Where Echoes Live (12 page)

“Speaking of him,” I said, “he seems to have disappeared. And do you have any idea where his daughter Peggy is living or what her current married name is?”

“No, I haven't heard from Peggy in years, close to ten now. At one time I think Earl said she was living in Marin County, but she's moved since then.”

“I hoped she'd know where her father is.”

“Not likely; they seem to have had some sort of falling-out. But why do you say Earl's disappeared? I saw him middle of last week, at the filling station.”

Ripinsky and I exchanged glances. That made two sightings of the old man during the past week. While Bayard's memory might have been skewed by drug abuse, I was reasonably sure I could trust Rose's recollections. “Did he say anything about having been away? Or that he was planning to take a trip?”

“Well, he did mention he wouldn't be coming to our Bible study group last night. He's missed for a month or more now.”

“And you have absolutely no idea where Peggy might be?”

“Well, she's always lived in the Bay Area, but it wouldn't surprise me if she'd put even more distance between herself and her father by now.”

“Why?”

“Peggy needed to escape his clutches so she could have a life. After her mother died, Earl clung to that girl the way a parent does when he's got nothing else left. No one was ever good enough for her; he ran off every boy that ever showed an interest in Peggy—including somebody seated at this very table.” She glanced pointedly at Hy, but his eyes were focused on the red-checkered tablecloth.

I asked, “She left Vernon as soon as she graduated from high school?”

“Right. She'd been accepted at Berkeley on a partial scholarship, but Earl didn't want her to go. They had terrific battles over it, and eventually she just packed up and took off, went down there and got some sort of job and put herself through college. It was years before she and her father mended fences, but even then it was push-pull, push-pull. No sooner would they start getting along than he'd start interfering. She blamed his butting in for the collapse of her first marriage. I don't suppose things will ever be right between them.”

“And when she left for Berkeley, that's when Earl lost interest in everything and moved out to Stone Valley?”

Rose looked puzzled. “He moved to the valley, yes, but I wouldn't say he lost interest in things. What he did was become a fanatic.”

“About what?”

“Like I said, he's a historian, at least when it comes to Promiseville and the mine his family used to operate.” She looked at Hy. “Didn't you ever see his little museum?”

Ripinsky shook his head.

“That's right,” Rose went on, “by the time he set it up, you'd left here yourself. But I'm surprised he never dragged you and Julie there; I thought the three of you were close.”

“Julie was always fonder of Earl than I was.” Hy shut his eyes, trying to call up a memory. “Now that you mention it, though, I think he may have taken her there back when I first knew her. I've got a vague recollection of something to that effect.”

“Well, as far as I know, not many of us have seen it. Earl's gotten hermitlike in his old age.”

Anne-Marie asked, “Where is this museum—in his cabin?”

“As a matter of fact, it's in what's left of the Chinaman's store out the end of Main Street. Earl collected old stuff that was left after the big fire—everything from mining equipment to household goods—and brought it all together there. He let me have a look around just once; it struck me as …well, kind of pathetic.''

I recalled seeing a store near where I'd parked my car the day before, rusted cans and dusty bottles barely visible through its grime-caked windows. “How long ago was that?”

“Ages, it seems. He may have given up on it by now, but I kind of doubt that. That town and the old mine are Earl's obsession.”

“If so, it's odd he would sell his land. Did he ever tell you how that came about?”

Rose's jaw pushed out pugnaciously. “He knows better than to talk to me about commercial mining in Stone Valley.”

“Do you know that he got under fair market value for it?”

“No, but it doesn't surprise me. Earl doesn't give a hoot about money. What he does care about is seeing that mine operate again. It's part of his fixation, that Promiseville will rise out of its ashes.” She snorted. “We all tried to get it across to him that a big modern mining operation will just spoil the place, but what can I tell you? Earl's not all that bright.”

“Maybe he just wants you to think he's not bright,” Hy suggested.

