While the snake watched the captain the big cat turned its yellow eyes languidly to Joe.

“I know what you mean, Sergeant. I’m from Texas myself.”

“Really, sir?”

“On my sixteenth birthday I applied for the Citadel.”

“Is that so, sir?”

“You get more dedicated officers out of the Citadel than you get from the Point.”

“Interesting, sir. Can you get me out of this fucking hole or can’t you?”

“Yes, I have the authority to get anyone I want. Sergeant, do you remember a J. Robert Oppenheimer?”

“No.”

“Jewish boy from New York? He had tuberculosis? His family sent him to New Mexico?”

“Okay. I was a kid too. That was a long time ago. We went riding.”

“To Los Alamos?”

“All over, yeah.”

“He’s back.”

“So?”

“Sergeant, the Army is setting up a project at Los Alamos. Dr. Oppenheimer is in charge, and he will need a driver. You are, in almost every particular, the perfect man. Violent enough to be a bodyguard. Ignorant enough to hear classified information and not understand a word. Be liaison.”

“Who with?”

“Indians, who else? Most of all, you might be a name Oppenheimer would recognize and trust. I put you on the list. We’ll find out.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“You’ll rot right here. If he does pick you, you’ll return to your various scams, Sergeant—I expect that. You’ll be in glory. But don’t forget who found you in this hole. I want his man to be my man. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain rapped on the door to go. Waiting for the turnkey, he added, “I hear your mother is Dolores the Potter. I have some wonderful pieces by her. How is she?”

“Wouldn’t know, sir. I haven’t been in Santiago since the war started.”

“You don’t do pottery yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re not that kind of Indian?”

“Never was, sir.”

The captain took his chair with him when he left. Joe leaned back on the pail and shut his eyes to the figures who stayed in the cell with him. He could hear new apparitions arriving. Then he opened one lid and caught the girl with the swallow body lifting her eyes and giving him a wistful look. He laughed. He knew nothing about visions, but he knew women. He was getting out.

DECEMBER
1944

2

Staff Sergeant Joe Peña was playing the piano for the Christmas dance. He had a narrow face for a Pueblo Indian, a deep V of cheekbones, a broad mouth and wide-set eyes. Black hair and brows, one brow healed over an old split. His uniform was crisp, the chevron on his sleeve so bright it looked polished, his tie tucked in between the second and third buttons of his shirt. Picking out ballads on the parlor grand, he gave a first impression of a huge, attractive man. Also of damaged goods.