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In times past she'd learned a good deal more from watching people than from talking with them. Words were used to obfuscate as often as to communicate. She decided on the role of unseen spy and cupped both hands around the end of the binoculars lest they catch the sun and flash out her whereabouts.
Oscar wasn't a tracker. He moved quickly, his long legs eating up the terrain. She guessed he was following a fairly clear trail and cringed as his great booted feet slapped down, obliterating traces of the shooter. Halfway up the long slope, not more than fifty yards from where she hid, Iverson came to a stop and squatted down, his long green-clad legs poking out at the knees in a fair imitation of a praying mantis. For a while he stared at the ground, then he poked at something with a stick he found nearby. Whatever it was that he had unearthed, he picked up gingerly with two fingers and dropped into a plastic bag that he tucked away in the pocket of his coat. That done, he straightened up again and appeared to be searching the area.
"Stomp, stomp, stomp," A
Finally Iverson moved on, and A
"Stomp, stomp, stomp," A
Briefly he stopped at the mouth of Big Manhole. Bowing his head, he dragged off his hat, a green billed cap with earflaps that tied beneath the chin. Ridiculous-looking garment, but A
Iverson stood combing his straw-colored hair with his fingers till it stood out in the wind. A
In minutes she reached the place where Iverson had stopped, a small clearing ringed with low growth and boasting a line of sight to the cave, an ideal place to lie in wait with a rifle. A
Iverson's prints were all over the clearing, the easily identifiable marks of a corrugated lug sole, the kind found on every pair of firefighting boots made by White's, the choice of elite wild-land firefighters from every land-management agency in the country.
To one side of the clearing she could see where he'd crouched down and gouged the earth with his twig. In the dirt was a smooth indentation about an inch long with a slight T-shaped mark at one end. A rifle shell, overlooked by the gunman, had left its impression in the soil. That was what Oscar had bagged and pocketed. Several minutes' careful study was unproductive. If the shooter had left other tracks, Iverson's overlay them. With a snort of disgust, A
Plunking herself down on the rock, A
An extremely unpleasant thought intruded. Maybe the shooter had worn Iverson's boots. Oscar had come directly up to the sniper's lair. Was he tracking, or did he know precisely where to come? The stomping and shuffling: insensitive investigation or intentional destruction of evidence? It wouldn't have been difficult to discover where and when A
The first attempt on Frieda's life had failed. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that Oscar Iverson had gone down into Lechuguilla not to rescue Frieda but to finish the job. If Brent had started to kill Frieda, then lost his nerve and decided to spill the beans to A
Unless Holden did that himself.
The thought made A
One person to trust, and a cripple at that.
15
By early afternoon A
The message light on Zeddie's answering machine was blinking. Brazenly, A
Full of good intentions, A