Atomic Love

by Jennie Fields

  “I’m going to Weaver’s,” he says. “Do not step foot out of that apartment. They must be desperate to find that key. Desperate to find you. And now we know they won’t stop at anything. I’ll send Gray over.” He’s brisk, all business.

  “Will you come here?” His words have petrified her, and he’s the only person who will make her feel safe.

  “I need to go to Weaver’s. I’ll have Gray knock on Zeke’s door, then stay outside on watch.”

  She gives him the address.

  “When will I see you?” she asks. “Tonight?”

  “Later.” The phone goes dead before she can say another word.

  * * *

  Charlie hails a cab. All the way to Hyde Park, he’s angry in a way he can’t quite contain. Furious at Rosalind for withholding information, livid at himself for letting the Russians get to Weaver, upset that he wasn’t available when Rosalind called for help. Terrified he can’t protect her. If not for his hand, he’d be driving a car equipped with a two-way radio and have gotten her message sooner. He slams his fist into his injured hand. Punishing himself. Punishing the hand that punishes him daily.

  The crime scene is just as Rosalind described, but even more shocking. She didn’t mention the shattered crystal glass on the floor, one of the pieces edged in thick blood. Did they beat Weaver with his own glass, then cut his throat with a shard of it? Surely his head was smashed against the headboard, vigorously enough to have killed him. And then, as the team bags up evidence and dusts for prints, they call Charlie over.

  “Hey, Szydlo, better take a gander at this,” Calder says. On the floor by the closet door is a man’s finger. The perfectly filed nail. The top joint intact. It’s been cut off at the second joint. With wire clippers or something stunningly sharp. There’s hardly any blood where it lies.

  “Jesus,” he and Pace say in unison.

  “They must have tortured him.”

  “Must have.” Charlie wonders if he caved. Most men would. Calder lifts the finger with his gloved hand and slips it into a waxed evidence bag. “Happy Halloween,” he says.

  Charlie’s good hand throbs in sympathy. Thank God Rosalind didn’t spot that piece of evidence. If he can help it, he will never, ever tell her. He’s suddenly desperate to get to her, to hide her somewhere safe until the FBI’s gotten hold of the safe-deposit box the Russians want so badly.

  * * *

  It’s not quite ten when he gets out of the cab in front of Zeke’s building. It’s coming down buckets. The cold metal scent of overdue rain lifts from the pavement. He has no raincoat, no umbrella. A rat scurries along the curb and slips into a grate. Even the rat wants to avoid the merciless downpour. He finds the buzzer marked ZEKE ADAMS. APARTMENT 3B. Once buzzed in, he sees Gray huddling in the hall.

  “I couldn’t stand outside anymore.”

  “It’s okay,” Charlie says. “You can head out now.” There’s no elevator and it’s a long climb. Rosalind answers the door, steps back to let him in. At the sight of her, he releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Seeing her safe and whole, he feels his anger and adrenaline slowly ebb. He can tell she’s searching for something in his face. Anger. Upset. He can smell liquor on her breath.

  “This is Zeke,” she says. Her voice is choked and thick. Surely she’s told Zeke everything. It doesn’t matter anymore. Zeke comes up and holds out his hand. Charlie shakes it. He remembers following them, jealous of how these two love each other. Zeke slips his arm over Rosalind’s shoulders now in a proprietary way.

  “Hey, take a breath. He’s here,” he says. “You need a towel, Agent?”

  “Yeah. Guess I could use one. Sorry for getting your floor wet.”

  “Give me your jacket. I’ll hang it over the tub. I’ll be right back.”

  Charlie’s shirt is soaked. His hair is dripping. Still, he gently takes Rosalind in his arms, draws her to him.

  “I’m sorry I was rough on the phone. I didn’t mean to be. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  He hears her sigh with relief, feels her lean into him.

  “I’m getting you wet,” he whispers.

  “I don’t care,” she says.

  “Listen,” he says. “I knew all along you were hiding something. I should have pushed you harder to tell me. I blame myself for putting you in danger.”

