Her part in the rescue at an end, Anna had no business remaining at Carlsbad Caverns and no intention of returning to Mesa Verde until she had unraveled what had happened to Frieda. At best guess the body recovery would take another twelve to twenty-four hours. Till then she had a place to stay. Pleading injury, exhaustion, and all manner of unprovable but debilitating ills, she'd asked for and received sick leave. Hills Dutton, her district ranger-indeed, all the staff at Mesa Verde-was reeling from Frieda's death. Winter was the slow season, and Anna was not really needed. She could easily beg a week or more and get it.
Beer and bruises had given her a fitful night's sleep. Thrashing around in Zeddie's down comforter, she stalked and was stalked by killers of all stripes. More than once she woke up in a panic, fighting a ceiling of stone that was no longer there. Around three in the morning she'd dragged her bedding out onto the back patio to feel the reassuring cold of starlight on her skin as she slept. When day finally dawned she was relieved, if not rested.
Between her first cup of coffee and her morning shower she formulated a modest plan. Or the first stumbling steps of a plan. Sondra needed to be tracked down, information on the other members of the team to be ferreted out. Bundled up in a sweater of Zeddie's and a battered leather jacket she'd inherited when Zachary died, she walked from the housing area to the cluster of neat stone buildings that housed Carlsbad's administrative offices.
Clouds hung heavy over the desert, adding a pervasive damp to winter's chill, dulling the light of the sun to a gray throb in the south. To Anna the day was made beautiful by its mere existence. Cold embraced and invigorated her. A sharp wind from the northwest reminded her how magnificently alive even this barren chunk of earth was. Down a steep slope from the cave resource building where she'd originally been assigned to man the telephones were the offices of George Laymon and the superintendent. Anna hoped for a low-profile schmooze with the secretaries. In a park as small and isolated as Carlsbad Caverns there would be few secrets. Whose car was parked too long in front of whose home, who drank and, perhaps more damningly, who didn't, would be common knowledge. It seemed as good a place as any to begin.
That assumption couldn't have been more wrong. Once in the door she was caught up in the machinery of government.
In the wake of the failed rescue attempt and the blaring media coverage, administration was buzzing with activity. Each decision would be reviewed, all plans reconsidered in a new light that would change as the political winds changed. Blame might be assigned, selected heads might roll but, most important, a dense layer of paper would be generated. Like a frightened squid obscuring the past with ink, the NPS would muffle the incident in memos, reports, and revised operating procedures.
As Anna walked in the door, Jewel, George Laymon's secretary, said, "Just the person I was looking for." Never a good sign. "George wants to talk to you. He's in with Brent, but they should be pretty close to done."
The implication that Anna would, of course, sit and wait docilely till summoned was strong. At an early age a serious streak of contrariness had been discovered in Anna. The only two stickers she'd ever considered slathering on her Rambler's bumper read "God Bless John Wayne" and "Question Authority." Today she chose not to rise to the occasion. Claiming a folding chair near Jewel's desk, she sat and composed her face along cooperative lines.
Jewel was a stocky woman in her early thirties with an abundance of black hair curling down her back to bra-fastener level. Not a glint of a shine escaped the careful tangle of curls, not a thread of gray or red or brown. The hair was black as construction paper, flat and rough. Bangs and sides were cut short and teased high on the crown. Hair was molded into flying wings above each ear with industrial-strength hair spray. From the front the coif looked big, a lion's mane. From the side the effect was lost. The volume was two-dimensional; the popular style always made Anna think of the false fronts on buildings along movie Main Streets of the Old West.
"What's up?" she asked in hopes of opening channels of communication.
The secretary was more interested in her computer screen than in gossiping with Anna. "Debriefing," she said without bothering to turn around.
"Critical incident stress debriefing?"
"Something like that."
After incidents in which rangers were exposed to unusually stressful situations-the death of children or fellow employees, long rescues in which the victim died, or messy accidents with burned or mutilated bodies-the National Park Service had instituted debriefing sessions, times when the rangers involved could theoretically come to terms with their own personal trauma. Undoubtedly the idea was a sound one, but Anna'd never been to a session that proved helpful. It's just me, she thought, not for the first time.
She eyed Laymon's office door suspiciously. Jewel had just said Brent, not a whole host of cavers. One-on-one was unusual unless it was with a bona fide psychologist. Laypeople trained to run the sessions always had all the participants in at the same time. Part of the therapy: sharing fears, inadequacies, strengths. Coming to know you weren't alone, that the bizarre things that passed through your mind weren't an indication of a character flaw. She turned her attention back to the secretary.
