Where Echoes Live (11 page)

“My friend tells me you were kind of inhospitable yesterday,” Nickles said. “You better watch what you do with that shotgun, Bayard. Could get you in a lot of trouble.”

The man shrugged and spat to one side. “Thought she might be from the welfare, wondering why the kids ain't in school.”

Kids? I glanced at the shack and caught sight of a pale, rabbity little face peering around the doorjamb. It withdrew as soon as its washed-out eyes met mine.

Nickles laughed. “Nobody's gonna bother about those kids goin' to school—they're too damn dumb.”

Her remark didn't faze Bayard; he merely nodded. “Dumb as posts, so why bother? What's your friend want to know?”

I started to speak, but Nickles answered for me. “Same kind of stuff those tree huggers came asking about. You ever hear of a Franklin Tarbeaux?”

“I told them no.”

“What about Michael Erickson—Mick, for short?”

“… Him neither.”

“When's the last time you saw Earl Hopwood?”

Bayard scratched his head. “Hopwood?”

“Yeah, you know—the old guy from up the stream.” She looked at me and without lowering her voice said, “You gotta be patient with Bay. He did too many drugs back in the sixties.”

That remark seemed to slide right by him, too. I was beginning to feel as if we were speaking two languages here, with Nickles as interpreter. After a moment some rusty mental mechanism seemed to kick in, because Bayard said, “Old Earl. Saw him just last week driving by on his way to his claim. Driving too damn fast for that van of his—must be older'n mine.”

Nickles glanced at me and frowned. “You sure it was last week, Bay?”

The man looked mildly irritated. “Sure I'm sure. This past Wednesday it was. I know because my check just come.”

“You talk with Earl?”

“Yelled at him to slow down.”

“See him after that?”

“Nope.”

“Well, thanks, Bay. Say hello to the missus for me.”

Without a word he turned and went back into the shack.

“He's got an entire family living in there?” I asked in amazement.

Nickles grinned slyly. “Well, sure. Kind of ruffles your middle-class sensibilities, don't it?”

I ignored the comment—probably because it hit too close to home. “Listen, is it likely what he says is true?”

“Pretty likely. The check he's talking about is from state disability. It's the big moment in Bay's life; everything dates from before or after that check comes.”

“He could have seen Hopwood some other week, though.'

“No, Bay's memory ain't that good. If he says it was last week, that's when it was. Now how about you and me going to my place so we can get out of this sun?”

I agreed and we walked back there in silence. Nickles asked me if I wanted to come in for a glass of water. “I'd offer you a beer,” she added, “but I'm fresh out. Couldn't stomach looking at one today, anyway.”

I was anxious to get away, but her wistful expression made it so plain she didn't want me to leave that I said, “Water sounds great.”

“Come on in, then.”

The interior of the house was surprisingly cool. I followed Nickles along a narrow hallway with peeling floral wallpaper and past a parlor full of mining gear; the hydraulic concentrator occupied the place of honor on a rag rug in the center of the floor. Another room had a mattress and box springs with a sleeping bag spread on top and clothing hanging from pegs on the wall. All the others were empty except for what little the original owners had abandoned. The kitchen was at the rear: iron cookstove, chipped enamel-topped table, dry sink, shelves of dishes and utensils. Several big bottles of water stood in the sink.

“Stream water,” Nickles explained, taking down a pair of plastic glasses and inspecting them for cleanliness. “I collect it, let the sediment filter out. Pure as any bottled stuff I could buy.” She poured and added, “Sorry I can't give you ice. What was in the chest over there is bound to be melted—I was after more when I got sidetracked to Zelda's last night by that little weasel. Let's go out on the porch.”

In the midday sun the valley looked as washed out as an old color photo; heat waves danced off the iron roofs of the ruins below. Nickles and I sat on the steps, looking out.

I said, “You've really got to be tough to survive here.”

“Yeah, you do. Summers you roast, winters you freeze, all year long you don't see another living soul for days—hell, weeks—at a stretch. You know, McCone, last night after Rose tucked me in—God, she scared me; hinted she might've poisoned my hot milk—I got to thinking. I'm gonna give it another season here, but if I don't score pretty damn good, I'm going back to Nevada.”

