Blind Descent Page 20

  “Dagnabbit,” Anna said, then ground her teeth lightly. Cowboy cursing reminded her of low-fat ice cream: mildly ridiculous and totally unsatisfying.

  Having unlaced the offending boot, she considered it for a moment. Her first instinct was to remove it, run her fingers over her foot to reassure herself it was all there. Intellectually she knew it was; there was no blood, and, though it hurt, she could wiggle everything that was supposed to wiggle. The ankle would undoubtedly swell. Once she got the boot off she might not be able to get it on again. With a lame foot she’d be useless, and there was something more she needed to do. Lacing the boot back up, she cinched it tight, splinting the ankle. Given good support, she could push herself a little further.

  The ankle hurt, but she could put her weight on it. Not broken, she told herself, and limped away from the Blazer. She had taken the keys from the ignition and snapped them in the outside pocket of her jacket. Donating her vehicle to her attacker and spending the night under a juniper would not be a happy ending.

  Anna was banking on the fact that her would-be murderer didn’t think she’d stop once she got clear of his sights; that he’d turned and run the minute she’d disappeared over that second hill and would be hightailing it back to the park to cover his tracks. All Anna wanted was a glimpse of him. Or her.

  That’s all she got.

  Having circled three-quarters of the way around the hill she saw, half a mile or more away, a tiny figure. Blurred and indistinct in khaki clothes or desert camouflage, it trotted over a ridge and down out of her line of sight. The shooter could have been six feet tall or six inches, black or white, male or female. All the hard-won sighting told her was that he was probably headed back toward Carlsbad’s headquarters, and she’d already guessed that much.

  Adrenaline, vengeance, hope all abandoned her at once, and suddenly she was so tired it was an effort to draw breath. Her ankle throbbed, drumming its dissatisfaction at the recent abuse. Cold poked icy fingers into her ears, irritating the eardrums. Brent’s blood caked and itched on the skin of her face and neck. Eschewing cowboy delicacy, she called down vile imprecations on all things living and dead, on the wind and the cold, the uneven dirt and the knife-edged plants. By the time she’d reached the truck she’d used up the vocabularies of several generations of sailors and, had there been any truth to the conceit, would have left a blue streak as wide as the Danube in her wake.

  Brent didn’t carry a radio in his vehicle. As he wasn’t BLM or NPS, it made sense. Anna cursed him anyway, because she was in that sort of mood. Every jolt and rut pained her. Her ankle complained so bitterly that pushing in the clutch pedal was torture. She cursed Roxbury for having a manual transmission. Cursing him was easier than remembering him, than feeling his blood on her flesh and knowing somebody was going to have to break the news to his wife.

  When she reached the highway she goaded the Blazer along at sixty-five miles per hour in third gear rather than trash her ankle further. Finally she could stand the whine of the engine no longer and used her right foot to shove in the clutch. The Blazer careened into the oncoming lane. “Never a cop around when you need one,” she growled as she righted the vehicle; then she smiled. Anything taken to absurd extremes ran the risk of becoming ludicrous. Even ambient crankiness.

  The Bureau of Land Management offices were on the east side of town, off the main drag. On impulse, Anna drove into their lot. It was just before five and almost dark, but there were still cars parked in front of the building and lights in the windows. She was taking the chance that Holden had gone to work today. Holden would have all the numbers: the sheriff, the coroner, BLM law enforcement. She yearned to dump the whole thing in his lap, run back to Zeddie’s, crawl in the hot tub, and drink the forbidden juice of the grape.

  Cunning and baffling, her mentor in AA had quoted the accepted wisdom on alcohol to an alcoholic. So be it, Anna thought unrepentantly. She’d been cunningly baffled by events for coming on a week now, and none of them were remotely as rewarding as a glass of good wine.

  The BLM offices were as lackluster as could be expected of new government buildings. Efficient and featureless in neutral tones and cubicled spaces. The receptionist, a young Navajo man with shoulder-length black hair tied neatly in a ponytail, squeaked like a rabbit when Anna appeared in front of his desk. She’d spent all her time with the rearview mirror looking for the sniper. Had she bothered to take a look at herself, she might have cleaned up a bit before returning to civilization. The receptionist reached for the phone, and Anna laid a hand on his wrist. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s not my blood.”