Jewel typed like a fury, stiffened tresses quivering with the impact of lacquered nails on the keyboard.
The office was cold and boring. Anna squirmed around, but comfort on a metal folding chair was elusive. "I thought it would be a group thing," she said, hoping Jewel would relent and amuse her.
"Nope." Jewel typed on.
There were no magazines to be seen. Anna's shoulder began to ache. She laid her injured limb along the edge of the secretary's desk.
"Do you happen to know where Sondra McCarty is? Peter McCarty's wife?" Anna asked.
"All nonessential personnel have been demobed."
For all the expression Jewel put into the practiced words, she could have been one of those dolls with a ring in its back one pulled to make it talk.
"She's a civilian. Peter asked me to check on her," Anna lied.
"Packed and gone."
A punch, a poke, and paper was sucked into the printer next to Jewel's elbow. Still she typed; she didn't miss a beat. Anna didn't think anyone outside the confines of the big city could type that fast. It was a talent best kept under wraps in the Park Service, or ham-handed rangers would endlessly be pestering one to type up their reports. Probably not an issue; Jewel looked pesterproof.
"Are you sure Sondra's gone?" Anna asked, testing the theory.
Flying fingers stopped midword and began a slow drum. Not pesterproof. Jewel screwed her chair around till she was facing her desk- not all the way around to face Anna, that would have constituted too great a commitment.
"Absolutely positive." She whipped a pile from her "out" basket and, dabbing the pad of her index finger into a little pot of waxy stuff, flipped through it quickly, keeping her fingers stiff so the acrylic of her nails would not be compromised.
"Packed and gone," she repeated with satisfaction, and shoved a list in Anna's direction. "She was given a ride down to the airport yesterday with some other guys. Guess she couldn't wait for her husband to come out."
A note of humanity crept into Jewel's voice, suggesting she would have waited for a husband until hell froze over.
"Good job, Brent, I mean that. Hang tough." The words wafted from Laymon's office as he pushed the door open to usher the geologist out.
Brent mumbled something. He looked bad. Pale and unshaven, the haggard eyes of a man who'd been sleeping badly. Anna guessed she didn't look so hot herself.
"Is Holden here yet?" Laymon asked Jewel. Anna could tell he'd seen her. Draped as she was over the end of his secretary's desk, it would have been impossible not to. He chose to pretend he didn't. A man who liked to deal with one thing at a time.
"He can't come in," Jewel told her boss. She didn't look at him, but turned back to the computer screen. Her fingers rested on the keys, but she was neither reading nor typing. The screen had gone blank. She either had lost her text or had touched a magic computer hide-it button.
Laymon wasn't in the mood to take no for an answer. "Did he call? I told you to interrupt me if he called."
"His wife, she tol' me he gotta go to the doctor's about his foot."
Jewel's articulation, her posture, her vocabulary, all were disintegrating under Laymon's disapproval. Anna wondered if it was personal or if the secretary habitually cowered in the glare of the opposite sex.
"I got Anna Pigeon," she said with the air of a shopkeeper offering inferior but available merchandise.
"Keep trying the Tillmans'," Laymon said. "Talk to the man himself, not his wife."
Only after this exchange had been completed and a nod of acquiescence wrung from Jewel's bowed neck did George Laymon officially "see" Anna.
"Good of you to come by," he said, managing to gather power unto himself by conferring obedience upon her.
"I just sort of wandered in," Anna said. "I wasn't aware there was a critical-"
"I appreciate your coming down so early," he said, and waved her into his office. Closing the door he winked conspiratorially and shook his head. "For a woman who types that fast, Jewel doesn't seem to get a whole lot done. How're you doing?"
Laymon's attention, a focused beacon, lighted and warmed. Despite a natural aversion to being wooed by politicians, Anna had to admit the effect was flattering. Laymon ushered her gallantly-but ever so correctly, without a hint of condescension or sexism-to the single chair in his office. Padded, the seat and back covered with nubbly brown fabric, the visitor's chair, though significantly less grand, matched his desk chair. The desk matched a computer credenza behind it, against the windowed wall. The carpet was new, the potted plant in the corner alive. George Laymon obviously rated. Anna had been in superintendents' offices that weren't so well appointed.