  “I’m the one that’s sorry. I made a promise to Weaver I should never have kept.”

  “Weaver’s apartment must have been awful for you.”

  She nods. A tear runs down her cheek and she wipes it off with the back of her hand.

  “Sorry. With you . . . I’m always Blubbering Betty.”

  “Look, I want to take you to my sister’s. You’ll be safer there. No one will think to find you in my neighborhood. And she’s around most of the day. You can stay with her.”

  “I can’t go home?”

  “Weaver’s place was pretty rough. And I don’t know how to say this gently . . .”

  “Say it.”

  “It doesn’t look good for Weaver, Rosalind.”

  She squeezes her eyes shut. “I didn’t think so.”

  “They’ll be looking for you. I don’t want you going to work until we resolve things.”

  “But I can’t afford not to work . . .”

  Zeke comes back with two fluffy white towels. Charlie blots off his shirt and trousers and hair, hands the other to Rosalind. “Did I get you wet enough for this?”

  “What did I miss?” Zeke asks too enthusiastically.

  Rosalind’s cheeks color.

  “You made up with each other. Well, hallelujah! You want a drink, Charlie? Can I call you Charlie? Any friend of Bunny’s is a friend of mine!”

  “I need to take Rosalind somewhere safer,” Charlie says.

  “Who would look for her here?”

  “I just want her somewhere no one will think to look. It’s raining, so we should call a Yellow Cab. We won’t get one in this neighborhood, not in this rain.”

  “No,” Zeke says. “I’ll give them a call, let you two have some time.”

  When he leaves, Charlie takes her hand and walks her to the sofa.

  “Are you going to tell me what you couldn’t on the phone? What’s this key?”

  She shakes her head, looks down at her hands. “I didn’t tell you because Weaver made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone . . . until . . . after he’s gone . . .”

  Charlie sighs. “I’d say that applies now.”

  Rosalind stares at the floor. “I don’t want him to be dead. But the thought of them hurting him . . .”

  “It looked to me like the hurt is over,” Charlie says, shaking his head. “Tell me.”

  “Weaver gave me an envelope with a key inside.” She goes on to explain Weaver’s instructions for a safe-deposit box. “They must have heard me tell Weaver I put it in my bank before we knew my apartment was bugged. And now they want it.” She shows him her arm. The bruises have turned an angry shade of plum. He winces.

  “There must be something awfully damning in that box or they wouldn’t be so anxious to get to it.”

  “It’s my fault Weaver’s dead.”

  “You’re not to blame. He’s been playing with his own safety for years. And by giving you that key, yours.”

  “I hid it behind my counter at Field’s. We have to go there to get it.”

  “We’ll take care of it. An agent can get it, or the bank can drill the lock open.”

  “I was about to betray him,” she says, pointing to the green box that holds the recorder. How fragile she seems. Jangling. Hurt. He lifts a tear-dampened strand of her hair and tucks it behind her ear.

  “You were doing it for his own good. You were trying to save him.” He’s put her in this peril. His longing to protect, love, and even heal her has grown each time they’ve been t
ogether. With Weaver out of the way, whatever’s in his safe-deposit box puts Rosalind in more danger than ever, until it’s in the FBI’s hands.

  Zeke comes back into the room. “Twenty minutes,” he says. “Fastest they can get here. Have you had dinner, Charlie?”

  “Nope.”

  “You like Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll put a splash of sherry wine in it. It turns Campbell’s into haute cuisine!” Zeke expresses the deliciousness with his hands. “I promise you’ll never want to eat it any other way. I’m spoiling you for life!”

  * * *

  Peggy’s house is dark when Charlie and Rosalind arrive, except for two lights, one at the front door, one coming from the side of the house. The sidewalks are wet, but at least the rain has stopped. The house reminds Rosalind of a child’s drawing: red brick with a perfectly peaked roof and evenly spaced windows. In each window, curtains are drawn back to create a little scallop. White roses bloom behind a short wrought-iron fence, giving off the scent of peaches in the wet night air.

