Diablo Mesa(42)

“What happened to your father?” Nora asked.

“We never spoke again after I ran off to the farm.”

“Is he still around?”

“In South Dakota, retired, frail, but still drinking and rewriting.” He put down his glass with a little more force than necessary. “But enough about me. Let’s hear your story. I know all the details of your CV, of course—very impressive: Grew up on a ranch outside of Santa Fe, worked at the Institute, then went east, got a position at the New York Museum of Natural History, came back to Santa Fe. But…I mean, the Institute’s fine and all, but what induced you to leave New York and the museum? Was it…” He fell quiet, leaving the rest of the sentence dangling in midair. Nora was aware, of course, that he knew about her marriage and the death of her husband.

Now it was Nora’s turn to finish her glass. “I loved the museum,” she said. “And I loved New York. But, to answer your question, when Bill was murdered…well, I just couldn’t look at the city the same way anymore. I wanted to be back and be with my brother, on home ground. Safer ground.”

There was a silence.

“I’m sorry,” Tappan said at last. “I shouldn’t pry into such sensitive topics.”

She shook her head. “No. It’s not healthy to shut it all up. It’s just…well, it’s a part of my past I’m still trying to put to rest.”

Another silence followed.

“Anyway,” said Nora before the silence became awkward, “when are you going to tell everyone the news? About the superheavy element?”

“Not quite yet.” Tappan paused.

“Why?”

Another hesitation. “May I tell you something in total confidence?”

“Of course.”

“I’m concerned we might have a mole on our team.”

Nora waited for more explanation.

“It isn’t anything definite,” he said. “It’s just that I know—know—there are people embedded in the government who have staked their careers on covering this up. They don’t want us here, they are extremely concerned about what we’re doing, and early on they tried to stop us. Very quietly. When that proved impossible, they seemed to melt away. But they’re still there and they’ve got a lot riding on keeping the Roswell truth secret. And now we know; we have proof it was an alien spaceship. And I fear this might trigger…some sort of reaction.”

“But are there any specific reasons to think there’s a spy on the team?”

“It’s just a feeling.” He picked up his empty martini glass, twirled it between his fingers, set it down. “I know it sounds a little paranoid, but that’s why I asked everyone to keep this discovery under wraps a while longer. Oh, and there’s one other thing.”

He leaned forward as if to impart a secret, but instead their lips touched, lingering gently.

Nora, surprised, drew back.

“I’m out of line,” he said quickly.

Nora, breathing hard, her heart suddenly pounding, tried to compose herself. “This is a bad idea.”

“Of course it is,” said Tappan, leaning forward again, his breath playing on her face.

At that moment, Nora realized she didn’t care whether or not it was right. She couldn’t help bringing her lips in to meet his again. He slid his arms around her neck and they kissed ever more passionately, and then his warm hand slipped under her shirt and up her spine while he assisted her to a more reclining position on the plush leather banquette.



Nora walked back to her trailer in the dark, still reeling from what had just happened. It was crazy, it was wrong, it was exactly what should not happen on a project like this—and yet she felt a powerful glow, a whole-body tingle, that made her reservations seem trivial, if not irrelevant.

As she came in the door, a marvelous scent, underlaid by Mitty’s welcoming bark, brought her back to the present.

“Where have you been?” Skip called from the galley. “A little longer, and you would have ruined dinner.” He quickly poured her a glass of wine and gestured to the kitchen table, where he’d been making inroads into chips and guac. “Have some while I work this up.”

“Thanks,” she said, slipping into her chair. She was famished. She scooped a mass of guacamole onto a chip.

“I was getting worried,” he said from the galley, “because someone said you’d gone into Tappan’s RV. You were in there an awfully. Long. Time…” His voice trailed off suggestively.

“Tappan was just showing me some charts,” she said briskly. She found herself flushing, to her great dismay.

“Charts…etchings…of course.” Skip tipped a bit of red wine from his glass into the sauté pan with a great hiss of liquid. He stirred it gently, shook the pan, tasted the contents, and then spooned them onto plates, along with roasted potatoes and baby bok choy.

“Sauteed foie gras with red wine, balsamico, and mission fig reduction,” he said with feigned nonchalance as he slid the plates onto the table.

“Wow, this is amazing, Skip.”

“Least I could do.” He sat down beside her and poured himself a fresh glass of wine. “You know, it wouldn’t be so shabby having a billionaire brother-in-law…” His voice trailed off suggestively.