Nevada Barr - Blind Descent

"You think Frieda was killed on purpose? You think one of the core group killed Frieda?" Zeddie asked. There was belligerence as well as incredulity in her voice. "One of us?"

Anna said nothing till their combined silence undid her. "Nobody else was there."

"Maybe it was Brent," Peter said, trying to make peace. "He was up near the head of the Pigtail. Maybe he got to feeling bad about it and shot himself."

Anna gave him a withering look. "Then shot at me?"

Peter glanced over her head at Zeddie and shrugged as if to say, "I tried."

"Well," Zeddie ended a silence grown too long. "I'm hitting the hay. Murdering people in cold blood really wears me out." She left without bidding anyone good night. Peter followed, leaving Anna and Curt to each other's company.

"You don't really think that, do you?" Curt asked.

"I don't know what to think," Anna told him.

Curt levered himself up from his position near the sofa. "I'll sleep on the floor," he said. "Don't want to accidentally kick your bad ankle."

Calcite jumped off Anna's lap, clawing her in the process. She hadn't made any friends tonight.

Just after seven, the sun not yet up, they were awakened by the phone. Stumbling off the couch, Anna was reminded of her ankle. A night's sleep had done wonders. It was stiff and sore, but she could tell it would loosen up with use.

"Dillard residence," she said into the receiver. The call was for her: Oscar Iverson. George Laymon would see her in his office at eight o'clock. That was what she wanted, yet she hung up feeling dissatisfied.

Curt shambled by clad in boxer shorts and a hand-crocheted afghan in lime green and pink squares. "Who was it?" he croaked as he fumbled with Zeddie's coffeemaker.

"Oscar," Anna said, and it came to her why she'd been disappointed. Some corner of her brain had hoped it would be Sondra tracking down an errant husband and providing a few answers.

Padding after Curt in a tee-shirt, underpants, and ragg wool socks, she asked, "Did Peter ever get a hold of his wife?" Two days underground and the campout feel of group sleepovers had made them informal.

"Not that I know of. Why? Do you want to pin your pet theories on Sondra?" Curt loaded the pot expertly and poked the "on" button. Anna crawled onto a stool on one side of a counter that separated kitchen from dining space. Curt settled on the other. Both stared hopefully at the pot filling between them.

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" Anna said.

"Pinning it on Sondra?"

"She's such a twit."

Curt laughed, and Anna felt forgiven. They sat without talking till there was enough liquid in the pot to fill two coffee cups. Curt poured and Anna fetched a pint of heavy cream from the refrigerator. Curt's eyebrows rose. "No soy milk?"

Anna didn't share Zeddie's taste for good health. "I smuggled it up while you guys were still in Lechuguilla. How well do you know Sondra?" she asked as she poured cream into her cup.

"You're going to make me do something, aren't you? Something sleuthy and embarrassing. Something that will probably get my face slapped. If I just confess to shooting you in the foot and murdering whoever you think was murdered, can I be excused?"

Anna refused to be diverted. "Are you good friends, medium friends, friendly acquaintances, what?"

Curt groaned.

Anna waited.

"Between medium and friendly acquaintances," he said warily.

"Could you call her?"

"You could call her."

"Do you know people she knows? Family, friends, whatever?"

Curt sipped his coffee. Anna sipped hers. He looked over the rim of his cup. "I smell a trap. I'm not answering any more questions until you tell me what it's going to cost me."

"Since you're in the Minnesota connection, I thought maybe you could make some calls," Anna said. "Find out where she is. I'm getting a bad feeling about her."

"Why don't you ask Peter to do it? He knows more about where his wife might be than I would."

"Peter's part of the bad feeling."

"Jeez. I guess I should be honored you don't suspect me."

"Not yet." Anna wondered if she was only kidding.

"Sure. I'll do it," Curt said at last. "After all, it's not like I have a life or anything."

George Laymon was if not pleased then anxious to talk with Anna. Ushering her into his office the moment she arrived at park headquarters, he sat her down in the visitor's chair. From his familiar perch on the edge of his desk, he towered over her. His face was an interesting amalgam of aggravation and concern.

"Oscar called last night, and I talked with Holden Tillman at the BLM this morning," he said. "The sheriff's department is taking care of returning the government vehicle." Laymon didn't change the tone of his voice, yet much was conveyed in that simple sentence: the knowledge that Anna had used an NPS vehicle in an unauthorized manner, a threat of reprisals if the sedan was damaged, the hint that he now held the upper hand in this conversation.

"I think Brent's murder and Frieda's are connected," she said baldly.

Moving as if a weight had settled on his shoulders, Laymon put his desk between them. "You said Frieda changed her story, didn't remember anybody trying to kill her." Anna started to protest, but Laymon silenced her with a raised hand. "I know. You thought you might have seen something near the site of the rock slide. We went over that with Holden and Oscar," he said patiently. "Oscar felt, given the place, the conditions, and the stress levels you were all operating under, a fleeting impression in shifting loam wasn't significant. Holden agreed with him."

"He's changed his mind," Anna said. She was pushing her luck. Concern was growing rigid, cracking across Laymon's cheekbones.

He looked out the window for a minute, the cloudless sky bluing his eyes. His fingers drummed softly on the desk blotter. "I'm not surprised," he said. "Losing a patient is hard on anybody and harder on Holden than most." His focus returned to the room, the chair, Anna. Reasoning with her was at an end. Folding his hands in front of him, he told her how it was going to be.

"In using a government vehicle in an unauthorized manner, you have overstepped your bounds considerably. You have made remarks without substantiation that do not reflect well on the people here, people who worked so hard to save your friend. You have no authority in Carlsbad. You are a guest of this park. Until now we have been willing to cut you a good deal of slack because of what you have been through. You've used that slack, Anna. I can put you in touch with human resources either here or, better yet, in your home park, and we'll get some counseling for you. Other than that, there is nothing we can do. Oscar and I have talked it over with the superintendent. This latest incident is a BLM matter. Your statement has been taken, but, as you arrived after the fact, you aren't a material witness."

"Attempted murder, assault on a federal officer, illegal discharge of a firearm," Anna said. "Whoever it was shot at me more than once. Malice."

George Laymon's eyes strayed again out the window. "You had a bad scare," he said carefully.

"You think I'm making this up?" Anger boiled so hot the image of steam pouring from her ears didn't seem so much ludicrous as inevitable. What saved her from an unladylike outburst that would have gotten her tossed out of Laymon's office was the sheer profusion of hostile remarks that clogged her brain and tied her tongue.

"I didn't say that, Anna. Some of these good old boys around here get carried away. Look at any road sign. They are all riddled with bullet holes."

"My boot heel-"

"Could have been broken off on a rock. That's rough country out there. Or it could have been shot off like you say," he said placatingly.

Anna was not placated.