Blind Descent

Besides, she had nothing to say to him.

She had nothing to say to anyone.

Words not related to the deaths of Frieda or Brent balled up and slid off her mind like liquid mercury. Sick as she was of the subject, it consumed her. Rhonda Tillman was the only person with whom she could trust herself to maintain a coherent conversation.

Soon she would call. Till then she would rest, drink her tea, and order her fragmented thoughts. The demographics of the suspect pool had broadened. Caving's isolated nature had blinded her to other possibilities. Even for an imagination as willing to invent monsters as A

For the life of her, A

Murder insisted on a motive. Because A

Other cavers had cycled in and out during the rescue. How many, A

But Oscar had been there.

If Brent was bent on killing Frieda, he had plenty of opportunity. He didn't do it. Therefore someone else had to be factored in. Who did Brent have any opportunity to communicate with other than Holden, Oscar, and A

On the surface the story held together, but, without knowing the why of it, A

The other aspect of this scenario that bothered her was personal. Oscar Iverson didn't strike her as the murdering kind. She was well aware that to spout that philosophy on the witness stand would get her crucified in any court in the country. Ted Bundy, criminologists were fond of pointing out, struck everybody as a heck of a swell fella. A

Under the right pressure anyone could become a killer. For someone to kill with this premeditation bespoke either great vanity, overriding fear, or both. Oscar Iverson exhibited neither. At least not to A

Picking up the cordless phone, she punched in the Tillmans' number. The machine answered. A

"Sorry," she said. "I was hiding."

"Who from?"

"Oh. Everybody but you, Holden, and maybe my sister. No reason. I just get this way. If it makes people crazy, tough."

A

"Then you know what I mean."

A

"You doggone well better appreciate this," Rhonda said. "I haven't gossiped this much since high school. There's got to be ears burning in three states. And, if gossip is a sin like Andrew's Foursquare Baptist grandmother says, I'll burn in hell for the next zillion years."

"I went to Catholic school," A

"It's good," Rhonda promised. "Unless you're Dr. Peter McCarty." A gulp of something was imbibed, and Rhonda went on, "Old girlfriends love to talk, and your darling Peter has his share. Miss Sally poked around for me-well, not for me. I had to promise I'd say 'hi' to Holden for her which I won't, but she doesn't know that. I found out what the dropped charges were all about. Rape."

"You're kidding." A

"Not rape rape," Rhonda told her once she'd gleaned the drama from her a

"Blackmail, you think?" A

"Either that or an old statutory flame fa

A