Anna walked a mile in the dead man's shoes. Burdened with a greater sensibility, Curt was squeamish about robbing the corpse, but Anna's feet were killing her. Packed with extra socks, Laymon's boots served as both protection and splint. Still, much of the exodus was accomplished on hands and knees.
They were welcomed back in the park with something less than open arms, an age-old need to kill the messengers and a bureaucratic loathing of independent action. In the subsequent furor over the defection of George Laymon and the destruction of that glorious chamber, Anna escaped punitive action. She was, however, invited to leave Carlsbad Caverns on the next available flight, and it was hinted that the personnel department there would not be a good choice should she need letters of recommendation in the future.
At the insistence of Carlsbad's superintendent and Holden Tillman, drilling at the Blacktail was stopped, pending investigation. A warrant was obtained to search George Laymon's office and home, but no papers were found to indicate with whom on the Blacktail staff he'd been conspiring. If the law never figured it out, the gas drilling company probably had a good idea. After paying the American public for damages, they would be inspired to take the difference out of the perpetrator's hide, if only metaphorically.
Sondra recovered quickly. The adventure had not mellowed her. Twenty-four hours after she was brought out of Lechuguilla, she and Peter returned to St. Paul. Peter wore a beaten, hangdog look, and Zeddie one of long-suffering patience. The divorce, if there was to be a divorce, would be every bit as ugly as Sondra could make it.
The day following the departure of the doctor and his wife, Curt drove Anna to the Carlsbad airport. Her left foot was in a cast, the lateral metatarsal bone broken during the ascent from the Lounge.
Since Curt had prodded, threatened, and cajoled her up the last climb out of Old Misery Pit, Anna had done little but eat, sleep, and watch TV. Depression as black as any room in Lechuguilla had settled over her mind. She didn't know if she grieved for the dead, despaired the endless plundering of the wild places, or just needed a vacation.
She wasn't sure she wanted to be a park ranger anymore. What other line of work she was suited for was unclear. At the moment, bagging groceries at the A amp;P or working the cosmetics counter at Wal-Mart looked tempting. A job where one was seldom called upon to kill anybody.
"Are you okay?" Curt asked.
Anna, ticket in hand, and he sat in the uniquely soulless environment of airport waiting areas.
"A week in a hot tub and I will be. You?" She asked to be polite but found that she cared about the answer. Of late, Curt Schatz was one of the few people on earth who didn't grate on her nerves.
"Anxious to get back to the university. There's only a week before Christmas break. Since we won't be allowing them to come to class for a month, I know my students will be eager to squeeze in every bit of learning they possibly can these last few days."
Outside, buffeted by December winds, a prop plane taxied onto the ramp's loading zone.
"We'll keep in touch?" Anna asked.
"You saved my life," Curt replied. "Now you're responsible for me."