“And do what?”

“Get myself into a decent house, if I can. Make some real money.”

I raised my eyebrows inquiringly.

“Yeah, that's what I mean. A cathouse. That bother you?”

I shrugged.

“In this world you use what skill you got. Except for looking for gold, that's all I know. Besides, it pays a damn sight better than the casinos. At least I won't die poor, like my mama did.”

I thought about that for a moment. “What you said before about my middle-class sensibilities—it's good for me to have them ruffled now and then.”

“Oh, McCone!” She punched me on the shoulder. “Any time those sensibilities need ruffling, you just come see me.”

I stopped by Ripinsky's place half an hour later to see if he'd unearthed any pictures of Earl Hop wood. When he came to the door he was barefoot, in cutoffs and a tank top, dark-framed reading glasses pushed up on top of his curly head. A silver-and-gold holiday gift box full of photographs sat on the coffee table, and beside it lay several snapshots. One showed a smiling woman in a wheelchair and an unsmiling older man standing behind her; it had been taken in this room in front of the stone fireplace.

“Earl Hopwood and Julie,” Ripinsky said, handing it to me.

Hy's late wife had been gaunt, with long gray-brown hair combed back from a widow's peak. Her smile lit up her face; her eyes, sunk in a web of lines that betrayed chronic weariness and pain, contradicted her physical debilitation, spoke of an iron will and mental vigor.

I said, “From what people tell me, Julie was a pretty amazing woman.”

“She was. Went all out in everything she did. Tufa Lake would have been doomed without her, and she damned near saved me from hell.”

I glanced up at him, hoping he'd elaborate, but he merely took the reading glasses off his head and went to put them on a table.

I turned my attention back to the photograph, studying Hopwood. The old man was lean and sinewy, with sharp features, thin colorless lips, and weathered skin whose grayish cast matched his hair. But as with Julie Spaulding, what struck me was the eyes. Black and burning, even in this faded photo, they dominated his otherwise passive face. Zealot's eyes, I thought, maybe even a little mad. Perhaps that was what living alone in the desert had done to him; perhaps what others described as laziness was a sapping of outward energy by his internal fires—whatever might fuel them. I looked at the photo a bit longer, then asked, “May I take this?”

“Just so you return it. You find out anything in the valley?”

“Only that Hopwood may have been there as recently as last week.” I repeated Bayard's story. “You know,” I added, “it fits in with something I should have picked up on right off. That piece of dynamite crate I found at his place wasn't weathered the way it would have been if it had been tossed on the dump weeks ago.”

“What of it, though? Other people probably know about the dump and use it. They don't have garbage-collection service out there, you know. And you say his cabin has an unlived-in feel.”

“Unlived in and slightly … wrong is the only way I can describe it. Did you have a chance to ask around town about Erickson?”

“I did, and nobody remembers seeing him. Distinctive looking as he was, you'd think somebody would.” Then he grimaced ruefully. “I
did
find out why the Tarbeaux name is so familiar.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it came to me after worrying on it half the night.” He went to the side of the fireplace where the nonfiction books on the Old West were shelved and pulled down a volume. It was titled
Knights of the Green Cloth: The Saga of the Frontier Gamblers.

“I bought this years ago and glanced through it but never got around to reading it all.” He opened it to a bookmarked section and then extended it to me.

The chapter he'd opened to was headed by a quotation: “Gyps and cons are all cases of the biter being bitten. I got into my three-card monte gyp because I loved to kid, and because I loved to trim suckers.”

The quotation was attributed to one Frank Tarbeaux.

I looked up at Ripinsky. “Frank Tarbeaux … Franklin Tarbeaux. A frontier con man?”

“One of the greatest con men of all,” Hy said. “And a kidder. A goddamn kidder.”

