The agent left hastily. Finn moved the probe, delineating the area of increased radiation. He felt
himself tense in the presence of his invisible enemy. The residue was well below danger level,
even at its most intense in the center of the torn-up bed.
The garage showed slightly elevated readings, but nothing definitive. Impatiently, Finn returned
to the narrow bed in the rear of the flower shop. He set down the counter and shook out the
sheets, looking for blood.
“Waste of time,” said Coughlan. “We already did that. Clean sheets, dirty mattress.”
Finn began on the mattress. It was thin, lumpy, soiled. He flipped it over. New, dark brown
stains were superimposed over older stains. Coffee, wine, menstrual blood – the stains could
have been caused by utterly normal things.
Finn switched on the counter. Its clicks slurred together excitedly when the probe neared the
fresh stains. Finn rubbed his fingers over the stained area. Dry. Refugio might have bled there,
but not within the last few hours. Too late again. Too little time. Shit. He threw aside the
mattress and stood up.
There was the sound of glass breaking, followed by a hoarse “Goddamn it!” The door
connecting the flower shop to the funeral home opened. An agent came through nursing a cut
hand. He kicked shut the door and headed for the bathroom.
Finn stared at Coughlan.
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“Next door,” said Coughlan. “A mortuary. The Rincón brothers own it, so we’re searching it
for good measure.”
“For chrissake!” exploded Riley. “You could have told us!”
Coughlan ground out his cigaret butt on the cement floor. “Thought you knew, kid, working for
God like you do.”
Finn shoved past Coughlan and into the embalming room. As he entered, the counter’s clicks
became a buzz.
“Line up,” snapped Finn to the surprised agents in the room.
The agents looked beyond Finn to Coughlan. He nodded. Finn moved the probe over each
man. The two agents who had been searching the right side of the embalming room set the
counter screaming.
Finn turned on Coughlan. “Keep pushing, pendejo. You’ll get some dead heros to decorate
your dreams.”
Coughlan looked away uncomfortably.
“Get those two men hosed off,” Finn ordered. “The rest of you clear out.”
There was a rush for the door. Only Riley remained.
“You, too,” Finn told him.
“I know what to look for.”
Finn looked at Riley’s smiling, stubborn face. “Stay put until I say otherwise.” He advanced on
the left side of the room, methodically swinging the probe in quick arcs. Except for a spot at the
head of the porcelain embalming table, there was little sign of radiation. He was both relieved
and disappointed.
“Rummage all you want along that side, but stay away from the table,” said Finn.
Riley crossed the room and began opening drawers and cupboards. Finn went to the opposite
end of the room, adjusting the counter as he walked. Two feet from the second embalming
table, the counter’s muttering became a sustained scream. His hands tightened on the probe.
Sweat started on his skin. He circled the table, wary as a wolf. When he shifted the probe to the
sinks or floors or walls, the howl became a whisper. Only the table raised the counter’s full cry,
yet the surface was bare.
“But there’s nothing there,” said Riley.
“There was. The damn fools must have had the pieces right on top of each other.”
Finn retreated until the counter quieted. He cursed the invisible power that was as much his
enemy as time was.
“Get the lab people down here. Seal off the room. Don’t take any crap about it. This place is
hot!”
Finn hustled Riley out of the embalming room and slammed the door. Riley posted a guard,
then followed Finn out to the street and in the front door of the funeral home. Without a word,
Finn turned on the counter and went over the open casket displays with the probe. The counter
remained quiet. Sweat cooled on his skin, but the wariness did not leave his stance. He was a
man expecting to be ambushed.
The storage room was next. Finn hefted each coffin before he used the probe on it.
“What are you doing?” Riley asked.
“Seeing if they’re lead-lined.”
“Oh.”
Riley went down the other side of the room, jostling coffins. None felt heavy enough to be
lead-lined. He reached the pale pine coffin resting on a wheeled table, as though waiting to be
rolled out to a hearse. Its lid was nailed in place. He tried to lift the corner of the coffin. It was
heavy.
“Finn, I think – “
Finn was already there. The counter crackled like a radio in a lightning storm. “Out. Get out!”
“If it’s lead-lined and you’re still getting a reading,” said Rilty, “then it’s too damned hot for
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anyone, including you!”
Finn knew Riley was right, but it did not change what must be done. He shoved Riley through
the door, set down the counter and picked up the claw hammer that had been used to nail the
coffin shut. For an instant fear held hirp; then his arm descended. The hammer smashed through
the lid. He shoved the probe into the hole.
