Blind Descent

Behind him, closer to the cavern wall, was a woman cast in a more classic cave formation. Working by the light of two helmet lamps, facing into her camp like lanterned turtles, a lanky woman, so thin that anorexia came to mind, banged gear into packs. Her movements were abrupt, each cached item cracking in protest as she smashed it against the rest. Long straight hair, not caught back in a braid or bandana, swung around her bony shoulders with the angry switch of a mare's tail. Every few seconds she flung it irritably back from her face. As the curtain of hair was raised and the lamps painted her face, A

"How is Frieda doing?"

A

"She's going to be fine," she said firmly, hoping Frieda could hear and take comfort.

The uninvited guest nodded slowly. She had a round bland face and dark hair pulled back under a bandana that had once been green. The kerchief was tied across her forehead in the fashion of pirates, artists, and outdoorswomen. "Frieda is one tough lady," she said after giving the matter some thought.

Bovine, A

"Zeddie Dillard," she said, and stuck out her hand. Damp hair curled from her armpits, and A

"A

Clanking cut into their exchange of pleasantries, and both looked to where the ski

"Tantrums on the River Styx?" A

"That's the doctor's wife," Zeddie replied with a careful lack of inflection. "And that's what's got her so pissed off."

"That she's Peter McCarty's wife?"

"That she's the doctor's wife."

"Ah."

"Zeddie Dillard, amateur psychiatrist and oracle to the stars," the woman said, and laughed. "Coffee?"

A

"Better. Magic white powder that turns into cream if you stir it with a little plastic stick. It might not work down here," she added as she rose to her feet. "All there is to stir with is the community spoon."

"I'll be with you as soon as I've visited the ladies' room," A

Zeddie took a flashlight and used it to point out a black gateway between two sizable blocks of stones. "Unisex Johns. Easier on the cave," she said. "Put that pointy rock in the path. Privacy guaranteed."

Destination confirmed, A

Nothing was easy.

A

Zeddie was waiting with fresh-brewed water. A

Zeddie saw where she was looking and muttered, "Brent Roxbury. Fortunately for Brent, there are no fashion police in a cave."

"Is Frieda any better?" Roxbury asked, interrupting their less-than kind gossip. The question sounded genuinely concerned, and A

"The same," she replied, sorry she didn't have better news. As A

If the words were true, just as Frieda had said, no psychological voodoo involved, then one of these individuals radiating sympathy and love had pushed a rock on her. Unfortunately, in a place as rigidly controlled and inaccessible as the bowels of Lechuguilla, the last minute solution of the wandering hobo with homicidal tendencies was unworkable.

"We haven't met," A

"Sondra McCarty," Zeddie said, adopting the hostess role. McCarty's wife was braiding her hair with both hands, a thick cloth covered band held ready in her teeth. A

Zeddie went around the circle. "Dr. Curtis Schatz." The big man with the furry chin looked up from where he sat. His eyes were obscured by glasses framed in mock tortoiseshell. The lenses caught the light and reflected back blank space.

"Hello," he said in a flat voice that gave absolutely nothing away and left A

"Two doctors," she said just to say something. "That's lucky."

"Not really," Schatz drawled, but without Holden's Texas warmth. A "Te

A

"No problem." Schatz returned to his coffee. Again no handshake. Near the center of the earth, life tended toward the informal.