Laymon didn't retreat behind the pseudomahogany of his desk but perched on the side, one haunch on the wood, one booted foot swinging free. He actually must have paid attention in those management classes the NPS was always shipping the higher-ups off to. Putting me at my ease, Anna thought. She decided if he crouched down to her level the way one was taught to interact with children, she was going to leave.
Laymon was a spectacularly average individual. Height, weight, color of hair and eyes: everything fell in the neutral zone. Because true average is a mathematical concept and not a class, he didn't vanish into the woodwork. Graying hair, good build, and regular features made him a handsome man. Anna guessed he was fifty-five or sixty, and had little doubt he could still have been quite the ladies' man but for one thing: he wasn't interested.
She wasn't vain enough to think because a man wasn't flashing lights and sounding sirens the minute she walked into a room he was gay or asexual. Laymon's lack of interest was beyond the personal and had nothing to do with the expected photo of the lovely wife and two appropriately scrubbed kids framed on the desktop. Anna guessed it was something harder to come by than sex or affection that fueled his inner fires. Imposing order. Maybe knowledge. Attributes that could make him good at his job. Controlled zealots were just the people needed for the daunting task of saving what was left of the environment.
"Brent sure looks like shit," Anna said, making conversation.
"Brent's taking this hard," Laymon told Anna. "He's a sensitive man. One of the things that makes him the best in his business. Attention to detail and a straight answer no matter who it costs. But he takes a lot on himself. He feels somehow responsible for Miss Dierkz's death."
Anna understood. After all, she was the one who had killed Frieda. "We all do," she said.
"It's to be expected. How are you doing?"
Anna gave him the short answer to that and several more questions designed to show her he was a caring administrator. Then he got down to the meat of his inquiry. Laymon had no interest in critical stress debriefing-there were procedures for that and they did not fall within his job description. What he wanted from Anna was a detailed account of his resource, Lechuguilla Cavern.
"I'm from the 'Show Me' state," Laymon said. Exactly what had she seen? How far had she explored the Paddock? What had others told her of holes blowing, going leads? Who carried the survey and the sketches? How clear was Lake Rapunzel? How deep the slide? How unstable the Pigtail?
Anna told him she was not the best person to ask. As a neophyte, a claustrophobe, and a close friend of the deceased, her powers of observation had been at a low ebb. Claiming to understand her limitations, he was still keen to hear her views, so she answered the questions as best she could. He pressed her for detail on Tinker's, Rapunzel, and the Pigtail-parts of the cave to which he had never been. Anna struggled to remember as much as she could and, in a childish desire to please, came close to making up answers-a human trait that made eyewitnesses so unreliable. Time after time she drew blanks and he pushed harder.
Laymon was digging in a vein that had been mined out in the first few minutes of their interview. She could tell he wanted more, but there wasn't any more she could give. It made her feel stupid. Stupid was turning to annoyed before he finally gave up.
Anna had said nothing about Frieda's death being not an accident but murder. In the light of day, she was unsure, hyperaware there was no hard evidence. In honor of Frieda, she had to try.
Clearly, Laymon felt the interview to be at an end. He stood. Anna kept her seat. "Frieda thought the rock was pushed on her. Not fell. Pushed."
The words out, she waited. Laymon looked blank, then, as the import struck, shock twisted his even features. Lines cut between his eyes and around his mouth. He sat down, this time in his official chair and in his official capacity.
Anna told her story. Laymon took notes and didn't interrupt. When she finished he stared for a time out his window.
"You realize how serious this is?"
She did.
"You've given us nothing to go on-not your fault," he added quickly. "Just the nature of the beast. Frieda was sure?"
Anna admitted she was not.
"And this print in the dirt, you're a hundred percent sure of that?"
Anna stuck to her guns. The butt-print was real.
The chief of resource management blew out a lungful of air and turned to face her squarely across the desk. "Holden is coming in later. I'll meet with him, the superintendent, and Oscar when he gets out of Lechuguilla. We'll take it from there."
"Thanks," Anna said, relieved to have passed the buck.
Now the interview was indeed over. Laymon rose and walked around his desk, nudging her toward the door with repeated thanks.
She managed one question of her own before it was closed between them.
