Anna Pigeon - Track of the Cat Part 15

"At least we know for sure he was here," Paul said. From the camp they would follow scent trails out. At the end of one of them Nosy would find a corpse.

"Craig!" Paul called. Neither of them expected an answer.

The District Ranger started toward the tent and Anna followed. Craig's pack materialized. He'd covered it with sand-colored burlap. Ever the minimum impact camper, Anna thought. She made a mental note to buy all fluorescent orange gear. If she were injured in the Pattersons, she wanted to be found. Being dead had its attractions. Dying did not.

"Craig!" Paul called again, but Anna suspected he was just cheering himself, making a noise because he was alive. At Craig's pack he stopped and folded back the burlap carefully. Anna was reminded this, like all deaths-a.s.suming it was a death-that did not take place under a physician's care, was considered a potential crime scene.

Alert for anything that was not as it should be, she walked over to the tent and reached for the zipper on the flap. As her thumb and finger pinched the hot metal of the pull, she heard the tiniest of sounds; a mere whispered rustling. It froze her in her tracks.

"What?" Paul demanded.

Afraid even to shake her head, Anna listened.

"What is it?" he asked again and, when she didn't answer, he too fell into a listening att.i.tude. Gravel crunched: Betsy and Harland topping the hill. The desert creaked faintly in the heat. Nosy's tongue slopped over her paw. Then Anna heard it again; a faint rattling almost at her feet. Fear older than the Bible caught at her stomach.

Seeing a rattlesnake was one thing. Hearing one and not knowing where it was, was another altogether.

Keeping absolutely still, holding her now slightly comic stoop, she searched the area around her feet. The rattling subsided but she was not relieved. The sound had not crept away on a slither of sand and scale, it had stopped. The snake was still there. Anna's eyes moved up, over the tent. Bent close as she was she could see through the netting. Before, the shadow of the tarp had rendered it virtually opaque.

"Whoa ..." She breathed. The rattling began again. Inside the tent lay a bloated, monstrous figure. Not human, though humanlike. Its head and neck were swollen and black. The features of the face had been destroyed by puffed and stretching flesh. The left arm was four times the size of a human being's arm. Big and glossy as waxed cuc.u.mbers, the fingers had burst open on the ends. The rest of the creature was pathetically human: pale legs, shrunken genitalia, flat white belly and hairless chest.

And all around, on the sleeping bag, like the ancient Greeks lounging on couches at a feast, were rattlesnakes.

Slowly Anna straightened, backed away.

"What is it?" Paul asked softly. Training or good instincts had kept them all quiet till Anna was clear of the tent.

"It looks like the snakes have collected Craig," she managed. Paul started to come forward and she held up a hand. "Somehow they got loose. His collecting buckets are overturned. There's half a dozen snakes in there with him, maybe more."

"Dead?" Paul asked.

"Not the snakes."

The tarp was easily dismantled leaving only the snake-filled tent. It was supported by two flexible poles forming a large arch for the head and a smaller one for the foot. Plexiglas rods were pushed through sleeves in the fabric and hooked into rings to keep their shape. Guy lines pegged down in opposite directions pulled the arches upright, stretching the nylon between them.

Using pocketknives affixed with surgical tape to long sticks, Anna and Paul cut the nylon down the center and sides like opening the foil around a baked potato. When the cuts were complete, they peeled the nylon back, keeping the distance of the sticks.

There were seven rattlesnakes: three blacktails and four western diamondbacks. Eventually the snakes would have departed of their own volition. It was much too hot for them to survive long without shade. But no one cared to sit and watch the macabre tableau longer than they had to. Under the gentle urging of tossed pebbles, the snakes were induced to slither away. When the last tail had vanished into a crevice between some stones, Anna, Harland, and Paul approached the body. Paul gave Anna a camera and, while she snapped pictures, Harland sketched the layout of the camp and the corpse.

The aridity of the West Side had desiccated the body. What had appeared black and monstrous through the filtering gauze of mosquito netting was actually discolored and prune-like, the swelling only half what it had originally seemed. Craig had been virtually mummified within the convection oven his tent had become, the moisture in his body sucked out, escaping through the netting. That accounted for the lack of a warning odor of decay.