  He was not reassured. Hand halfway to the receiver he froze, staring at her blood-black fingernails on his arm. In vain, she tried to find the words that would ease his mind. Finally, she said, “Is Holden Tillman here? He’ll know what to do with me.”

  Magic words, “Holden Tillman.” Anna made a mental note to give him a bad time about their open-sesame effect someday when they both recovered their senses of humor.

  The receptionist returned, Holden swinging on crutches at his heels.

  “Sorry, Holden,” Anna said stupidly. “Are you in the middle of anything?”

  He took in her bloodstained person, the dusty clothes, her crippled stance. “A local’s been complaining about traffic noise on the northwest boundary, but I expect it can wait.” He smiled his slow smile, and Anna’s heart lifted a little.

  “I’ve just come from there,” she said. “And the only traffic was me, but I did stir up a bit of dust.”

  Holden did everything right, wearing all hats at once: EMT, bureaucrat, husband, father, friend. Hot coffee was fetched. Anna’s bloody jacket was peeled off. A kindly woman in the gray-brown BLM shirt with the American flag sewn on the shoulder took her to the ladies’ room so she could wash the last traces of Roxbury from her face and hands. Calls were made to the right agencies. The sheriff was alerted. Her boot was cut off and her foot elevated. Ice was found for the ankle.

  Holden underwent a marvelous metamorphosis. As he tended her, she watched him change from the uncertain palsied man who’d killed his patient through negligence to the confident man of understated command he’d been when she’d first met him. Roxbury’s death was not good news to Holden; there was nothing of relief or relish in his new attitude. It was that he saw the shooting as Anna did, linked somehow with the death of Frieda Dierkz. This second murder proved the first. Holden was a born-again believer in the sacred butt-print. He hadn’t killed Frieda. It made a new man of him.

  Only after she’d been cared for and was firmly on the road to being human again, did Holden begin to dig for details. The sheriff had come. Holden had timed it so she’d only have to tell her story once.

  Anna told her tale, notes were taken, questions asked. When she finished, Holden arranged everything as she would have herself: the NPS car would be picked up and delivered back to the park by a sheriff’s deputy. Rhonda and Holden would give her a ride back to Zeddie’s that night. Rhonda arrived in the midst of these plans and took on her new duties with good-natured grumbles. Since Holden’s ankle was broken she’d been playing chauffeur. Now she had two gimps to squire around. Their son, Andrew, had come with her. It was the first time Anna had seen him conscious. He didn’t look like either his mother or his father but was one of those children who appear to have been fashioned by the fairies. There was an irrepressible impishness about him that delighted Anna even as she was glad she wouldn’t have to raise the boy.

  That impish spark in the child’s eyes was the only physical resemblance he had to his dad. Anna laughed to see the twin gleams when Holden pulled his son onto his lap. Rhonda looked both surprised and pleased. That twinkle had been gone from her husband for a while.

  Rhonda drove, Anna rode shotgun, and Holden and Andrew were tucked in the cramped seats in the back of the truck’s “king” cab. From the scraps of conversation and high-pitched squeals, Anna guessed they played at some game involving toy bats and tic
kling.

  Anna found herself telling her adventure again, not because she had to but because she needed to. It was a story of such magnitude, at least to her, that she would need to tell it several more times to dissipate its power, to get some kind of hold on it. Rhonda asked all the right questions, questions the sheriff would never think of: Were you scared? Did it hurt? Did you think you were going to die? Under this gentle probing, emotions quashed by pride or necessity welled up with such force they threatened to choke Anna. No wonder men were often frightened of women. They had a way of getting to the heart of things, a dangerous place sometimes.

  Lest she betray her weaknesses, Anna stopped talking. Giving her time to recover, Rhonda told how she had spent this cold and windy day. She’d not been chased, shot at, or dipped in blood, but she’d ferreted out a whole lot more information than Anna had.

  “I spent the day on the phone,” Rhonda said. “No mean feat with Andrew around. I’ll send you my phone bill when we get it. All calls during prime time. Yikes. Most of the stuff was just gossip, but I did come up with a few interesting items.”

