Where Echoes Live

by Marcia Muller

  Actually I was glad to leave Knight; I needed to think about what I’d overheard. Now that my shock at hearing Ripinsky’s voice on the phone had faded, I began to wonder what Hy had had in mind when he willingly gave me the geologist’s name and number that morning. Had he assumed their connection was buried so deep I wouldn’t unearth it? Or had he alerted Knight to deny any association? Either way, he was treading on dangerous ground by putting me in touch with him, but I sensed Ripinsky was not a man to shy away from danger—not when it suited whatever his purposes might be.

  The problem now was what action to take regarding Ripinsky. His involvement with Ong and his geologist was something Anne-Marie and Ned Sanderman needed to be made aware of. But on the other hand, I wasn’t sure that I wouldn’t be doing them a disservice by telling them without proof. Anne-Marie has never been one to conceal her emotions, and even if she tried, the rage she was bound to feel toward Ripinsky would be thinly veiled at best. Sanderman hadn’t struck me as much of an actor, either; he also was likely to inadvertently reveal what he knew. Ripinsky, a man with a hazy and probably violent past, could pose a distinct threat to both of them if confronted. So in the end I decided to temporarily keep them ignorant of my suspicions.

  Night had fallen by the time I neared the shopping center at the top of Portola. I checked my watch, was surprised to find it was after seven. Ma, I thought with a guilty pang. I pulled into the parking lot to call her and tell her I was on my way.

  But I wanted to drive by Ong’s house again to see if he’d returned. And to stake the place out in any case. I felt restless—far too edgy to spend the evening dealing with my mother and this latest McCone crisis.

  There was no answer at my house. I tried George, thinking she might still be with him, but reached only his machine. Finally I called All Souls, hoping she’d left a message.

  “A message from your mother?” Ted sounded amused. “No, but I’ll buzz your office and you can talk to her.”

  “Wait a minute—Ma’s in my office?”

  “Uh-huh. She, George, Rae, and Hank. A few others, off and on. She and your beloved spent the day together— something was said about cable cars and ice-cream sodas at Ghirardelli Square. When they couldn’t locate you, she ordered him to bring her here. She intended to see your new office, she said, whether you were there to show it off or not.”

  “God. Poor George.”

  “I wouldn’t worry—looks to me like he’s having a fine time. They all are. The last I heard they were talking about getting take-out from that Mexican place that does the garlic-saturated chicken.”

  “How does she seem? Is she mad at me for disappearing all day?”

  “Doubt it. Everybody here loves her, and she’s basking in the attention. She showed family pictures—including the naked one of you when you were a long, skinny baby—and now the others are entertaining her with Sharon stories.”

  Sharon stories—just what Ma needed to hear. “My life has been totally wrecked,” I told Ted. “Buzz my office, will you?”

  He obliged. A voice promptly said, “Ms. McCone’s office, her mother speaking.” and laughter filled the background.

  I closed my eyes, stifling a sigh. “Ma, it’s me.”

  “Hello, Me.”

  “Ma, have you been drinking again?”

  “We have had some wine, yes. When did you turn into such a prude?”

  Good question, I thought. I was acting prudish—but the realization didn’t make me feel any less stuffy. “Look, Ma,” I said, “I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you—”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I’m having a very nice time with your friends. We’ve decided to get some Pollo Humungo—”

  “Supremo.”

  “What?”

  “It’s El Pollo Supremo.”

  “Whatever. You may join us here at All Souls, if you wish.”

  But a solution to my problem had occurred to me. “I’d love to, Ma,” I said insincerely, “but I’m on a case and I have to run a stakeout tonight.”

  My mother didn’t reply. In the background I could hear assorted mumblings. “Ma?”

  “Hank was asking how many chickens. Are you eating with us or not?”

  “I just said I had to run a stakeout.”

  “Oh.” Ma spoke away from the receiver. “She’s not, but get an extra one anyway. I can make sandwiches to take on the bus tomorrow.”

  Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten she was leaving for my sister Patsy’s in Ukiah at eight the next morning! “Ma—”

  “Don’t worry, Sharon. George has said he’ll see me home. You just go have your steak.”

  “Stakeout, Ma.”

  “Right.”

  “Ma, does George want to talk—”

  “I’ve got to go now, Sharon. I’ll see you at home.” And I was left holding a dead receiver.

  Irked, I slammed it back onto the hook. The vehemence of my reaction startled me, and I said, “What’s the matter with you, anyway?”

  A woman on the sidewalk gave me an odd look. I glared at her. She glared back, and I retreated to my car, afraid of provoking one of those senseless incidents of violence that seem to be happening with greater and greater frequency of late. Maybe that was my problem—the craziness I’d been reading about in the papers had started to adversely affect me.

  And maybe you’re just slipping into grouchy middle age, my ever-vigilant inner voice suggested.

  “Shut up.” I told it and directed the MG toward Ong’s neighborhood.

  Saint Germain Avenue lay in darkness broken only by soft lights behind curtained windows. Beyond the brick retaining wall at the end of the pavement, wind-tossed cypress branches were backlit by the glow from the flatlands and East Bay hills. The Ong house was a black multi-angled silhouette against the night sky.

  I drove all the way to the end of the street, pulled close to the wall, and turned off the MG’s lights. For a few minutes I studied the surrounding houses for moving curtains or figures in the windows. There were none; the homes across from Ong’s were built too high on the slope for their residents to pay much attention to passing or parked cars, and most of the others were walled on the street side, windows positioned to take advantage of the view in the opposite direction.

  Satisfied that my arrival hadn’t been observed, I slipped from the car and moved through the shadows to Ong’s gate.

  On leaving earlier I’d shut it and placed a small piece of paper in the crack so I’d be able to tell if anyone had gone inside. The paper was still there. A red light below the lock indicated the alarm system was on—automatically activated at a preset time, I assumed—and security spots shone here and there throughout the property.

  The night had turned cold; the wind blew strongly, rustling the fronds of the yucca trees in the courtyard. I hugged my suit jacket closer around me and retreated to my car. From there visibility was good; moonlight silvered the house’s roof and glinted off the glass of the skylights. I settled down for a long wait. The large Styrofoam cup of coffee and squashed-down plastic-wrapped sandwich that I’d bought at a market in the small shopping center didn’t exactly rate as creature comforts, but I was sure I’d appreciate them far more than they merited as the evening wore on. For a while I tried to listen to the radio, but static interfered—something to do with the proximity to Sutro Tower, I supposed. My legs cramped, but I couldn’t get out and walk around in such a quiet neighborhood. I couldn’t even drink as much of the coffee as I would have liked; if I did, odds were that I’d be squatting in the bushes at the exact moment something interesting happened.

  For I while I tried to think over the facts of my case, but eventually my mind drifted, merely forming mental pictures: my first view of the glass-smooth surface of Tufa Lake, the alkali plain and craters of the fire mountains stretching to the south. The shattered basalt outcroppings of Stone Valley and the husks of a ruined civilization at Promiseville. The nightmarish terrain of the tufa forest.

  And there were other
pictures, more ordinary, yet somehow more evocative. The homespun ugliness of the cabin at Willow Grove Lodge. Zelda’s beer sign and knotty-pine decor viewed through a haze of smoke. Hy Ripinsky’s cozy living room, colorfully jacketed books flanking the native-stone fireplace. And Hy himself: hawk-nosed profile, shaggy dark blond hair curling over the collar of his shabby suede jacket, lanky body that always seemed primed for sudden action….

  God, I’d been wrong about him. I’d considered him my ally, a person caught up in the environmental cause who nonetheless had the perspective and toughness—call it cynicism—to maintain a realistic view of what was happening. And now I’d found he’d used that facade to mask his involvement in...in what?

