'Now.'
Her leg yanked painfully down. Throwing herself back from the edge, she clung to the anchor. Another jerk and the rope tore free of her foot. She reeled the leg in. Systems weren't working, limbs rebelled. She'd gotten ahead of Laymon, between him and the flawed exit from Katie's Pigtail, but she was spent. In a wrestling match with a butterfly, she would have come out the loser.
The rope twitched: Laymon climbed. Shielding her light lest she lose the one playable card she held-surprise- Anna searched for a weapon. In a wonderland of rock there wasn't a stone to throw. Nothing bigger than a marble. His moment of greatest vulnerability would be when he floundered over the lip. She could kick him. Feet were bare and broken. Laymon's cranium was protected by a hard hat, his body secured to the rock face with rope and carabiner. All he'd have to do was catch hold of some part of her. A little leverage and she'd go over the edge like laundry down a chute.
Cupping her headlamp between her hands, she crawled away from the cliff. Tucked around a curtain of flowstone, behind the formation used as an anchor, she hid. Light off, she couldn't even tell if her eyes were tracking. She must catch her breath. Then she must think. The last of Sondra's water was sucked down, making her feel more alive. That was not necessarily a good thing.
Grating. Grunts. Laymon was up. Time had come to do something. Unable to think what, Anna stayed in her hole.
Metallic sounds followed. Laymon taking himself off-rope. He wouldn't bother to derig for the short journey through Razor Blade Run. The ascenders would be needed again to climb out of Lake Rapunzel. It no longer mattered that they could destroy a few million-year-old crystal formations in the Run. No one would ever know.
He was loose from the rope, but he said nothing to those below. Light flickered across the wall opposite Anna's niche. He was headed her direction. With more effort than it would have taken to lift a tractor, she eased to her feet. Leftover pride from watching Westerns as a child: die standing up. She wished she had her boots on.
Light winked out. Laymon had turned his back. On torn and bleeding feet, she stepped out. He was five or
The son of a bitch wasn't even going to say good-bye.
Anna lurched toward him. Her left foot buckled beneath her. A scream was stifled in her throat.
Laymon was turning.
Anna was stumbling, counting on momentum to do what strength could not.
Her shoulder caught him on the left hip. Light from his helmet fled erratically into the pit. A fist grazed Anna's jaw. Then he was gone. For a moment she lay in the cool of the water where he'd so recently stood, feeling it seeping into her eyes, mixing with tears and sweat. Muscles and mind in rebellion, she began shaking apart. Still there was something left to be done. For a long moment she tried to remember what. Finally it came to her.
Hanging her head over the drop, she called, 'Off-rope.'
24
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.'
Nevada Barr
Nevada Barr is a mystery fiction author, known for her 'Anna Pigeon' series of mysteries, set in National Parks in the United States. She grew up in Johnsonville, California. In 1984 she published her first novel, Bittersweet, a bleak lesbian historical novel set in the days of the Western frontier.
