Dead Silver

44

The town of phosphor looked a lot more appealing the next afternoon than it had when we'd driven through at night, a few weeks earlier. Yesterday's gray sky had cleared to blue, filled with billowing, wind-tossed white clouds, and flashes of sunlight gave a warm glow to the funky old brick buildings. Kids with bulging daypacks were wandering home from school, stretching out the interlude between the responsibilities at both ends. There was the sense that things were hard-used but wholesome, and even the western touches-a rack of antlers mounted above the door of the Elkhorn Bar, a big log lintel carved with a cattle brand at the entrance to a mom-and-pop motel-which would have seemed clicheed elsewhere were authentic here.

I slowed my truck to the main street's 25-mph speed limit and headed for the Phosphor Food Emporium, where Renee and I hoped to find Tina Gerhardt.

Last evening and during the drive here, we'd rehashed our talk with Buddy Pertwee from every angle we could think of. The importance of the new information he'd provided seemed to boil down to this:

If the story about the mysterious Colorado commando was true, it lent more weight to the premise that Astrid was serious about sabotaging the Dead Silver Mine, and had gone so far as to acquire construction plans and enlist his explosives expertise.

But then she'd shown an abrupt, astonishing behavior change. Her passion for the cause so dear to her had vaporized; she'd seemed angry, distracted, and had harshly rebuffed her former comrades. Buddy Pertwee was convinced that this wasn't caused by their group, but by an outside factor.

For sure, Astrid had worries. Her marriage was in trouble; she was despised by many of her neighbors; as time went on, her secret, Mata Hari life had probably gone from exhilarating to nerve-racking; and however dedicated and naive she might have been, she had to realize that she was flirting with massive property destruction, possible injury and death to others, and a lengthy prison term for herself.

But all of those factors had been present over a long period of time. Maybe she'd finally bowed under all the pressures, but everything I knew about her told me she was determined to get what she wanted, and the more difficult that was, the more stubborn she became.

What had caused the sudden change? Had she been murdered because of it, or because she had changed too late?

The Phosphor Food Emporium, which you could have picked up and put down a dozen times in a supermarket, was in the center of town. We hadn't tried to call Tina in advance; we agreed that she'd respond better to Renee's physical presence than to a voice over a telephone, and also that Renee would have a better chance of breaking the ice if she went in alone, at least to start with. She wouldn't mention the developments that had led us here; she would use the semi-true pretext that she'd never learned much about that dark chapter of her family history, and her father's recent death had made her feel the need.

But when I pulled the pickup into an angled parking space in front of the store, she sat without moving, hands gripping her purse in her lap.

"Talking to other people hasn't been hard," she said. "But this time-I keep thinking about how hurt she must have been. And then a complete stranger walks in out of the blue, and drags it up again."

"That was kind of what happened to you, with those photos," I said.

"In a way, I guess. But that was a fluke. This is deliberate, and so personal."

"You don't have to do it, Renee. If you're uncomfortable, let's just leave."

"No, I want to. I'm trying to convince myself I have a good enough reason."

"How's this? It was no fluke that two people got killed."

She sighed. "Pretty convincing, I'm afraid." She popped open a compact mirror and nervously touched up her lipstick, then gave me a mock salute and stepped out of the truck. I stayed where I was, with the sour taste of hypocrisy in my mouth. That kind of shit was easy for me to say. I didn't have to walk in the door and chance facing the outrage or tears of a deeply wounded woman.

I didn't feel right just sitting there in the truck, so I got out. But Renee was back from the store immediately, with the deflated look that I had come to recognize when she absorbed a punishing disappointment. I met her on the sidewalk.

"Bad?" I said.

"Bad enough. There was an older woman at the cash register. I asked to speak to Tina. Turns out Tina was her daughter, and she was killed in a car wreck six years ago."

I winced. "Was she upset?"

"Just cold. She asked what I wanted. I told her. She said, 'Well, I guess Tina can't help you, now can she?'" Renee shrugged helplessly. "I apologized and left."

"My fault," I said. "I should have done some homework before sending you barging in. Something like that never crossed my mind." I opened the pickup's passenger door for her. "Time for you to kick back. I'm taking you to a rustic retreat in the fabled Big Belt Mountains. Log fire, bottle of fine wine, charbroiled filet mignon."

Her face softened toward a smile. "Sounds expensive."

"We can work out a payment plan."

As Renee was getting into my truck, another woman came out of the grocery store, hurrying toward us. She looked like she'd been working; she was wearing an apron and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She possessed a kind of faded prettiness that I'd often seen in these small hardscrabble towns, as if the people took on the same worn look as their surroundings. But she was probably about Renee's age-certainly not old enough to be Tina Gerhardt's mother. There was no hostility in her face; she seemed uncertain, anxious.

"I heard you talking to my mom," she said to Renee. "I could maybe tell you some things, if you want."