  But maybe I was getting ahead of myself, I thought. Maybe Hy wasn’t involved in anything after all. Quickly I reviewed what I’d heard of his conversation with Knight, then shook my head. My desire to believe him innocent didn’t stack up well against that evidence. And there were other things to support it: his shadowy past, his extreme reticence about himself, his unexplained antipathy toward Ned Sanderman….

  I went over the facts again, trying to figure out why Mick Erickson had gone to Tufa Lake, why both Ripinsky and Knight expected Ong to turn up there, too. And as I thought, I became aware of just how deep my pain over Ripinsky’s betrayal was. Yet that made no sense: I’d known him a scant three days; we’d brainstormed and exchanged information, shared a few beers and dances. Why … ?

  Because you trusted him. Besides the beers and dances, you shared a confidence. You told the man something about yourself that you’ve never told anyone—not even George.

  That was the root of my pain, then. I’d thought I recognized a kindred spirit, had given him a piece of myself I never expected to part with. I should have noticed that in return Ripinsky had given me nothing of himself—

  Motion up the street near Ong’s gate.

  I sat up straighter, leaning forward to peer through the windshield. A figure moved along the gray wall of the house, the wind billowing its dark garments. It stopped in front of the gate, probably ringing the bell, and waited. I strained to make out details, but all I could be sure of was that the person wore a loose coat and some sort of cap. The figure was not tall, but I couldn’t guess its height with any accuracy, couldn’t tell if it was male or female, Asian or Caucasian.

  After a moment the person turned away from the gate, continued along the sidewalk to the double garage doors, and tried each with no success. Not a casual drop-in or solicitor, but someone who wanted very badly to enter the house. Possibly someone who knew the Ong family well.

  I watched as the figure turned and walked down the street to where it intersected with Glenbrook. When it was out of sight, I started the MG and drove slowly without lights to the corner. A car was parked a little way downhill—one of those sleek Miatas I’d been noticing on the road lately. The figure was just climbing inside.

  Why park all the way down there? I wondered. Why not drive directly to the house?

  I stopped under the overhanging branches of an acacia tree and slouched as the Miata made a U-turn, its headlight beams washing over my car. When it vanished briefly at the first downhill curve on Glenbrook, I flicked on my own lights and followed.

  The Miata moved briskly, negotiating the maze of winding streets without hesitation to Upper Market, where it turned toward downtown. At Castro it slipped through the stoplight on the tail end of the amber, but I caught up with it at Sixteenth Street. Sometimes in tandem, sometimes with a car or two between us, we continued almost to the foot of Market. I tried to get close enough to glimpse the driver, but kept having to fall back to avoid detection.

  Finally the other car swung around a block and cut through the deserted financial district on Kearny. The street began to climb Telegraph Hill. At the access road that wound through the park at the base of Coit Tower, the Miata veered off.

  Surprised, I slowed and pulled to the edge of the pavement. The road, I knew, ended in the scenic overlook and parking lot at the tower. While that area is clogged during the day with rental cars and tour buses, T-shirt and souvenir vendors, at night it is largely deserted. Owing to the clear weather, you would find people admiring the view, as well as the inevitable trysting couples, but I couldn’t imagine why the driver of the Miata had gone there.

  Unless, of course, he or she had spotted me and wanted to force a confrontation. I could wait here, since this road was the only outlet, then continue tailing the car when it came back down. Or I could go see who the driver was and find out what he or she wanted.

  I shifted into first gear and pulled back onto the pavement.

  At the summit of the hill the fluted white shaft of the tower gleamed brilliantly against the sky, a nozzlelike monument to San Francisco’s brave fire fighters (or to Lillie Hitchcock Coit’s lust for same, depending on one’s interpretation of local history). The road ended in a semicircular parking area, where several dark cars sat, noses toward the shimmering expanse of the city.

  None of them was the Miata.

