Blind Descent

Somebody was going to lose their children, the children they had come together for the purpose of creating.

As the adulteress, Amy might have lost that battle. Might have. A weak motive for murder. The scene just wouldn't play out in Anna's head. Amy would possibly kill to protect her children, but Anna couldn't see her doing it with a high-powered rifle. A self-professed southern girl with a hatred of the desert wouldn't be likely to have the knowledge or the canniness to traverse several miles of damp soil without leaving a single track for Anna to find. Though Anna hadn't peeked into the woman's closet, she doubted she'd find a pair of fire boots among the Reeboks and Liz Claibornes. McCarty had suggested the dentist boyfriend for the role of the shooter, but the man at the funeral had been too fat. The figure in camo retreating from Big Manhole had not been fat.

On the surface, the things Anna had learned were not illuminating, but she cranked over the Neon's engine with a light heart and rising optimism. Nothing Amy said went against her original theory. Brent's death was not a freak coincidence. A jealous boyfriend hadn't shot him. A crazed wife hadn't hired it done. Brent had been killed because Frieda was killed.

Yearning for Guy Clark and settling for Clint Black, Anna switched on the country-western station. Compared to the past few days, she was feeling positively gay.

17

Darkness had folded quietly around the buildings by the time Anna arrived back in the park. A thread of gold leaked from the blind on the window to the right of the doorway. Within, there was wine and food, a cat, and the companionship of three murder suspects. It felt like home to Anna. Parking the Neon beside Zeddie's Volvo, she sat for a minute enjoying the night. Much of her adult life had been lived alone. For society, she had her work and the telephone. Half-read books remained undisturbed till she returned for them. Food in the refrigerator waited till she, or mold, ate it. No one snatched her covers, hogged her bed, used her toothbrush, or maladjusted the driver's seat in her car.

Loneliness became a way of life after Zachary was killed. At some point the stings and barbs had worn away until all that remained was a soothing aloneness. Periodically Anna invited men possessing charm or wit or lovely physiques to share her space. Visitors only, passersby; she'd never allowed anyone to grow too comfortable in her quarters.

Sitting in the night's stillness, she prodded into dusty corners of her mind to see if this was healthy. Nostalgia for the past was there, mental pictures of Zachary blurred by the river of years that had poured over them since they were new-made. Nostalgia not only for the husband she had loved but for the youth they had lived. She'd been a young woman when she was widowed, not yet thirty-four. From the vantage point of her forties, that seemed young. At the time she'd felt too old to go on living.

Beyond this mist of memory there existed fragile hopes of finding a man with whom she could combine the littles of her life. Pictures of the animals going joyously two-by-two were created as much by the media as by personal need. Songs, billboards, movies, sit-coms, liquor ads repeated the mantra. Rock and roll summed it up concisely: even a bad love is better than no love at all.

A sharp rap on the window jerked Anna from her brown study, and she cracked her knee against the steering wheel.

'I thought I heard you pull up,' Curt said as he opened the car door. 'Can't you get out? If you push that little red button it'll undo your seatbelt.' He took in the cramped interior of the Neon and added, 'Sort of like unbuckling your roller skates.'

Anna was glad to see him, so much so it alarmed her. Declaring it an official night off, she put aside the dirty particulars of double homicide and went with him into the house.

Supper was spaghetti and red wine. A Fish Called Wanda was the evening's entertainment. At ten thirty Peter and Zeddie vanished down the hall. Wrapped in pajamas, sweatshirts, and candlelight, Curt and Anna retired to their sofa. Her head rested on the arm near the door, his at the opposite end. The cat cemented their thighs together where they crossed midway. Until past two in the morning they talked of nothing: nieces and nephews, cats and dogs, clothes, cars, college, alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. Curt told elephant jokes. Anna remembered knock-knock jokes. They invented How-many-university-professors-would-it- take? jokes. Anna fell asleep first and dreamed no dreams. When she got up just after dawn to go to the bathroom, she noticed Curt had blown out the candles. So soundly had she slept, she'd not felt him get off the couch.

In the morning she was left alone in the house. Zeddie was giving an off-trail tour in Carlsbad Caverns; a trek of three or four hours crawling through rock-gutted wormholes to an immense cavern boasting an enormous ghostly formation and called the Hall of the White Giant. Curt and Peter responded as was appropriate to such an unexpected treat. Anna declined in her most polite and inoffensive manner, yet the three cavers looked upon her with the condescending pity a beer drinker might expect at a wine-tasting convention.

If the snub bruised her delicate sensibilities, they were soon salved. Nobody bothered to shower. In a few short minutes they would be burrowing through the dirt like so many grubs. All the hot water was Anna's, and she used every drop. The drum of water for backup, she belted out half a dozen verses of 'We'll Sing in the Sunshine' and laughed because, despite the cliched behavior, she had not gotten laid the night before. They had talked. And they had slept. A combination any woman worth her salt had to admit was better than sex three times out of five and a good deal harder to come by.

In the sanctity of the shower stall, she entertained pleasantly impure thoughts. Curt was, for lack of a better word, such a dear, his smile so deliciously canine. Opportunities had been presented on silver platters, but he'd never made a pass. For an instant Anna wondered if she was losing her touch. She dismissed it. Her mother always told her and Molly that a woman needed only two physical attributes to be pretty: good face, nice legs. Great breasts, fine hair. Terrific hands, lush hips. Anna could still lay claim to two out of three.

Contradicting her macha nature-girl image, Zeddie's bath was stocked with enticing shampoos, scented soaps, creams, unguents, conditioners, and perfumes. Without suffering so much as a qualm of guilt, Anna partook of the sensual goodies. Lingering over her toilette, she dabbed on enough blush, brow pencil, and mascara that she could pass for unadorned while banishing ghastly.

Painted and perfumed, she let herself into the administration building at half past nine. Not one to be caught out twice, Jewel blacked out her computer screen before Anna was halfway across the room.

'You still here?' she said by way of greeting.

'Still here,' Anna replied cheerfully, and plopped herself down in the chair at the end of the secretary's desk.

Jewel fidgeted, glanced pointedly at her computer, then drummed lacquered nails on the blotter. 'I got things I gotta do,' she said when Anna refused to take a hint.

'I was hoping you could help me,' Anna said.

Jewel's face twisted from the mouth out as if smart-ass retorts were trying to escape the carmine lips. 'Whaddya want?'

'I haven't had any luck getting in touch with Sondra McCarty,' Anna told her.

'I don't have her phone number or nothing.'

'I've got all that. She's not answering. You said she flew out of here the day after she came out of Lechuguilla.'

'Yeah?' Jewel was getting antsy. She sensed the net closing around her but hadn't a clue as to what kind or why.

'Did you see her?'

'Whaddya think, I run a taxi service to the airport?'

'You didn't see her after the accident, didn't talk to her on the phone, didn't hand her a ticket, anything?'

Anna took Jewel's mute stare for a negative.

'Why are you so sure she left?'

Another glance at the blind screen, another at her nemesis, and Jewel apparently decided the only way to get rid of Anna was to answer. 'Her name was on a list.' The satisfaction in her voice suggested that what was written was fact, a result of living in a world of secondhand information.