"What next?" The question was purposefully vague. She wanted to take the temperature of resource management, to find out if Holden, Oscar, Zeddie, or anyone else was going to be targeted as scapegoat. Her cynicism was uncalled for. Laymon was thinking only of the cave. A rescue, even one as carefully orchestrated as Frieda's, could go sour. Despite Holden's care, damage had been done. Possibly irreparable damage. Even without the rock slide, that many people, that much equipment couldn't be dragged through the fragile and pristine underground without leaving a mark. Since there was no way of guaranteeing that cavers would not injure themselves, and since the American public would never condone the idea of a "no rescue" wilderness where visitors went in at their own risk to come out or die as the gods and their own skills decreed, the only way to protect the cave, at least this newest and most virginal part, was to close it off. Until a truly compelling reason to allow people in arose, the cave could rest. Unlike the surface of the earth it would not be able to regenerate, to cure the wounds they'd left behind-or not on a timeline short-lived humanity could appreciate-but further impact would be stopped.
That was fine by Anna. Holden would be miffed, and she could sympathize. Had Lassen Volcanic, Big Bend, Isle Royale-any of a dozen parks she could name without thinking-been closed to her she would be bereft, resentful. Caves she could comfortably leave in the dark.
Cavers were another matter. Before she could get a clearer picture of the survey team that had been with Frieda, she needed to know more about the personalities involved. She had little idea how to go about gleaning background information. They were such a disparate bunch. Curt was a New York university professor, Brent a geologist for somebody, Peter a midwestern gynecologist. Who would she call, the AMA, the PTA? Sondra, at least, had a face, address, and phone number.
Anna was in the middle of wheedling the McCartys' home address out of Jewel when a series of interrupting phone calls brought Laymon back out of his office.
"Ah, good, you're still here," he said, and Anna knew she was about to be volunteered for something. "Could you do us a favor and pick Mrs. Dierkz up at the airport? She wanted to be here when the body was brought out."
The body.
Laymon was businesslike, nothing disrespectful in word or manner. Yet Anna bristled. As far as she knew, Laymon wasn't acquainted with either Frieda or her mother. It would have been bizarre had he beat his breast or rent his garments. Still, she would have preferred it to this cold dispatch.
What she said was, "Sure," and, "Vehicle?"
Laymon nodded at his secretary. "Jewel?" Without waiting for her to respond, he shut himself back into his office.
Not only was Anna's sick day to be co-opted but her solitude as well. Jewel informed her that what visitors' quarters existed were filled with cavers, specialists, and media. Frieda's mother would bunk with her at Zeddie's house until she left with the corpse of her daughter or more suitable arrangements could be made.
Jewel saw to it Anna was provided with a not-too-bad sedan. The battered 4x4s and pickup trucks struck them both as frivolous for the task at hand.
Clouds were as thick over the town of Carlsbad as they were over the caverns, but, as the town was considerably lower in elevation, small planes were able to sneak in below the overcast. It was in one of these puddle-jumpers that Dottie Dierkz arrived. Anna had no trouble finding her in the tiny waiting room. It wasn't that she was one of only three people. She looked like a woman who had recently sustained a killing blow and had not yet had the luxury of falling down.
Frieda's mother was tall, five-foot-ten or so, and impeccably groomed. Money and taste were evident in the perfectly brown, perfectly styled hair, the cashmere mock turtleneck in fuchsia, and the tailored navy jacket. Unlike her daughter, Mrs. Dierkz was thin and angular with high cheekbones and a clean fine jawline, bone structure that would keep her beautiful as long as she lived. From the look of her, Anna wondered how long that might be. Her settled beauty was brittle with the effort of holding grief in. She smiled brightly, showing perfect teeth behind exquisitely painted lips. The eyes remained as lifeless as mannequin's glass.
"Flying! Ooh!" Mrs. Dierkz mock shuddered as Anna carried her one bag out to the waiting sedan. "I can't count how many hours I've spent in the air. Dad-Gordon-and I have been to Europe I don't know how many times. I never got used to it. Goodness! It's good to be on the ground."
This and similar flight-related comments got them across the parking lot and out toward the highway. Anna had done little besides introduce herself. She and Mrs. Dierkz had never met, but they had become acquainted as those who share a loved one tend to. Once or twice, Anna had answered the phone at the office when it was Mrs. Dierkz calling for her daughter. Stories had been told on both sides. More to Anna. Daughters so love to gossip about their moms. Frieda had adored hers and, less common, had enjoyed her company and looked forward to visits home.