The counter howled.
For an instant Finn thought he had found the uranium. Sweating, he jumped the setting on the
counter twice. The howl became a murmur. The coffin was hot, but not as hot as the table had
been. The uranium was not here.
Finn let out his breath, shut down the counter and wiped off sweat with hands that shook slightly
in the aftermath of an adrenaline storm. When Riley returned, Finn did not object. The two of
them wrenched off the coffin lid.
“A Jap,” said Riley, peering into the deeply shadowed interior of the coffin.
Finn pushed the table out of the darkness. Light slanted across the corpse’s face, revealing huge,
bushy eyebrows.
“Refugio,” said Finn flatly.
“But – “
“Made up to look Japanese.” Finn fingered the uniform. “Nisei Battalion. So that’s how he
moved around the country without being noticed.”
“Refugio?”
“No. Kestrel. The Emperor’s best spy.”
Finn studied the corpse for a few moments longer, then heaved the lid into place. “Is Coughlan
tracking down the people who own this place?”
“Yeah. Bulletins are out on the Rincón brothers and on all vehicles owned by the two families.”
“At least Coughlan is good for something. I wonder how good he is with a shovel.”
“Huh?”
“This one was ready for the cemetery,” said Finn, tapping the pine box with his knuckle. “They
had plenty of time to bury the uranium, and plenty of excuses. They’re undertakers, after all.”
Riley glanced at his white, uncalloused hands. “I’ll round up some men and meet you at the car.”
San Francisco
29 Hours 29 Minutes After Trinity
Unhappily, Vanessa stared out the window at the men milling around near the Fragrant Petal.
When she spotted Finn, she called Slaven over. The big longshoreman stood so that he could
look over Vanessa’s shoulder without exposing himself to the street.
“The tall man in the white shirt – see him?” Vanessa said.
“Yes.”
“Remember him. When he leaves, follow him. When you can, kill him.”
She turned away from the window, took a map from her purse, and began tracing possible
routes to Manzanar.
Northern California
29 Hours 43 Minutes After Trinity
The gas station attendant watched Ana count ration coupons and dollars into his hand. He gave
her change, a perfunctory leer, and moved on to his next customer.
Ana started the car and drove around to the back where the restrooms were. Kestrel was not in
sight. She turned on the car radio and waited, half-dozing, the radio a commentary on her
hidden fears.
“… ports and borders of the state are still closed. The War Office, when asked, had no
comment other than the original statement that the closure has to do with matters of utmost
national security. So for you folks planning a drive to Mexico, our advice is – don’t. Only
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emergency vehicles are allowed across, and only then after a careful search.”
“The Longshoremen’s Union says it will enter a formal protest unless port and shipping
activities are returned to normal by midnight, July 19th.”
“In other Bay Area news, the San Francisco police say that they have no new leads on the
spectacular quadruple murder on the Oakland waterfront yesterday morning. The – “
Ana snapped off the radio, she had enough pictures in her head of the murders; she had no need
of the radio announcer’s speculations.
Kestrel opened the driver’s door. Ana slid over to make room for him. Without speaking,
Kestrel got in, started the car and headed east, toward the tall mountains that were still so far
they were only a blue shadow on the horizon.
Covertly, Ana studied Kestrel. Disguised as an Indio, he was a blunt-faced, coarse-seeming
stranger. Beneath his disguise, he was fine-boned, almost elegant, but still a stranger. And a
murderer; and her lover.
Ana leaned against her locked door, closed her eyes and tried not to think. In time, she began
whimpering uneasily as her mind reshaped the last two days into frightening red dreams. Kestrel
spoke to her softly, his voice sliding between the spaces of her fears, calming her. When his
fingers lightly caressed her cheek, she sighed and slipped deeper into sleep.
San Francisco
30 Hours 33 Minutes After Trinity
Damp, sinuous hills curved away in every direction, brilliant green on green that emphasized the
white of grave markers. Soft blurs of color glowed where people had left bouquets to die among
the white stone forest.
The cemetery reflected the pretensions of San Francisco’s wealthy and the aspirations of its
poorest immigrants. Huge alabaster angels hovered over marble crypts. Simple granite
headstones told of families born on the eastern fringe of America and buried along its western
margin. Crosses engraved with ideographs spoke succinctly of Oriental Christians dying in an
alien land. Baroque Spanish crosses depicted Christ crucified, writhing in eternal agony over the
graves of Mexican immigrants.