“I've known Earl pretty much all my life, and I can guarantee he's at least medium stupid.” Rose glanced at her watch. “Will you look at that! It's after eleven already, and there's a Clint Eastwood movie on at half past. You're all welcome to watch it with me.”

We declined politely, and Rose departed. Once she was gone, a listlessness settled upon us. I kept glancing at the door to the balcony, reliving what had happened on the dock the night before. When Anne-Marie signaled for the check, I expelled a sigh of relief.

The temperature had remained surprisingly warm, almost muggy, and there was a heavy cloud cover. We stood chatting in the parking lot for a few minutes. Anne-Marie looked weary from her long hike, but now that we'd left the restaurant I'd regained my energy and I sensed Hy felt the same. He suggested he pick up a couple of six-packs at the Swifty Mart and meet us back at the cabin so we could brainstorm uninterrupted by Rose. I was agreeable, and Anne-Marie didn't seem to care one way or the other, so we reconvened and rehashed everything we knew about the goings-on in Stone Valley—to the extent of several Buds and no useful conclusions. Sometime during the last half hour Anne-Marie fell asleep in her chair; it was close to two before she roused herself, mumbled apologies, and stumbled off to bed.

Hy was still going strong. He stood up and said, “Let's take a ride, McCone.”

The idea appealed to me; I was too primed by the futile brainstorming to sleep. “Okay,” I agreed, getting up and grabbing my jacket.

Hy picked up the remains of the second six-pack and went toward the door, beer cans dangling by their plastic straps. I followed, about to protest against drinking while driving, but once outside he turned toward the lake.

“What … ?”

“A
boat
ride, McCone. I'm not about to get behind the wheel.”

“But where—”

“Quiet—you'll wake up the whole north shore.” He waited for me to lock the cabin door, then led me down the slope to the dock, where the lone warning light spread bloody stains on the water. A rowboat was tied up beside it. Hy handed me the beer and motioned for me to get in; then he untied the lines, climbed aboard, and pushed off from the dock.

“Where are we going?” I asked, sitting down on the center seat.

“No place. We'll just drift.” Hy took the front seat, angling his lean body so his knees were draped over one side. “Give me a beer, will you?”

I did, and took one for myself. The popping of the tabs was loud in the still night; all I could hear was a faint rustling in the trees and the gentle lapping of the water.

“Awfully quiet, isn't it?” I said.

“You don't like quiet?”

I thought of another dark night not so long ago, remembered water lapping and trees soughing, and the terrible, final sound of a gunshot. “Sometimes it gets to me.”

If he noticed any excess of emotion in my voice, he didn't comment, merely tipped his beer can and drank. I did the same, then set the can on the seat beside me and huddled inside my suede jacket.

“So,” Hy finally said, “what do you really think?”

“About the situation here?”

“Uh-huh. I sensed you were holding back some while we were talking in the cabin, afraid of worrying Anne-Marie, maybe.”

“I'm not really holding back, at least nothing concrete. It's more a feeling, the kind you get when something's wrong but you can't put your finger on it.”

“Yeah, I feel it, too.”

“This Tarbeaux alias that Erickson used—from what Ned told me about him, it strikes me as just the sort of joke he would play. Ned said he had a good sense of humor, but of a subtle, sophisticated sort. He must have enjoyed putting something over on the Bureau of Land Management.”

“But why? Why not just patent the land in his own name?”

“Because of who or what he was, I suppose. His connection to Transpacific, maybe. We won't know until we know more about him. What about the real Tarbeaux, Hy? Did you do any reading on him after you realized where you'd heard the name?”

“Just what there was in the book I showed you. He played cards strictly for the money. Lulled the suckers into a false sense of security, then milked them for all they were worth. Bloodless bastard; a writer once described him as showing no emotion—only vigilance. Ice-cold and totally focused, that was old Frank.”