  “Come on,” Charlie said. “We’ll go in through my apartment.” He leads her toward the light at the side of the house, along a narrow brick walkway, then down steep concrete steps to a green door.

  “Don’t judge me,” he whispers. “Apartments have been hard to come by since the war.”

  He’s right to warn her. The floor is concrete, with a worn braided rug on top. The furniture looks used and haphazard. No one could even call it a “finished” basement. Hung from a clothesline, a flowered curtain defines a corner of the room.

  “What’s in there?” she asks.

  “I call it my bedroom.” He looks chagrinned. “Of course, you’ll sleep upstairs on the couch,” he tells her. “Peggy’s very curious to meet you. She promised she’d make up the sofa before she went to bed.”

  “I have no clothes. Nothing.”

  “Peg said she’d leave out a nightgown and a toothbrush. She buys toothbrushes by the dozen. She’s the five-star general of housewives. Oh, and she promised she’d leave you a clean set of towels in the bathroom on the edge of the tub. Tomorrow, I’ll send Donna to your place to gather up a few of your things.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You can make a list.”

  “You sure Peggy doesn’t mind having me stay? You call out of the blue and she just springs into action?”

  “She knows you’re not just any girl.” Charlie caresses her cheek. “She’s been on to me since that first time you called.” Rosalind is surprised and pleased.

  “Is everyone asleep now?” she asks.

  “They go to bed before the birds stop chirping.”

  “Can I stay down here with you awhile?”

  He smiles gently, looks at his watch. “It’s eleven thirty-five now. And we’ve both been through a lot today.”

  For a sweet, quiet moment she’d pushed aside thoughts of Weaver. His bloody, battered apartment. She experiences a dropping sensation. As though Charlie senses it, he gently kisses her forehead, presses his face against hers.

  “C’mon. Let me get you settled, okay?”

  Upstairs they only turn on the lights needed. Whispering, he points out the bathroom, then the sofa, which is indeed perfectly made up with sheets, blankets, a fluffy pillow, and an ironed pillowcase embroidered with bluebirds.

  “Your mother?” she asks, touching the shimmering azure threads that make up a bird.

  He smiles wistfully and nods.

  Standing by the sofa, he kisses her deeply. She’s comforted by the sweetness of his soft, cool lips, by how much more peaceful she feels when he holds her close. He whispers, “We’ll talk more tomorrow. Get some sleep.” As she hears his footsteps retreating down the steps, she feels adrift. Perching nervously on the edge of the sofa, she freezes there. And suddenly, she can’t stop thinking of Weaver’s apartment. The bed with the smashed headboard, the sticky red swath on the sheets. Is Weaver somewhere suffering? Kidnapped? Or is he relieved of his suffering forever? He was rueful of the life he led. Afraid of the pain to come. She knows one thing she didn’t know before he came back: that he truly loved her. Maybe he always loved her, just as she once loved him. But can real love exist in an ocean of deception?

  In the dim lamplight, she glances at Peggy’s neat living room. The black-and-white school photos in silver frames. The embroidered doilies and antimacassars on the chairs. The crisp curtains with white cotton puffballs hanging from the hems. The wooden cross on the wall.

  It must be wonderful to believe that there is order in the world. That there’s a higher being watching over whatever you do, whatever might happen to you. Except for the perfect order of physics—a religion in its own right—organized religion is a foreign concept to Roz. Henry believes in God. Louisa never has. And, therefore, at odds over their beliefs, her family didn’t go to a church. So Roz, curious, used to tag along with her friends on Sundays. She was fascinated by the spoken Latin and ritual of the Catholic mass, moved by the unscrolling of the Torah and Hebrew incantations at the synagogue she visited, entertained by an Episcopalian Holy Eucharist with a singing, standing, sitting, and kneeling service.

  At each sanctuary, she was drawn up into the wonder of a group of people worshipping together, finding strength in numbers. Still, she inevitably felt she was peering out a prison window while others sat in the fresh air. Perhaps one needs to be born into believing. She’s never been able to find her way out into that sunlight.