  They’d turned off the National Parks Highway and onto the park lands. In the headlights a jagged line of road flanked by low stone walls was sliced from the night. Play in the backseat became one-sided. Anna could tell Holden was listening. Rhonda sensed it too and went on talking with no change in tone, as if she was afraid of frightening away some shy wild thing. Anna could have told her her husband was back for good, but she figured Rhonda would know that soon enough.

  “Whether these bits and pieces will help, you’ll have to tell me,” Rhonda continued. “Brent’s last job was in West Virginia. He worked as a geologist for a coal company there for a couple of years. Holden and I met the president of their local grotto at a cavers’ convention in Albuquerque. I called him because he’d seemed down on Brent the one time his name came up. I figured he’d be a good candidate for dirt. According to him, Brent had a dishonorable discharge from the army in 1972. That’s what this guy had against him. He’s a Vietnam vet and proud of it. His guess was Brent was discharged for desertion or maybe cowardice, so he’s never liked him. Does that help?”

  She sounded so hopeful that Anna didn’t like to discourage her. “You never know what’s going to help,” she said.

  “Hah!” Rhonda snorted. “Too bad. That was some of my best stuff. Want to hear the rest?”

  Anna did.

  “This is more sad than pertinent, but it’s what I got.”

  “Shoot,” Anna said.

  “Careful what you wish for,” Holden said from the backseat.

  “Careful what you wish for,” Andrew echoed in a sweet piping voice.

  “Who’s telling this story?” Rhonda asked with mock severity.

  “You are, baby,” said Holden.

  “You are, Momma,” said Andrew.

  “More sad than pertinent,” Anna said to get things rolling.

  “Yes. Thank you. This is from the Minnesota connection. I called the secretary of the grotto up there. She’s in love with Holden.”

  “Unrequited!” came from the backseat.

  “A healthy choice,” Rhonda told her husband. “The secretary, Sarah or Susie or somebody—”

  “Sally,” Holden interjected. A tactical error. “Or maybe it was Silly . . .”

  “Nice save,” Rhonda said, and laughed. “Sally told me Zeddie had an older sister who was killed in a climbing accident when Zeddie was in high school. Her sister was a lot older, close to thirty at the time.”

  “Sondra’s age,” Anna said idly.

  “You think it means anything?” Rhonda asked.

  “I wouldn’t know what,” Anna admitted. “It would have to have happened more than ten years ago. Did this Sally know any details? Who was there, what happened, that sort of thing?”

  “No. I thought of that. Like maybe Frieda was there and screwed up, got Zeddie’s sister killed or something?”

  “Frieda would have been twenty-five or so. She was already working for the Park Service. I suppose she could have gone home. Her mom said she was friends with Zeddie’s sister. And the accident didn’t have to take place in Minnesota. I don’t know if there’s any place to climb in Minnesota that’s high enough you could kill yourself falling off of it.”

  “I’ll find out,” Rhonda promised.

  Holden made squirmy uncomfortable noises from the rear seat. “Daddy, you’re squishing my bat,” came a complaining note.

  “Sorry, son. Rhonda, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Holden began. “What with guns going off and avalanches and what not. I don’t want you and Andrew—”

  “What?” Rhonda cut him off. “Talking long distance on the phone? This from Mr. Crawl-Down-Holes-and-Break-an-Ankle? Mr. Spit-in-the-Face-of-Danger?”

  “Aww, that’s not how it is,” Holden said, but Rhonda had won her point.

  “Is that all?” Anna asked. Her words sounded niggardly and ungrateful even in her own ears, but she was so tired. Reaching into her reserves she dredged up a few more. “Not that it’s not a lot,” she managed.

  “Gee, thanks a heap,” Rhonda said, and, “Ringtail!” She put on the brakes, her high beams spotlighting a graceful little brandy-colored cat with a black-and-white tail as long as its body crouched atop the stone wall beside the road.

  Enraptured, the four of them watched as the cat studied them, gauged the personal danger, opted for the better part of valor, and disappeared over the far side of the stones.

  “Pretty neat, eh, Andrew?” Holden asked.

  “Pretty neat,” the little boy agreed. “Can I have one?”