As Anna turned the car onto the National Parks Highway, out of town toward the park, the wind turned vicious. Buffeting the sedan, it skinned away the fragile warmth. Mrs. Dierkz sat in the passenger seat, her shoulders hunched and her hands pressed between her knees. Anna turned up the heat, though she doubted mere Btus had a prayer of warming the cold that held Mrs. Dierkz. The smile was still switched on. Not to impress-Anna'd been forgotten-but because she had simply neglected to turn it off. Emotions were no longer attached to facial expression. Had they been, the world might have seen a mask of tragedy best reserved for Greek plays.
"Frieda-" Anna began, needing to say something.
Mrs. Dierkz plucked one hand from between her knees and fluttered it; a woman batting away gnats. The hand was in keeping with the rest of her: nails shaped and painted, a heavy gold wedding band embracing a few carats' worth of engagement ring. Tasteful, affluent, but not off-putting. Anna knew a little of Frieda's childhood, enough to know her mother was not a stranger to hard work. She and her husband had started a used-car dealership in 1951. Four daughters and nearly half a century later, they were rich. More power to them.
"Call me Dottie," Frieda's mother offered unexpectedly.
"Dottie," Anna repeated. Without Frieda as a subject, she was at a loss for words.
Mrs. Dierkz-Dottie-tried to keep up a semblance of conversation. As much, Anna suspected, to keep thoughts of her daughter at bay as to fulfill any sort of social obligation. The vagaries of air travel exhausted, she hit upon landscape as a safe topic. The desert was less than helpful. Anna couldn't but feel that it had put on its bleakest aspect. Thin rain fell in fitful spates, providing no moisture, only adding to the gloom. Without sunlight or any lingering touch of summer, the sage showed black and spiny against soil gray as ash.
It wasn't long before Mrs. Dierkz gave up. Her last sentence, an admirable attempt to liken the black scrub to the graceful lines of Chinese brush paintings, skidded to a halt midsentence. A heartbeat's silence followed, then she admitted, "I've always liked a little more green. So restful on the eyes."
Anna nodded. She kept her attention on the road. Grief is such a naked emotion, and she wanted to respect Dottie Dierkz's natural modesty.
"Frieda?" Mrs. Dierkz said then, inviting Anna to take up where she'd been fluttered to silence some minutes before.
Anna was more than happy to do things on Dottie's terms. Never having had children, she could not fathom the sort of pain the woman must be suffering. She knew only the loss of a husband, a father, and several very good cats. If it was worse than that, she was impressed that Dottie remained upright and coherent.
"Frieda," she began again, as asked. Monitoring Dottie from the corner of her eye as she talked, trying to gauge what to tell, what to omit, whether to go on or turn the subject to other matters, Anna told her of the accident, the rescue, the second and fatal fall. She left out the part where her knee crushed the life from Frieda. Maybe she did it to protect Dottie, maybe to protect herself. There was nothing in it but gratuitous angst for all concerned. Mostly she focused on Frieda's love for the underground, her courage, her humor, and how deeply admired she was by her fellows. Or all but one of her fellows, an addendum Anna kept to herself.
By the time they started the twisting ascent to the park quarters, Anna had pretty much talked herself out. Whether or not Dottie had taken all she could of Frieda's last days, Anna certainly had. Lumps formed like salt licks in her throat, and tears burned beneath her eyelids. The last thing Dottie needed was to see Anna break down.
Yet abandoning the topic altogether seemed not only callous but impossible. Now, and for a while, it was the only topic in the world. So Anna skewed the tales around till she was gossiping about the other members of the survey team. Curt Schatz's claim to mouse bones, Tillman's mainlining caffeine-anything to distract herself or Dottie for a moment. She described Brent Roxbury's caving ensemble and elicited a small smile, brief but genuine, a break from the bigger brighter ones. Mrs. Dierkz didn't recognize Roxbury's name and that surprised Anna somewhat. Brent had been so upset by Frieda's injury and then her death, Anna assumed they'd been close. Perhaps they had. Mothers weren't necessarily privy to all information. Time and distance made them strangers even in the best of relationships. And, too, Brent's distress could have been just the stress of the situation or the sensitivity of one caver for another.
Zeddie Dillard was an old family friend. Her older sister and Frieda had gone to college together. When her own sister died, Zeddie had attached herself to Frieda and her sister.