  As for Weaver, he didn’t believe in God and may not have fully considered right and wrong, good and evil. She thinks of what he might have suffered if he’d been allowed to succumb to the cancer. And then, the blood, the signs of violence. God didn’t rise to protect him. But she supposes that’s not the way it works. Since the war, how could one still believe that faith can protect?

  Taking a deep breath, she tries to forget, to find comfort in the homey surroundings of Peggy’s living room. Everything is clean and orderly, feels lived-in and beloved. She’ll never be the woman Charlie’s sister must be. But deep inside, she knows that she has something unique to offer. Her grasp of science. Her ability to think the way others don’t. Her talent to problem solve. Fermi saw it. Weaver too. Her faith is in science. And though she’s discovered science can be a murderer, she also knows it can be the world’s most powerful answer. It’s time for her to move forward, to be the engine that does the world good.

  In the bathroom, she washes her face and brushes her teeth with the toothbrush marked Rosalind on a strip of freezer tape pressed to the handle, pulls on Peggy’s coral cotton nightdress with the butterfly sleeves. In the mirror, she sees a housewife in a dowdy housecoat. But in her eyes, she sees the woman she can be. She knows she can find the courage. She has to. Climbing under the covers on Peggy’s sofa, she sighs. It makes a soft, comforting bed, though she doubts she’ll be able to sleep.

  She thinks of Charlie downstairs in the basement apartment. The concrete floor. The old furniture. Why does he live like that? FBI agents make decent money. He could find an apartment now if he wanted. They’re building them every day. High-rises and sturdy little three-stories made for returning GIs. He could afford an apartment in her building. Two, three years ago it would have been hard for him to find a place. Now, even though she understands his desire to live with family, the basement he lives in tells her he’s floundering, suffering still, though the war is long over.

  They’re both floundering. Yet each time he’s kissed her, held her, she’s felt an inexplicable alchemy that makes her believe together they can be so much sturdier. So much more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  After a few minutes, Rosalind gets up and goes to the basement door. When she opens it, she’s happy to see there’s still a light shining from behind the flowered curtain. The concrete at the bottom of the steps is cold on her bare fe
et. “Charlie?” she whispers.

  The bedsprings creak and he parts the curtain. He’s wearing only pajama bottoms, is holding a book in his hand. She’s thrilled by the elegance of his long body.

  “Hey,” he says. “You shouldn’t be down here. The dean will kick us both out of school.”

  She laughs. “I didn’t want to be alone,” she says. “Please . . .”

  He ducks back into the tent to set down his book, then comes toward her and takes her in his arms. She runs her hand over his bare chest. It’s smooth and hard, beautifully modeled, so different from Weaver’s. No, she mustn’t think of him . . .

  “You sleep half-naked,” she says.

  “In the summer.”

  “How’d you get these muscles?”

  “Push-ups.”

  How hard it would be with just one hand? she wonders.

  “At Quantico, I decided if the other guys could, I could too. I do them twice a day.” He looks proud and it touches her.

  “I hear being good at push-ups could be useful in lovemaking.” Her longing for him is electric, a little dangerous.

  “Rosalind . . .” He gently takes her hand from his chest and kisses her wrist. “You know we don’t have protection.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  She reaches up to run her fingers down his thick muscled throat, to trace his collarbone. He sighs at her touch, closes his eyes. She longs to know every inch of his skin. To love him in a way he’s never been loved. When he draws her up to kiss her, she’s newly delighted by the taste of his mouth, soft and cool and unsullied by cigarettes. Their kiss, a long exploration, becomes a surrender. He presses her to him, and his desire is unmistakable. Nine years without love. She would do anything to erase the pain he’s experienced.

  “My siren,” he says as he draws her through the curtain.

  In the soft, flowered tent of his “room,” with the lamp still burning, Charlie begins to undo the oversize buttons of Peggy’s too-large housecoat.