I found a second bedroom across the hall, painted white, with white and pink curtains. It must have been Judy Binder’s childhood room, but it looked as though Len had moved in here for the last years of his life. The bookshelf held World War II histories, especially the rocket and A-bomb projects. He’d also tucked away some Loren Estleman westerns.
Len had displayed more photos in here. Their frames had been ripped apart, but the pictures were more or less intact. One was of Judy at five or so, sitting on a trike, grinning up at the camera with her front teeth missing. In another, an eight-or nine-year-old Judy was posed on an armchair, stroking a cat.
It was hard to reconcile the angry scarecrow of a woman in restraints at the hospital with this active little girl. What happened to that child on the tricycle? Living with someone as unbalanced as Kitty would create uncertainty in a child, but why had Judy fled into narcotics? Or was it one of those things that happened without her realizing what she was doing? Looking for love, for warmth through sex, getting high, getting higher, leaving the atmosphere and not being able to reenter planet earth.
I swept the glass and broken frames into another garbage bag, straightened the rug, looked in the dresser drawers. These were empty, which explained why the chaos in the other rooms hadn’t been replicated here. I made up Len’s bed with sheets I found in a hall closet. They were so worn they were transparent down the middle, but they were clean.
I wanted to fall on my head into the bed, but I went down to the basement to check on Alison. She was sleeping soundly, despite having all the lights on. Her day had started in Mexico City almost twenty-four hours ago: she was entitled. She had scrubbed the floor around Martin’s bed and replaced Feynman’s Lectures on Physics to pride of place on his desk.
She didn’t waken as I moved around the room turning off the lights. When I got to the desk lamp, I saw an envelope sticking out of Volume II of the Lectures. It was from the Department of Commerce, and dated the week before Martin’s disappearance.
Dear Mr. Binder:
Your request under the Freedom of Information Act for documents pertaining to Martina Saginor returned no results. Your request for documents pertaining to Gertrud Memler produced one letter, which is attached.
The attachment was a photocopy of a letter from the Inspector-General’s office in the Department of Commerce to the Office of Immigration and Naturalization.
We are applying for an expedited visa for Austrian national (Dr.) Gertrud Memler. Dr. Memler worked at the weapons installation in the Austrian Alps, near the city of Innsbruck, helping design Reactor I-IX. She was trained as a chemical engineer and was sent to the Innsbruck facility to conduct underground tests of early prototypes of weapons.
Major Edward Breen of the Office of the Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency has affirmed that Dr. Memler’s role at Innsbruck was in the area of pure research. He has made certain that she was a member of the Nazi Party only because it was necessary if she was to work in any kind of university or research facility.
The Innsbruck facility included a major bomb production facility. Memler shared working and living conditions with the women who were brought to the facility as conscripts, working as forced labor in weapons production. Memler says that while perhaps in some places, such workers were malnourished, that was never the case in Innsbruck. Nor did Memler ever witness or hear about beatings or other severe punishments meted out against anyone brought there as forced labor. In any event, she was never in charge of any work details; her assignment was strictly in the field of pure research.
Dr. Memler’s work will be of vital importance in advancing America’s rocket and nuclear weapons program. Your cooperation in issuing an immediate visa is greatly appreciated.
I stared at the letter for several minutes, as if the text held some secret that would appear if I looked long enough. Alison turned in her sleep and muttered something in Spanish. I stuck the letter into the back pocket of my jeans and switched off the desk lamp.
31
MUSCLE CAR
IT WAS THE MIDDLE of Tuesday afternoon before I woke again. I showered in Kitty’s bathroom, which made me uncomfortable, as if she were sitting on the bed watching me. In the kitchen, I found Alison eating peanut butter out of a jar with a spoon.
“We threw out all the bread last night,” she said. “I found a package of bagels in the back of the freezer, but I didn’t know if it was okay to turn on the toaster.”
“I don’t think anyone’s monitoring the power use, so go—” I broke off mid-sentence: I’d just realized Alison was texting one-handed while she continued to lick peanut butter from the spoon. “What are you doing?”
“Letting my roommate know I’m okay, why?”
“You told me last night that you left Mexico City without telling anyone, but here you are, broadcasting your location to anyone who knows your phone number!”