"I don't know what I'm fishing for," she admitted in the end. "I need more information. More to go on. Other than Dr. McCarty's tendency to drop thou at the slightest provocation, I know almost nothing about anybody. With zip in the way of physical evidence, motive is the only thing I've got."

Despite Rhonda's desire to be of help, the pickings were pretty slim. Frieda had a reputation in some circles for "scooping booty," the highly unpopular practice of dashing headlong down new passages to be the first without addressing the needs of the cave, i.e., surveying each new portion as it was explored. Rhonda assured Anna that emotions ran high when it came to scooping booty, but neither of them could see it as a motive for murder. Tinker's Hell was a dead end or, as Holden would have said, an end in itself. All the leads surveyed petered out. No booty to scoop.

Sondra McCarty was a neophyte, a whiner, not well liked. No news there.

Brent was well thought of by cavers. He was active with children's groups, taking even very little kids into the caves to teach them about bats and crickets, instill in them awe instead of fear of things subterranean. Brent was a good father-high praise from the mother of a four year-old. Rhonda said Andrew sometimes played with his daughters. They had a house in town a couple of miles from the Tillmans'.

Rumor had it Brent had exaggerated reports on occasion to protect the underground resource. The caving community loved him for it. The petroleum interests would have had a significantly different take on the issue, but Rhonda said it was just gossip. She doubted it had penetrated much outside the grotto.

Zeddie was new to caving. Enthusiastic, young, idealistic, she had all the makings of a life-long devotee. No rumors attached themselves to her, but Rhonda seemed reluctant to write her off as squeaky clean. They weren't too far apart in age. Zeddie a caver, Rhonda a mommy-Anna guessed it was just a natural jealousy.

Peter McCarty was known to be skilled and experienced. By some he was considered a lightweight-a bit of a dilettante-but Rhonda had never heard much against him besides the occasional snipe because his wife was too young, his equipment too new, his hair too well cut.

Schatz, Rhonda didn't know. She'd met him a couple times, but he was mostly an eastern caver, and she hadn't heard any stories about him either way.

This pleasant, if fruitless, exchange was brought to a close by the intrusion of the telephone bell.

"That tears it," Rhonda said in exasperation.

"Is that the phone?" Holden's voice emanated from Andrew's room.

"See? Too good to last," Rhonda muttered. "I got it."

Andrew slept on. Holden stumped out on crutches as Rhonda was hanging up.

"That was George Laymon," she said. "They're bringing out the body."

Five hours passed before Frieda was brought into the open air. This time the reception was subdued. There were no floodlights, only one media crew, and the brass had thinned out considerably. Not a single caver had left. Standing in rain rapidly turning to sleet, a dismal army dotted the stony hillside.

Anna had no task to occupy her; when Frieda no longer needed her, she'd become superfluous. Knowing she'd failed her friend, Anna felt a crushing self-consciousness. The eyes of the surviving cavers seemed to follow her like the vacant sockets of so many masks. With a visible shake of her head, she told herself it was grief and guilt deluding her. The cavers' eyes followed Holden, too. On crutches, lower leg in a cast, he'd hobbled the mile and a half over rain-slicked desert. Pain too deep to be accounted for by broken bones paralyzed his muscles as surely as if he'd suffered a stroke.

Darkness hid the faces of the watchers, but Anna had little doubt that they looked on with respect and sympathy. Because she was with Holden, she was allowed down into the boulder-choked mouth of Lechuguilla. Desirous of staying out of the way, she found a niche in the rock behind the stunted oak that served as an anchor.

Flanked by George Laymon and the superintendent, Mrs. Dierkz was below her, partially sheltered from the rain by scrawny branches. An attempt had been made to convince Dottie to wait in a warm dry car down in the parking area, but she'd been firm. She'd walked all over Europe and China, she told the superintendent. She would walk this last little ways. Her leather shoes were soaked and muddied, her hair flattened beneath a yellow so'wester-style rain bonnet, but she stood straight and, as near as Anna could tell in the rain, didn't weep.

One by one the recovery team crawled up from darkness, their progress robbed of grace by a need to navigate boulders and spiny plants while roped in at waist, knee, and ankle. Oscar Iverson was first, wide eyed with fatigue. McCarty was next, his features closed down, as stony as Holden Tillman's. Curt Schatz was third. His strength was wonderful to watch, the muscles fluid as they brought the Stokes to the surface. Frieda had been wrapped up in toto as befitted her new status as a corpse: a faceless, shapeless bundle lashed in the wire basket. Not a scrap of flesh or hair or clothing was left visible to remind them of the woman inside.

As it should be, Anna thought. The woman was gone, the husk itself become an empty casket, deserving of respect but not reverence.

Zeddie and Kelly Munk followed the Stokes. Zeddie had more life in her than the rest. Relief wasn't evident, or sorrow. Anger was fueling her. In one so young it was impossible to mistake. She'd not yet learned to hide her feelings from the world's freezing indifference.

The source of her aggravation wasn't hard to find. Kelly Munk, close on her heels, got a snarl in return for his offer to help her off with her gear. "Anna," she snapped, seeing her hunched vulturelike in the rocks. "Make yourself useful."

Anna jumped down to help her derig, happy to be of service and happy to share in the snubbing of Munk. The man was unchastened. His face worked overtime. "Chewing up the scenery." Anna dredged up a phrase from Zach's theatrical lexicon. Kelly Munk labored under the delusion that all dramatic incidents were centered around Kelly Munk. As he hauled himself up the rocks at Anna's shoulder, she could see him trying on expressions. He settled on a look of heroic exhaustion, affixing it firmly in place as he made a beeline for the media.

Zeddie shot an evil look after his retreating form. "When I'm queen, different people are going to die," she said.

Anna scavenged a raincoat for Zeddie and gave back the sweater she'd worn all day. After so much time underground, none of the recovery team was prepared for the winter weather. Zeddie paid her respects to Frieda's mother, then cleared out. Anna stayed till the litter, with fresh bearers and a frighteningly stoic Dottie Dierkz, started down the hill. A handful of cavers from among those keeping vigil amid the rocks came to take over the derigging. Anna fell in step beside Curt and went with him to the cavers' tent. No pizza this time but beer and coffee and a plate of sandwiches that Dottie had insisted on providing. Blessing the woman's graciousness, the team fell on them as if they'd not eaten in a week.

Brent, Holden, Oscar, and Anna stood at the edges of the tent, wallflowers at the dance. Feeling bereft, Anna took a cup of coffee to be companionable. The sensation wasn't unfamiliar. Twice before in her career she'd pushed-once eighteen hours and once nearly twenty-four-bringing victims out of the backcountry only to have them die on her within sight of modern medical facilities. Too much time had passed; they hadn't been strangers anymore. Too much hope had been invested, and ego and energy. A strange and cosmic coitus interruptus; perfect communion denied. From the way the team wolfed down their food, backs to one another, little left to say, Anna knew she wasn't the only one feeling isolated.