Dottie knew Curt, but "just to say hello to." They had met in Minnesota. Dr. McCarty she had known for years. He'd inherited her when her gynecologist retired. Dottie had recommended him to her daughter.
Dottie and her husband, Gordon, had been invited to his wedding. They'd been in Italy at the time and hadn't gone, but she'd heard it had been beautiful. "Quite lavish," she said, and managed to convey disapproval without so much as a lifted eyebrow or a lowered tone. "I don't know his wife well." She sounded like she didn't care to rectify that situation in the foreseeable future.
Piqued, Anna pushed a little. "I only just met her," she said. "But I got a feeling there was trouble in paradise."
For a minute it seemed Mrs. Dierkz was too dull with grief or too refined to go for the bait. A need to keep her mind off worse things won out. "I think it might have been one of those hurry-up deals," Dottie said without much interest. "Gilda, Frieda's… my youngest girl knew her from graduate school. Just to say hi to, you know. They didn't travel with the same crowd. I guess there was some trouble with one of the professors and this girl. Then we hear Dr. McCarty's marrying her."
"You think she was pregnant?" Anna asked bluntly.
Too bluntly for Dottie Dierkz. "Who can know?" she said. "We've all got to live our own lives, I guess. Me as much as anybody."
Anna left it alone. It would be easy enough to find out if there'd been a baby. What that might tell her, she was uncertain. Having babies out of wedlock was an epidemic among the poor and a fashion trend among the rich. Not the weapon for serious blackmail it had once been.
"I thought they might get together at one point," Dottie said wistfully.
"Sondra and Peter?" Anna asked.
"Peter and Frieda." Staring out the rain-streaked window at the broken hillsides they climbed through, her face was turned away, perhaps mourning not only her daughter but grandchildren she would never know.
"Dr. McCarty and Frieda," Anna repeated, more sharply than she'd intended.
"They went together for a year or two. Frieda seemed like she might be getting serious at one point. Both Dad and I would have liked that. Frieda was always an independent girl. A little too independent to be a doctor's wife, I think."
McCarty and Frieda.
McCarty and Sondra.
McCarty and Zeddie Dillard.
Anna was beginning to wonder if she was the only woman in the western hemisphere who'd not enjoyed the doctor's bedside manner.
A good deed actually paid off, and Anna was enjoying a mildly righteous glow of virtue's own reward. This good deed had begun as the lesser of two evils; to hang around Zeddie's and soak in the palpable pain of Frieda's mother or to make a cowardly retreat to town with the excuse of checking on Holden Tillman.
Her first choice, pursuing background information on the members of Frieda's survey team, had ended against several blank walls. Sondra wasn't answering her phone in St. Paul, and, since she was freelance, there was no place of business whose business it was to keep tabs on her whereabouts. Just for the hell of it Anna had called the St. Paul Pioneer Press. The fourth person she'd been forwarded to had actually heard of Sondra McCarty-the doctor's wife wasn't as regular a contributor as she liked people to believe-but had no inkling as to where she could be found. Anna left messages and Zeddie's phone number. As for the rest, she hadn't the foggiest idea where to begin. She doubted McCarty's medical colleagues would know much about his caving contacts. The same went for Curt's academic associates. That left Zeddie and Brent. Zeddie was a little too close to home. Staying in her house, on the heels of the disaster, with her still underground toiling to bring Frieda's body out to her mother, Anna wasn't comfortable questioning her friends. The park was too small, the mood too highly charged. As Anna's grandmother would have phrased it, she was liable to get a thick finger stirring in that pot. A little time needed to pass before she could cast her aspersions before peers.
Brent, Anna could and did get to. The man wanted to talk. She could hear the craving over the phone. Till then she'd not realized how strong the need was in her to talk it all over with someone who had been there. In a way, had the cave not been growing ever tighter and more malevolent, staying with the body recovery team would have been a comfort.
Unfortunately, when Anna reached him, Roxbury was on a cellular phone in a Jeep on BLM land adjacent to the park. His cure for the crazies had been to throw himself into his work. Their phone connection started out bad and rapidly went to worse. The last intelligible words were mutually desperate promises to get in touch.
Dead ends.
That was when, faced with an afternoon basking in Dottie Dierkz's grief, Anna had decided to hang on to the borrowed sedan a few more hours and call on the Tillmans. She didn't phone ahead for the obvious reason that she didn't want to be told not to come and thus have an honorable avenue of escape denied her.