Ripinsky and I went looking for Anne-Marie and Sanderman. The Coalition trailer was locked, as was Sanderman's cabin at the lodge. There was no sign of Anne-Marie, and Rose Wittington had no idea where she'd gone. I tried to phone Kristen Lark or Dwight Gifford at the sheriff's department in Bridgeport to tell them what Ripinsky had realized about the Tarbeaux alias, but both detectives were out of the office. While I waited for a return call, Hy and I passed the time by watching a colorized version of
D.O.A.
on the lodge's big-screen TV—I tipped him to turning off the set's color so it was at least palatable.

We didn't discuss the latest turn of events because of Rose's nearby presence as she went about various housekeeping chores.

Lark finally called around six. She found the information about the alias interesting, but didn't attach much importance to it. Since I wasn't sure what, if any, relationship the choice of name might have to the as-yet-undetermined events surrounding Erickson's death, her lack of enthusiasm didn't particularly trouble me. I asked if she'd gotten anything back from the medical examiner, and when she said not yet, I told her I'd see her the next morning.

Anne-Marie finally rolled in around seven, with two Friends of Tufa Lake in tow. They'd taken a long hike up one of the feeder streams, then stopped at the home of another member to look at his collection of historical photographs of the area. The two knew Ripinsky well, so they settled in and chatted for more than an hour. By the time they left, I was ravenous.

Ripinsky waited impatiently for Anne-Marie to return from seeing them to their car, then asked, “Where the hell is Ned?”

“Sacramento. He packed up his computer and drove back for a couple of days, said there were some files he needed to access.”

“He couldn't do that from here?”

“Apparently not.”

“Terrific.” Ripinsky's fist slammed onto the coffee table his face congested with anger.

I thought of Sanderman's somewhat paranoid claim that Hy was out to get him. While I was sure it didn't amount to that, Ripinsky certainly did have some problem with Ned and I had no clue as to what was at the root of it. I did understand Sanderman's sudden trip to Sacramento, how even he was fleeing the explosion that was sure to come when Ripinsky found out about his dealings with Mid Erickson.

Hoping that the explosion would be less violent in a public place, I suggested we go to Zelda's for dinner.

Over the meal Ripinsky explained to Anne-Marie about the Tarbeaux alias. When he finished, I related what Sanderman had told me about Mick Erickson. To my surprise, Hy absorbed this new information as calmly as Anne-Marie, his face intense but thoughtful.

Again our conversation was inhibited by Rose Wittington, who had arrived shortly after us with a woman friend. When her companion left, Rose brought her coffee to our table unbidden and began questioning Hy and me about finding the body the night before. I let him do the talking—a scaled-down version that would only minimally satisfy the local gossip mills—then asked, “You have any trouble with Lily last night?”

Rose shook her head. “I can handle her kind.”

I couldn't think of any tactful way to ask if she'd really hinted to the Tiger Lily that she'd poisoned her hot milk or if she'd actually caught her in flagrante with her late husband, but Rose's gentle amusement when I mentioned how Nickles had reacted to the presence of Chinese guards at the mine site convinced me it was yet another of the prospector's tall tales.

“Lily's always been a little cracked on the subject of Orientals,” Rose said. “Reminds me of a character in a Fu Manchu movie.”

“She told me there hadn't been any of ‘that kind' around here since they hanged the Chinaman back in the eighteen fifties. What was that about?”

“Dark chapter in Promiseville history. You know a lot of Chinese escaped the famines and wars at home by coming over to work in the goldfields?”

I nodded.

“Well, at first folks tolerated them, but by the mid-fifties things had turned around. Got pretty grim; there was a lot of anti-foreign feeling, color prejudice. In fifty-two the governor actually declared them a menace to the state. Some gold camps a Chinese didn't dare set foot in for fear of being murdered.”

Hy said, “The Promiseville Chinese owned the store, didn't he?”

“Yeah—good merchant, charged reasonable, was free with credit. Only reason they let him stay. But then he got into a fight with a southerner—they were the ones who really whipped up the race prejudice—and killed him. It was self-defense, but they hung the Chinaman just the same.”

“You're quite a historian,” Anne-Marie told her.

“Not half as much of one as old Earl Hop wood, that turncoat who sold his land to this mining company.”