Where Echoes Live by Marcia Muller Page B

me locate the other prospectors in the valley. On the way into town to retrieve her Jeep, I asked her how it had gone with Rose Wittington, but she didn’t want to talk about that. All she would say was, “The woman’s fuckin’ crazy.”
    Because of the early hour, Stone Valley still held the chill of night, but by the time Nickles, with the unerring sense of a born tracker, ferreted out the two prospectors I hadn’t been able to find, the temperature was on the rise. Neither man was able to tell me anything about Michael Erickson, under either his own or the Tarbeaux name; neither had seen Earl Hopwood in at least two weeks. As we approached the hillside encampment of the man with the shotgun, I began to wonder if all this running around in the heat was really worth it.
    The man’s abode was merely a shack of wood, tar paper, and sheet metal, with a battered and faded psychedelically painted VW van parked next to it. Nickles stopped several yards away and called out. He emerged, shotgun cradled in his arms. He was big but running to flab, clad only in shabby jeans and an open leather vest; his full beard hung nearly to his belt, and his matted curls were restrained by a blue bandanna. A cross between a desert rat and one of the area’s leftover hippies, I thought. When he saw us, he planted his feet wide but didn’t raise the gun.
    â€œHey, Bayard,” Nickles said, “I got a friend here, needs to ask you some questions.”
    Bayard just stood there.
    Nickles motioned to me, and we went closer. Now I saw that his eyes were dull and burned out. I also could smell him, the shock waves of body odor almost palpable in the hot, still air. Definitely leftover hippie.
    â€œMy 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?”
    â€œI told them no.”
    â€œWhat about Michael Erickson—Mick, for short?”
    â€œâ€¦ Him neither.”
    â€œWhen’s the last time you saw Earl Hopwood?”
    Bayard scratched his head. “Hopwood?”
    â€œYeah, 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.”
    â€œYou talk with Earl?”
    â€œYelled at him to slow down.”
    â€œSee him after that?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œWell, thanks, Bay. Say hello to the missus for me.”
    Without a word he turned and went back into the shack.
    â€œHe’s got an entire family living in there?” I asked in