Holden and his wife lived in a modest house on the outskirts of the town of Carlsbad. Outbuildings, a requisite in the West, cluttered the lot beside and behind the house: an old garage with a door that wouldn't close, two trucks, a horse trailer with one flat tire, a barn with a horse without sense enough to get in out of the rain standing miserably nearby, and a dog house, sans dog, with a peeling tar-paper roof. Other items scattered around completed a look that Anna, through long familiarity, had come to find homey. Rubber tires, a staple of western decor, were tumbled near the woodpile; an aluminum canoe, partly filled with brackish water, was grounded under a leafless tree.
She parked the sedan in front of a picket fence denuded of paint by wind-blown sand and let herself through the gate. The tiny porch was overflowing with cowboy detritus: deer antlers, rusting metal pieces of machinery that, like bleached skulls and pine cones, created their own artistic statement. To one side of the door a square picture window framed a book-covered table lit by a single lamp. On such a gray day, the golden glow was welcoming. Anna was glad she'd come.
The door was opened before her knuckles could fall a second time. A woman a good ten or fifteen years Holden's junior smiled at her with the hushed apologetic look that unmistakably says "nap time." Anna had forgotten the Tillmans' four-year-old. Waking the boy was a sin on two counts, once against the child and once against his mom. Anna found herself whispering.
Holden was napping as well. He and Andrew were curled up together on the boy's little bed. Anna was warmed by a glimpse of them as Rhonda Tillman closed the door off the kitchen.
Tillman's wife was classically beautiful, with thick lustrous hair that fell past her shoulders and wide-set green eyes under winged brows that had probably never known a pair of tweezers. She was model thin, with long slender arms and tapered fingers. When she talked her hands sketched graceful pictures in the air to accompany her words. Holden's wife was young enough and pretty enough to dislike on sight, but she gave Anna two homemade oatmeal cookies and a glass of white Zinfandel so Anna decided to overlook her faults.
Rhonda pushed aside a paper plate full of multicolored Play-Doh and put her elbows on the painted wood of the kitchen table. "Holden's driving me nuts," she said, and she and Anna fell into the easy camaraderie women often do when left to themselves. "I thought I was going to have to wrap him in a towel and shove the painkillers down his throat the way I do with the cats."
Anna broke off a chunk of cookie and washed it down with the wine. Beer last night, wine now. Two years of abstinence poured away. She just didn't give a damn. The terrors of the bottle had faded, the attendant weirdness an unreal memory. Not to mention, the stuff didn't seem to work anymore. Three beers had left her with a full bladder and no buzz. Still, she drank Rhonda's Zinfandel, was eager to drink it. A memory of comfort? Of forgetfulness? Maybe it was the only way she knew of handling death. Nobody important had kicked the bucket in a long time. No wonder sobriety had been a piece of cake.
"How's Holden doing?" Anna asked, tired of asking the same thing of herself.
"Not good," Rhonda replied in her hushed nap-time voice. The softness made Anna lean across the table, her and Rhonda's heads together like conspirators. It was a nice feeling. Rhonda picked up a cookie with both hands, holding it between fingertips and thumbs as if it were a sandwich. Nibbling around the edge with little squirrel bites, she thought about her husband. "Very bad, in fact," she said at last. "He's convinced himself he killed Frieda Dierkz. Now he's working on convincing himself he can't trust his own decisions. This morning he had Andrew in fits dithering about whether to let the little guy ride in the front seat. Poor old Holden. I can read him like a book. No, like a newspaper. His emotions are headlines. He was scared he'd crash the car, hurt Andrew." She took a delicate sip of wine and resumed torturing her cookie to death.
"'Tain't so," Anna said. "That's not how it happened." She decided now was not the time for secrecy. "Did he tell you what I found?"
Rhonda nodded, her hair shining in the overhead light. "Holden no longer believes in your butt-print," she said. "It's like he won't let himself believe. Some sort of punishment. He said he would have known if somebody had gone up there."
"No, he wouldn't have," Anna argued. "Sixty feet above him, in the blackety-black of that frigging cave, Godzilla and Puff the Magic Dragon could have been perched up there the whole time and none of us would have seen them."
"Not seen," Rhonda said. "Known. He's getting metaphysical in his delusions."
"Damn it." Anna was annoyed. "It was my butt-print. I saw it. I should know. It was there. I could see pocket seams. It was an ideal, perfect, unassailable butt-print."