Totally focused, perhaps obsessed. The way Rose Witting-ton had described Earl Hopwood. A zealot, as Sanderman had called Ripinsky. But wasn't Sanderman merely another type of zealot?

What made people that way? Well, the events of Earl Hopwood's life provided one answer: first he'd lost a young wife; then his possessiveness had driven his only daughter away. And Sanderman had plunged into his environmental work in the aftermath of a painful divorce. Hy had also lost his wife, and there had been things before that had turned him bitter and withdrawn—things I couldn't begin to guess at.

I said, “People whose dreams all died.”

“What?”

“It's how the Tiger Lily described the people in the Promiseville cemetery. Your dreams die, and life narrows. You can turn inward, become obsessed, like Hopwood.”

“You really talking about Earl, McCone? Or are you maybe talking about me?”

There was a rough undercurrent in Hy's voice, a hint of paranoia. I thought of Anne-Marie's assessment of him: “He's still dangerous.”

I felt a tension in the boat now. Hy crushed his beer can and tossed it under the seat. When he reached for another, I shifted so his hand wouldn't brush my knees.

“Well?” he asked.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “I could also be talking about myself.”

He grunted disbelievingly.

But it was true—although up to now I wouldn't have admitted it. Lately I gave a good deal of lip service to how on-track my life was now that George and I were together; it had taken some probing on Anne-Marie's part to make me voice my reservations about where the relationship was leading. But events that I hadn't sought had changed me since George and I first became lovers, and the changes, while subtle, went deep.

I picked up my beer, drank, then cradled the can between my hands. From the grove came an animal's cry—swift, shrill, as if the creature had been seized as prey. The sound echoed and sent chills across my shoulder blades.

I shivered and closed my eyes against the bloody glow on the water. Remembered my impression upon arriving here that Tufa Lake was a place where echoes lived. There was also a place like that in the mind, where the past played and replayed….

Hy said, “Go ahead and talk about it, McCone.”

“About what?”

“Whatever it is that's eating at you.”

I shook my head, even though I knew he could barely see me. Opened my eyes because even the bloody sheen on the water was preferable to the scenes that played in that place inside me. The silence lengthened, grew oppressive. And then I heard myself speaking swiftly in a little more than a whisper.

“This past year I almost blew two people away.”

Hy waited.

“One of them was the most evil person I'd ever known. The other had just shot one of my closest friends. It's not as if I were a stranger to that kind of thing; I killed a man years ago, because I had no other choice. But this was … different.”

“How?”

“Each time I really wanted to do it. I was completely in control. All I felt was this ice-cold rage. I wanted to … act as an executioner.”

“But you didn't.”

“No, but I came damned close, and there were repercussions. The first time …I still have nightmares in which I pull the trigger. The second … people were there, people I care about. They saw the side of me that I try to keep hidden. And it changed things.”

“You're an outsider to them now.”

“It's as if I've stepped over some line, and they can't follow. No one's ever said anything to me, but they don't have to. Now there's …”

“A distance.”

“Yes. And I can't do anything about it.”

“No, you can't.”

“But I keep wishing. I'm one of those people who think that if there's a problem, there's some way to push things around and solve it.”

“You mean you
used
to be one of those people.”

I'd suspected that, but it jolted me to hear it. After a moment I said, “Yes, I used to be. Now … I don't know. How can I go on doing what I do when I don't believe that anything can really be fixed?”

Hy was silent.

“I guess you just go on,” I added. “At least that's what I've been doing. Going through the motions. Because maybe
some
things can be fixed. Because maybe there's …”

“Maybe there's what?” His voice was deeper now, enriched by some indefinable emotion.

“Maybe there's … something.”

He slipped off the seat into the bottom of the boat and grasped my hand. “Come here, McCone.”

I hesitated only a beat before I moved to sit beside him. He put his arm around my shoulders, and I tipped my head back against it. After a while he felt around and located the last beer. We shared it as we drifted in the silent darkness.