Blind Descent-pigeion 6 (21 page)

  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.