  “They’re wild animals, sweetie,” Rhonda told him. “They only like to be seen once in a while like this. They wouldn’t be happy in a cage.”

  “I wouldn’t keep him in a cage,” Andrew said stubbornly. “I’d keep him in my room.”

  The adults laughed. Offended, Andrew returned to his stuffed bat, carrying on a whispered conversation they clearly were not meant to be privy to.

  Rhonda started the truck moving again. “And, since you asked,” she said picking up the thread of conversation, “no, that is not all. I saved the best for last. I mean the best if any of this is of any use. Sally was a veritable fount of information. Dr. McCarty may not be Marcus Welby material after all. Twelve years ago he was brought up on charges. She seemed to think pretty serious ones—lose-your-medical-license serious. But he settled out of court, and the charges were dropped. And no,” she said before Anna could speak, “she didn’t know what he’d been charged with.”

  THERE WAS A party going on at Zeddie’s house. Anna almost whimpered at the blaze of lights and babble of voices that blasted her when she opened the door. Rhonda and Holden had slunk away under cover of darkness as soon as they’d seen the symptoms of revelry. Tonight Anna wished she could have gone home with them, hidden out in their cozy little house. The Tillmans were a family. Childhood with mother and father, dinners around the table, chores and games, was decades past. If Anna’d ever really known what family meant, she’d long since forgotten. In her world it was merely a mechanism of exclusion, shutting out those who weren’t connected. Anna had her sister, whom she dearly loved. Once she’d had a husband. There was closeness, trust, companionship—all the stuff of Hall-mark cards. But did two constitute a family? Somehow it didn’t, not quite. For family, more than one generation needed to be represented.

  You have your NPS family, a saccharine voice in her head chanted as she hung her scabrous leather coat on a peg by the door. Looking as sour as she felt, she limped into the front room. The festivities weren’t as vile as her tired mind had painted them. Oscar was there, Peter and Zeddie, Curt, and a young couple Anna didn’t recognize: a handsome lithe man in his mid twenties with a beard close-cropped in the fashion of Curt’s, his olive-skinned wife and their toddler, a child so apple-cheeked and curly-topped she would have been a shoo-in for a Gerber’s ad from the fifties.

  Zeddie
was on the sofa with a guitar. Calcite curled up in a ball at her hip, apparently a devotee of stringed instruments. The young woman’s hair was loose and clean. Anna realized it was the first time she’d seen Zeddie without a bandana tied buccaneer-style around her head. This night she looked impossibly young and strong, a willow, wide and rooted deep, able to withstand any of life’s storms. In her rich contralto she was belting out an intricate ballad, the refrain of which was “and I want a shot of whiskey!” From the laughter, Anna surmised Zeddie made up the lyrics as she went along, poking fun at the business of rangering and the politics of caving.

  Peter McCarty leaned on the mantel of a fireplace that hadn’t been used in so long it had been converted to a storage place for magazines. On his handsome face was a look of proprietorship and reflected glory that he had in no way earned. Not by matrimony, at any rate, or by any basic honesty that Anna had noted. Tonight she found the hypocrisy irritating.

  Oscar was giving full attention either to the performance or the performer and spared Anna the barest of nods. The two strangers smiled politely, then glanced away. Curt Schatz held the apple-cheeked baby girl on his lap, looking almost as happy as if she’d been a cat. Perhaps all nonverbal animals share the same charm. Schatz dangled his keys in front of chubby grasping fingers in lieu of paws, percolating giggles taking the place of purring.

  Anna caught his eye and he stood immediately, shifting the child to his hip in a practiced movement. A smile illuminated the shadows of his beard, and behind horn-rimmed spectacles, his eyes were welcoming.

  Warmth brought Anna unpleasantly close to tears. If you want somebody who’s glad to see you so damned bad, why don’t you get a dog? she mocked herself. The self-inflicted cruelty stemmed the waterworks for only a moment. Then she remembered she had a dog. Frieda’s dog, Taco, a trusting, slobbering, jowly, loving, jumping golden retriever.

  “And I want a shot of whiskey!” Zeddie wailed, the depth of her voice filling the small room and pouring like hot wax into one’s bones.