Finn and Riley stood near the top of one hill, watching unhappy FBI agents dig in damp clay.
The turf had been peeled back and stacked to one side, revealing freshly packed graves. The
work had gone quickly; the graves were less than two days old.
The radiation counter next to Finn was smudged with dirt. He and Riley had dug up their
assigned grave, opened the coffin and found a dead, nonradioactive old woman, her hands stiffly
crossed. The other two graves were being opened by less dedicated workers than Finn and
Riley.
Looking at his blistered hands, Riley swore. “I hope to Christ we get more to show for this than
raw meat.”
“Is that Coughlan?” asked Finn, pointing down the rise to one of the thin gravel roads that
wound through the hilly cemetery.
Riley squinted against the morning sun. Two men were walking away from one of the
nondescript cars favored by the FBI.
“Yeah. That’s Coughlan.”
“Who’s with him?”
Riley shrugged. “He’s not FBI. No hat.”
“You’re not wearing a hat either,” Finn pointed out.
“I’m the Son of God,” said Riley. “Remember?”
“Not a job I’d want.”
They walked down the hill to intercept Coughlan, meeting near the gravesite where two agents
stood chest deep in the earth, wielding shovels. The man with Coughlan was a Mexican, past
middle age, heavyset and sullen. Coughlan ignored him.
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“We’re chasing Rincons all over the place. We came up with a hearse and a flower truck so far,”
Coughlan told Finn. “Nothing in either of them but Mexicans.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Just that they were taking their families on a trip.”
“How was their English?”
“Lousy. But I got the point across.”
“I’ll bet. Speak slowly, and if that doesn’t work, shout.”
Coughlan flushed. “I got answers. They were going to Monterey on a vacation. They hadn’t seen
Refugio recently, and they’d never even heard of a Jap called Kestrel or a woman called Ana.”
“They’re lying. Refugio is in there in a coffin.” Finn knew the Mexicans were Japanese pawns,
sent out to lay false trails that would cover the only trail that mattered – Kestrel’s. Each trail had
to be explored, costing time, costing lives, and the uranium got further and further out of reach.
“Sweat them,” he said. “They probably don’t know much, but whatever it is, we need it.” He
looked at the Mexican who was standing behind Coughlan. “Who’s this?”
Coughlan almost smiled. “You said you wanted to personally interview anyone who’d seen any
new faces on the block recently.” Coughlan jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “This is
Velasquez. He rented an apartment yesterday to a whore he’d never seen before.”
“What about her?”
Coughlan snickered. “She turned three tricks the first day. I think it was there, anyway. He held
up three fingers. Jesus, you’d think they’d learn English if they’re gonna live here. Took me half
an hour to get through to him.”
“Just three?” asked Finn.
“Yeah.” Coughlan shook his head. “Just three! She must be as ugly as my mother-in-law.”
Suddenly Riley grabbed Velasquez, tearing his shirt. “He understands as much English as I do.
He smiled at that crack about your mother-in-law.” Riley’s fingers dug into flesh. “What else are
you keeping back?”
“Riley!” Coughlan’s voice was shocked. “Let him go!”
The Mexican protested first in Spanish, then in desperate English.
“Back up, Coughlan,” Finn ordered. “Riley’s done better in thirty seconds than you did in thirty
minutes. Listen to him.”
Finn turned to Velasquez. The Mexican looked up hopefully. Finn spoke in hard border
Spanish. “The whore. What did she look like?”
“Blond,” said Velasquez, switching to Spanish with relief. “Very pretty. She was not of the
Southwest, though. She did not sound like you or me.”
“British?”
“Who knows?”
Riley, sensing that the answer displeased Finn, gave Velasquez a hard shake.
“Please, se?or,” said Velasquez. “I do not know. It was not a soft accent. She spoke no Spanish.
Does that help you?”
Finn shrugged. The woman’s accent could have been Canadian or British or even Bostonian; it
proved nothing.
“The men who went to her room,” said Finn. “Were they from the barrio?”
“Only one.” Velasquez snickered. “Rincon’s nephew, Jaime. Only fourteen, that one, but already
an eye for the women.”
“What about the other men?”
Velasquez turned his hands upward. “Who knows? One had twenty-five years, more or less. The