"Talk to him?" Rhonda asked.
"Sure."
"It won't do any good."
"Probably not." They sat in companionable silence for a while. A fat white cat with Siamese markings from one ancestor cut into tiger rings from another jumped up on the table and stretched out full length, his paws pushing gently against the base of Anna's glass.
"You know you're not allowed on the table when we have company," Rhonda said. The cat twitched its tail in disdain.
"Are you a caver?" Anna asked.
"I used to be. Not so much anymore. When you're married to the Holden Tillman it gets old." There was a tinge of bitterness there, but Anna knew the feeling. Some battles weren't worth fighting. "I still do some," Rhonda said in self-defense. "I just backed out of the whole political side of it."
Anna had not considered caving as having a political side. Naive of her; everything touched by humans was touched by politics. "How so?" she asked to keep the visit from ending.
"I used to go to all the grotto meetings. Get involved in all that. My last year I was president of the local grotto. No more."
Grottos. Local groups of cavers. That was the key. Anna had overlooked the inevitable: people couldn't resist joining up and forming clubs. Cavers were no different. She could let the AMA and the PTA alone. "Grotto meetings!" she said as one might say "Eureka!" "Is Brent Roxbury a member? Is Zeddie?"
"Are you going to help Holden?"
Anna laughed. "Unless he really did kill Frieda."
"Not a problem. Holden hasn't killed anybody in years. He puts spiders outside. Even big hairy ones." Rhonda got more cookies from a jar on the counter and refilled their wineglasses. "Fire away."
Anna outlined her theories. It didn't take long. If someone had attempted to kill, then finally had succeeded in killing Frieda, the list of suspects was mercifully short: the members of the core group with the exception of Oscar, Holden, and herself. If the fall in the Pigtail was unrelated to the rock that had broken Frieda's leg, then they were all suspects. Anna felt duty-bound to mention that but didn't give it much credence. The law of averages was meant to be broken, but it served as a fairly trustworthy guide.
"I don't know what I'm fishing for," she admitted in the end. "I need more information. More to go on. Other than Dr. McCarty's tendency to drop thou at the slightest provocation, I know almost nothing about anybody. With zip in the way of physical evidence, motive is the only thing I've got."
Despite Rhonda's desire to be of help, the pickings were pretty slim. Frieda had a reputation in some circles for "scooping booty," the highly unpopular practice of dashing headlong down new passages to be the first without addressing the needs of the cave, i.e., surveying each new portion as it was explored. Rhonda assured Anna that emotions ran high when it came to scooping booty, but neither of them could see it as a motive for murder. Tinker's Hell was a dead end or, as Holden would have said, an end in itself. All the leads surveyed petered out. No booty to scoop.
Sondra McCarty was a neophyte, a whiner, not well liked. No news there.
Brent was well thought of by cavers. He was active with children's groups, taking even very little kids into the caves to teach them about bats and crickets, instill in them awe instead of fear of things subterranean. Brent was a good father-high praise from the mother of a four year-old. Rhonda said Andrew sometimes played with his daughters. They had a house in town a couple of miles from the Tillmans'.
Rumor had it Brent had exaggerated reports on occasion to protect the underground resource. The caving community loved him for it. The petroleum interests would have had a significantly different take on the issue, but Rhonda said it was just gossip. She doubted it had penetrated much outside the grotto.
Zeddie was new to caving. Enthusiastic, young, idealistic, she had all the makings of a life-long devotee. No rumors attached themselves to her, but Rhonda seemed reluctant to write her off as squeaky clean. They weren't too far apart in age. Zeddie a caver, Rhonda a mommy-Anna guessed it was just a natural jealousy.
Peter McCarty was known to be skilled and experienced. By some he was considered a lightweight-a bit of a dilettante-but Rhonda had never heard much against him besides the occasional snipe because his wife was too young, his equipment too new, his hair too well cut.
Schatz, Rhonda didn't know. She'd met him a couple times, but he was mostly an eastern caver, and she hadn't heard any stories about him either way.
This pleasant, if fruitless, exchange was brought to a close by the intrusion of the telephone bell.
"That tears it," Rhonda said in exasperation.
"Is that the phone?" Holden's voice emanated from Andrew's room.
"See? Too good to last," Rhonda muttered. "I got it."
Andrew slept on. Holden stumped out on crutches as Rhonda was hanging up.
"That was George Laymon," she said. "They're bringing out the body."