in the tea. Without drinking, she set the cup down beside the hot plate on the table, turned to Fox and took a step toward him.
She put her arms around his waist. Fox’s body tensed, but he did not pull away. She closed her eyes and pushed her face against his chest. He wore his usual white shirt, but had unbuttoned the top button and let his tie hang loose around his neck. She wondered if he considered that to be casual attire.
Fox patted her shoulder in a paternal way, but then something changed and he ran his hand along her back. “Hush! It’ll be all right,” he said quietly, “whatever it is.”
Elizabeth felt herself trembling. She wanted to explode with what she had done—the pointing rifle, Oppenheimer’s floppy cowboy hat in her sights, steam coming from his horse’s nostrils, and the snow all around, clean and white like a drop cloth to cover such a dirty deed.