Craig had died of snakebite, that much was obvious. The characteristic double puncture wound of the pit viper was unmistakable. He'd been bitten seven times: twice in the face and twice in the neck, with three bites on his left arm, one directly into the artery at the wrist.

From the disarray, it appeared he had kicked over the two specimen buckets as he slept, knocking the lids off. The snakes, frightened, confused, had begun to strike. Craig's thrashing attempts to escape had only excited them to further attacks.

That was the picture Paul pieced together from what little evidence they had.

As a matter of course, they searched the area and made notes of condition and location of all items found. Then Harland and Paul folded Craig Eastern's mortal remains into the ruined nylon tent and, slipping, smothering irreverent curses, carried the body down the slope.

Anna shouldered Craig's backpack and followed Betsy McLeod and Nosy down to where the stock waited.

Like an old-time cowboy slain on the range, Craig was tied across Jill's saddle. Betsy, her dog in her arms, rode pillion behind Harland.

Seven bites, Anna thought as Gideon plodded, head down through the curtains of super-heated air. Pesky, too worn out even to bite the mules' b.u.t.ts, slogged ahead.

"Death: accidental by snakebite."

Seven. And why was Craig sleeping with his collection buckets inside the tent? A bizarre form of suicide? No. Had Craig chosen to die by snakebite, he would have freed the reptiles after they had performed the ch.o.r.e. He loved them; he would not have left them imprisoned in the tent to die. If not suicide, how hard must he have thrashed in his sleep to over-set both buckets with such violence the lids popped off?

A lot of questions.

Only one answer: Craig hadn't killed Sheila Drury. His "accident," like hers, had been carefully orchestrated by the same hand.

The hand that had sent Anna reeling off McKittrick Ridge.

CHAPTER 17.

The coroner's report was brief. Time of death: between midnight and six a.m. on July 16. Cause of death: accidental, by snakebite.

Drury's read: "Death: accidental, by lion kill." Anna would have been "Death: accidental, by falling." Too many accidents. Just as on Eastern there were too many bites. Unlike sharks, rattlers, even dumped out of bed in the middle of the night, did not go into feeding frenzies.

Anna was sitting at her desk in the Frijole Ranger Station going over the 343 Case Incident Report on the Eastern snakebite incident. It looked like h.e.l.l. The entire thing needed to be retyped. For the moment, she shoved it into her briefcase and pulled out the list she'd made the night before the search began.

Craig's name was still on the top of it. Neatly, Anna drew a single line through the letters. The next names were "Christina/Erik" and "Karl." Christina: a friend, a confidante, a shoulder to cry on; Anna repressed a sigh and looked farther down. The names remaining were of people she had come to think of more as "extras" than suspects. First she would rid her mind-and her list-of them.

She dialed Minnegasco in St. Paul, Minnesota. Some pleading and much fabrication led to the information that, but for one trip to Texas when her daughter died, Sheila Drury's mother had not missed a day's work in twenty-three years and was not due to take her vacation until December 11. On the day Anna fell and the day Eastern died, Mrs. Drury had been at her desk on the second floor above St. Peter Street in St. Paul.

Almost in Heaven, Anna thought wryly, glad to have the troublesome and troubled woman off of her lists and out of her thoughts for good. On impulse, and because she wanted to hear a kindly voice, Anna called her mother-in-law in White Plains, New York. Usually she called only on the first Sunday of every month-Edith led a regulated life and Anna couldn't bear to talk of Zachary more often than that. This time Anna kept the conversation general. Edith didn't even flinch at the mention of grapefruit spoons. Anna thought of calling Rogelio, though she knew intimately where he had been the day Eastern died. But he would ask questions she did not want to answer.

She drove the mile to the Visitors Center and, with Manny's help, went back through the backcountry permits issued for July 2, the night before she fell; June 17, the night Drury was killed; and July 16, the night Craig died.

Both Sheila and Craig had been found miles from any of the designated camping areas in the park and there had been no special permits issued. It was unlikely the killer would fill out a permit for any area that was not regularly patrolled-the odds of getting caught would not outweigh the exposure of getting a permit. July 2 had a possible: an E. Wheelan driving a white Toyota with California plates had been permitted to camp at the McKittrick Ridge campground.