  “Impossible,” I said aloud. The car hadn’t passed me, and there was no other way off the hill. No place up here where it could be concealed, either.

  And then I thought of the driveways that snaked downhill from the road below—narrow access lanes to the garages of the expensive homes and apartment buildings that nestled among the thick vegetation on the slope. The Miata could have turned into one, waited until I passed, then left the area. Or the driver could live close by.

  I pulled into a parking space and got out of the MG. The wind gusted here as strongly as on Ong’s hill, bringing with it a mixed bouquet of cypress, eucalyptus, and bay laurel. I locked my car, buttoned my suit jacket, and took a small flashlight from my bag. Training its beam downward, I crossed to where a narrow brick stairway descended into a thicket of conifers.

  From previous visits—mostly with out-of-towners touring the city—I knew that the steps scaled the hill in a zigzag fashion, leading to paths and plank walks alongside the residences. Eventually the stairway came out at one of the streets below—Montgomery? Greenwich? I wasn’t sure which.

  I followed the beam of light down the steps, holding tight to the iron rail and wishing the low heels I had on were more suitable for this. The bay laurel scent was stronger here; a small animal skittered through the ivy on the upward slope. Through the trees and slightly below I could see a row of three multi-unit buildings. A party was going on on the brightly illuminated roof garden of the far one; laughter and music drifted down.

  At the bottom of that section of steps a path branched; one arm continued toward another stairway that led past a rustic cottage, the other toward a boardwalk between the apartment buildings and the ivied slope. Their lighted entries faced the walk. I stopped, studying them.

  As I stood there, the sound of footsteps came from the far end of the walk—a quick hollow tapping of high heels. I ducked behind a wind-warped cypress. The footsteps kept on, then stopped.

  Cautiously I peered through the branches. A woman in an outfit similar to that of the figure I’d seen in front of Ong’s house stood at the entry to the center building. Her back was to me, and she was punching at one of the buzzers: two, three, four angry rings.

  The woman waited at the door for close to a minute, her fingers tapping impatiently on its frame. Then she stamped her foot and rummaged through her pockets and shoulder bag, as if searching for keys. When she came up empty-handed, she stepped farther back on the boardwalk, scanning the upper windows. They were all dark. Quickly she moved to the corner of the building and leaned out over the waist-high rail, checking the ones on the side. They were also dark, and in seconds she pulled back and turned my way, her face clearly revealed by the night-light.

  Margot Erickson.

  The surprise I felt at first turned to shock at the bruised and swollen condition of her face. Its right side was a mass of purply red contusions, the eye puffed nearly shut. I must have rustled the branc
hes involuntarily, because she jerked her head toward my hiding place.

  “Mrs. Erickson,” I said, starting toward her.

  Her hand flew to her cheek, vainly trying to conceal the damage. Her good eye widened, transforming her face into a grotesque mask. Even in the dim light I could see the full flowering of the fear I’d only sensed yesterday morning.

  “It’s okay,” I said, holding out both hands. “I won’t hurt you.”

  She flinched, flattened against the railing.

  I went to her. Suddenly, before I could speak again, she lunged at me and almost knocked me down.

  I righted myself, grabbed her elbow. She twisted, and her fingernails raked the back of my hand, made me let go of her arm. Her open palm smacked my left cheek so hard that I stumbled into the railing. When I came off of it she was running toward the stairway.

  I went after her, calling out. She stopped, turned on me again, and kicked at my legs. One of her shoes struck my shinbone, and this time I did go down. Backwards, onto the steps that led past the cottage.

  I grabbed the iron rail and turned around, but I couldn’t recover my balance. Then I was falling forward, my hands thrust out and encountering nothing. My knees and shins scraped against the rough steps; my head slammed into the retaining wall beside them.

  As I rolled and wedged sideways on the steps, I heard Margot running away on the boardwalk. Shock waves of pain racked my body. I bit down hard to keep from crying out. And tasted blood.