He slit open the envelope. An invitation. A gallery opening on Canyon Road. Sunday, from four to seven. Refreshments served. Two days from now. Connolly turned it over, looking for a message, something scrawled on the print. A public reception, not a private meeting at San Isidro. But what had he been expecting? A conversation in the alley? Had there been a pattern to the other meetings? He thought of Holliday’s men, loitering at churches all over Santa Fe.

He looked up to see Mills standing by the desk.

“Are you going to tell me?” he said simply, his eyes frank and direct.

Connolly slipped the card back into the envelope. “I can’t.”

In fact, there was no one to tell except Emma. He walked her back from the PX, carrying grocery bags.

“You said it would work,” she said. “What’s the matter now?”

“They don’t trust it. Why a party? There’ll be people.”

“They just want to see who you are, see if you’re real.”

“How will they know?”

“You’ll be the one with me.”

He looked at her. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “I have to do this one alone.” He stopped her before she could interrupt. “He won’t know you anyway. They’d never tell the field contact about you. If anything goes wrong, the chain has to stop with him. They can’t afford to have this traced back. If they believe it.”

“They must. Why would they send the invitation?”

“It’s worth the chance. If it’s a trap, they sacrifice the one guy in the field, that’s all.”

“Then it really doesn’t matter whether I’m there or not.”

“It does to me. We don’t know what might happen. Besides, they’ll be looking for a man alone.”

“For a uniform, you mean. Corporal Waters.”

He stopped and looked at her. “A uniform. If I told you I’d completely forgotten about that, would you think I’d lost my mind?”

She grinned at him. “I was never interested in your mind. See how useful I can be?”

“But I don’t want to have to worry about you,” he said seriously.

“Don’t, then. We’ll arrive separately. I’ll just be a fly on the wall. In case you need me. I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

He decided not to argue the point now. “What sort of crowd is it likely to be?”

“The local gentry. Hats and things. And the arts-and-crafts crowd. A few ladies in sandals and woven skirts. Loomers, I call them.”

“Soldiers?”

“Enlisted men? You must be joking. Don’t worry, he’ll spot you straightaway.”

“But I won’t know who he is.”

“Well, that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

Mills said nothing that evening when he surprised Connolly at the office trying on the uniform, borrowed from one of the drivers. The fit was baggy, as if Connolly had lost weight. Mills looked him over, then, without a word, went to a locked drawer, fishing a key out of his pocket. Embarrassed, Connolly turned and started to change back into his clothes, so he was in his shorts when Mills handed him the gun and the cartridge of bullets.

“You’d better have these,” he said.

Connolly looked at the gun, not knowing what to say.

“I never think to look in that drawer,” Mills said. “I’d no idea they were gone.”

“You don’t have to do this. I’m not-”

“He’s already killed one man,” Mills said simply. “I’m on your side, you know. I always have been.”

18

Later, he remembered the day as overbright, every piece of landscape sharp and hard-edged under the white sun. Emma, pretty in a pale blue dress that seemed part of the cloudless sky, drove him in her car, past the empty east gate and down the switchback road to the valley floor. With the windows down, the air smelled of juniper. The afternoon had been still and expectant, and even now, toward its end, Santa Fe seemed asleep. Connolly fidgeted in the unfamiliar uniform, shifting the gun in his pocket to arrange its outline in a shapeless bulge. His cap, folded, hung over his belt like a protective flap.

“It’s not going to go away, you know,” Emma said. “Can you see it?”

“Only when I look. Shall I keep it in my bag?”

“Then I would have something to worry about.”

“Actually, I’m a crack shot. I grew up in the country, you know.”

“Crack shot with what?” he said skeptically.

“Well, skeet,” she admitted. “You don’t really think you’ll need it, do you?”

“No. Should I leave it here? It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Just keep your hand in your pocket. You know, playing with change.”

“Playing with change.”

“Well, men do.”

They were driving along the Alameda, approaching the Castillo Street bridge at the foot of Canyon Road.

“I’ll walk from here,” he said at the corner.

“Two blocks,” she said. “Goodness, look at the crush.”

The street was lined with cars, some double-parked near the gallery entrance. It seemed the only party in town.

Her voice, cool and efficient, cracked when he reached to open the door. “Michael.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with panic. “You’ll be careful.”

“Nervous?”

“I am, actually. Funny, after all this.”

“I know. This time it’s real.”

“It doesn’t feel real.” She straightened her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you down.”

He smiled at her. “You couldn’t. Anyway, maybe it’s just an audition. Maybe nothing will happen.”