Anna would talk with the Walterses. She no longer believed Christina would kill-at least not her. But if she knew something about the accidents, Anna wasn't sure whether she would have the courage to report it. Especially if she were afraid of the perpetrator.

Erik Walters's Toyota was burgundy with black upholstery. The plate number didn't match that of E. Wheelan. Otherwise Christina's ex-husband was, to Anna's mind, everything a murderer should be. He was suave and self-a.s.sured. He dressed too well for his surroundings. His teeth were too white, too straight. Cat hair didn't adhere to his trousers and the wind didn't ruffle his hair. He looked the type able to strangle his CEO at the eleventh hole and still come in under par.

Christina, though clearly uncomfortable around him, fetched and carried, hovered and sc.r.a.ped like a Total Woman. Anna picked at the dinner she'd invited herself over to eat and wondered what she would ask Mr. Walters when she got the chance. Wilderness murder didn't seem to fit with his ultra-urban demeanor. Neither did profitless murder. Revenge wouldn't go to the bank. And why Craig? Trying to fit Erik into the picture created more questions than answers.

Anna looked at him over the candles Christina had lit. Glossy head bowed, he was listening attentively to a long plotless story Alison had been relating for several minutes. Christina, her face drawn up like a spaniel hoping for approval, appeared to be suspended two inches above the seat of her chair, ready to spring up to do her master's bidding.

Sit! Anna wanted to order in her best Woodward School voice. But she kept silent. She would ask Erik about Christina, she decided. She would hit every nerve she could. He'd been dumped, left with his "weak specimen" in his hand, while his wife ran off with another woman. Anna was betting, given the chance, poison would leak through that polished facade like manure through the tines of a pitchfork.

Nine o'clock: an hour past Alison's bedtime. Finally Christina left the table to tuck her daughter in. Alison's pajamas were laid out on Christina's bed. Erik's one suitcase was in the child's room. All of the dolls, moved to the dresser, stared gla.s.sy-eyed at the bed the intruder had deprived them of. Anna knew this because she'd checked on her way to the bathroom before dinner. The arrangement suited her. Did it suit Erik?

"Chrissy tells me you're a ranger," Erik said in his pleasant educated voice.

"Law Enforcement," Anna said, unsure of what she was trying to prove. The "Chrissy" had irritated her.

"Is your husband a ranger as well?"

"I'm a widow," Anna said.

"I'm sorry."

Some repressed emotion had shown in his light-colored eyes just before he lowered them to his coffee cup. Disappointment ? Anna wondered if he were fishing, hoping to catch some whiff of indiscretion, something he could use to drag Christina into another custody battle.

"What brings you to this part of the country?" she asked.

"Business. Brown and Coldwell has a prospective client in El Paso-Gunnison Oil. And I wanted to see my little girl."

"Do you have any other children?" Anna was pleased to see his mouth harden at the corners.

"I plan to," he said a little too determinedly.

"I know adoption is all the rage," Anna said. "But I think I'd want my own. I'd want to see myself, my mother, my dad-reflections, anyway. These days with drugs and AIDS and whatever, if it wasn't really yours, you'd never know." She laughed. It was genuine. She was enjoying herself. "You know what they say: If you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself."

"Do you have children?" The question was abrupt, aggressive. Erik was beginning to twitch under her lash.

"No," Anna replied. She let his look of self-satisfaction settle for a couple seconds. Then she added. "I wish I did now Zach is gone. He wanted to wait. We were so broke. Both times I got pregnant-well, abortion seemed the right choice at the time."

"Abortion!"

Anna had him. "We used birth control but ..." She allowed herself a small secret-sad smile. "Zach was exceedingly virile ... Anyway, I doubt I'll have kids now. But maybe I'll be an honorary aunt. I know Christina plans to have another child." Anna sipped her coffee, hoping she hadn't laid it on too thick. Maybe he'd clam up, leave the room or something.

"That'd be a shame," he said quietly after nearly a minute had elapsed.

Anna waited, egging him on with silence.

