At the insistence of Carlsbad’s superintendent and Holden Tillman, drilling at the Blacktail was stopped, pending investigation. A warrant was obtained to search George Laymon’s office and home, but no papers were found to indicate with whom on the Blacktail staff he’d been conspiring. If the law never figured it out, the gas drilling company probably had a good idea. After paying the American public for damages, they would be inspired to take the difference out of the perpetrator’s hide, if only metaphorically.
Sondra recovered quickly. The adventure had not mellowed her. Twenty-four hours after she was brought out of Lechuguilla, she and Peter returned to St. Paul. Peter wore a beaten, hangdog look, and Zeddie one of long-suffering patience. The divorce, if there was to be a divorce, would be every bit as ugly as Sondra could make it.
The day following the departure of the doctor and his wife, Curt drove Anna to the Carlsbad airport. Her left foot was in a cast, the lateral metatarsal bone broken during the ascent from the Lounge.
Since Curt had prodded, threatened, and cajoled her up the last climb out of Old Misery Pit, Anna had done little but eat, sleep, and watch TV. Depression as black as any room in Lechuguilla had settled over her mind. She didn’t know if she grieved for the dead, despaired the endless plundering of the wild places, or just needed a vacation.
“Are you okay?” Curt asked.
Anna, ticket in hand, and he sat in the uniquely soulless environment of airport waiting areas.
“A week in a hot tub and I will be. You?” She asked to be polite but found that she cared about the answer. Of late, Curt Schatz was one of the few people on earth who didn’t grate on her nerves.
Outside, buffeted by December winds, a prop plane taxied onto the ramp’s loading zone.
“We’ll keep in touch?” Anna asked.
“You saved my life,” Curt replied. “Now you’re responsible for me.”