No Dolores. Only dust motes stirring slowly in the light above the table, chair and pot, the last and only piece of hers he had. He snatched it and ran out the door.

The Hudson was gone. Coming along the outhouses and fences was a jeep, Sergeant Shapiro at the wheel and Corporal Gruber with him. The MPs had helmets, guns and clubs, so they were on duty. They were weight lifters, mouth breathers. Gruber had blunt ceramic features, Shapiro a slack blue jaw. His face was screwed up into something approaching passion or desperation. Joe had never seen them on the reservation before.

The jeep skidded to a stop in front of him. Gruber looked disgusted. Shapiro had trouble finding words. “Chief, did you see me the other day?”

“When?” Joe was still glancing around for Mrs. Quist’s Hudson.

“On patrol, walking my horse.”

“No.” Joe brought his attention back.

“It was the day the high explosive was stolen at the Hanging Garden. You didn’t see me on patrol?”

“What day was that?”

“It was bad enough the bunker was broken into. Augustino saw me. Captain Augustino says I learn to ride or I go into the infantry, and he’s personally going to see I got to the Pacific. He says I’m going to be in the first fucking boat that hits Japan.”

“ ‘The first asshole in the water,’ the captain said,” Gruber reminded him.

“You taught Dr. Oppenheimer how to ride, you can teach me how to ride,” Shapiro told Joe. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. My life is in your hands.”

“I’m working tomorrow.”

“Chief, I’ll make it up to you. Anything you want. You’ll see.”

“Maybe in the afternoon.”

The Hudson still hadn’t crossed the plaza. It seemed to have simply disappeared, as if Mrs. Quist had gone straight to heaven to buy from Dolores direct.

12

Sunday morning. While Oppy was in Washington, Joe was assigned to the workshops on Two Mile Mesa. They were nail-bright sheetrock structures; inside was a general sense of panic over the one-month deadline of the Trinity test. In the casting building, the commercial candy kettles in which high explosives were melted had broken down, the stirring paddles clogged with a brown “fudge” of Baratol, a TNT derivative.

Cast 200-pound wedges of explosive were carted in red Radio Flyer wagons designed for kids. When axles collapsed, everyone jumped. Replacement wagons were in a stockroom called FUBAR, for Fucked Up Beyond All Repair. Besides a shortage of wagons, there was a shortage of Bar Top varnish. To prevent them from chipping, castings were always painted with Bar Top; there was nothing more fragile than explosive.