"Criminals ought to be sterilized," he said with sudden vehemence. "Thieves and perverts breed thieves and perverts."

Perverts held no interest for Anna. It was clear to her which of the two had perverted love to their own ends and it wasn't Christina. "Thieves?"

Erik laughed. "I see Chrissy didn't tell you. Good old Mommy is a crook. She wrote nearly ten thousand dollars in bad checks signed in my name. That phony Madonna-and-Child act she does so well is all that kept her out of jail. Linda-" He made the name sound like an adjective describing something vile. "Linda, it seems, required recompense for her services."

Christina walked into the ensuing silence. The apologetic half-smile that she wore constantly in Erik's company flickered unsteadily at the hostility in the room.

"Is the coffee okay, Erik?" she asked anxiously.

"It's fine, Chrissy," he said. His tone implied: "for the best effort of a fool."

Christina took his cup away.

Anna wished Chris had written a hundred thousand dollars worth of bad checks.

"Ally asked if you would read her a bedtime story," Christina said while she busied herself at the sink. "Could you?"

Without a word, Erik got up and walked into the dark hallway toward the bedrooms.

There was a sharp crack, the sound of broken gla.s.s falling. Christina had smashed his coffee cup against the side of the stainless-steel sink.

"Walk me home?" Anna said.

Clouds obscured the stars to the west and lightning flickered formlessly, too distant to be more than a vague and sudden glow. Christina sucked air noisily into her lungs. "G.o.d! Erik seems to take up all the oxygen in a room, doesn't he?"

"I can see why you left him. He sucks the life out of you."

"I suppose he told you about the checks?" Christina said.

It saddened Anna to hear herself addressed in the same anxious apologetic tone Christina used with Erik. "He told me."

"He did try to get Ally on the lesbian angle, too. I just left out the forgery part. I didn't mean to lie to you."

"I know," Anna replied. "It was easier."

As they approached Anna's door both women slowed. Neither had much reason to go home and the night was warm, the stars deep overhead. In common unspoken agreement they sat side by side on the curb fifteen feet from Anna's apartment.

"What happened to Zach?" Christina asked. Then quickly added: "You needn't tell me, if you don't want to."

"I don't mind," Anna said. "We were having a special supper, celebrating the fact that it was Thursday and there were no other holidays declared to infringe on ours. Zach was broiling steak on a little hibachi out on the fire escape. I wanted A-1 sauce. He was sprinting across Ninth Avenue to Goodman's to get it. A cab hit him. The cabby drove off. n.o.body got the license number. Zach died. That's about it."

Christina was quiet for a while but she shifted closer and Anna felt comforted by the warmth of her shoulder in the darkness. "Such a sad thing," she said. "Is that why you are a vegetarian?"

"No. Maybe it's why I drink."

"A little wine is good for the soul."

"A lot is better."

CHAPTER 18.

At ten past nine in the morning pacific daylight time, Anna called the California DMV. They reaffirmed what she'd already guessed: E. Wheelan was legitimate; an Ernest Wheelan from San Anselmo, California. She then called Brown and Coldwell in San Francisco. Dianne, Mr. Walters's secretary, was glad to check a date for a Gunnison Oil secretary. No, no trouble. She'd loused up a few times in her career. Secretaries had to stick together. No need for the boss to know every little glitch.

Mr. Walters had been in a board meeting from three p.m. till nearly eight on July 2. Yes, she was certain. She'd been kept running the whole time fetching coffee and sandwiches and Xerox copies, then had to take the bus home at eight-thirty at night because Brown and Coldwell wouldn't spring for cab fare.

Anna hung up, leaned her head on her hands and stared out the dirty attic window of the Frijole ranger station. The attic was hot and fly-specked but it housed the only phone in the park where one could be relatively a.s.sured of privacy. The escarpment showed nearly white in the early sun, evergreens at the top fine and black as a fringe of silk. Anna found it difficult to believe there was more than one murderer stalking the backcountry of Guadalupe Mountains National Park. If that were true, then alibis for the time of her or Craig's attacks would imply innocence in the Drury Lion Kill. Unless one of the "accidents" were really an accident. Unlikely but far from impossible.