“They must have given the residents jobs,” McCracken surmised.
“And thus a purpose, aimed at making them forget what their purpose was before they arrived. Their very existences have been redefined.”
“Drugs?”
“For a time, probably. But these men have outlived their eras. With nothing to go back to, they would welcome the new way of looking at themselves.”
“Like us, Indian?”
“I don’t think they have beds ready for us yet.”
“But think about it. In a manner of speaking, we’ve outlived our eras too. Yet instead of coming to a place like this to play checkers and fish, we redefined our lives on our own terms. Not much different than these folks when you look at it that way.”
They were only a few steps away from the jeep when a loud voice rang out from just behind them.
“’Bout time you boys got back. The Doc was startin’ to worry up a storm, I tell ya.”
McCracken, closer than Johnny was to the speaker, turned slowly to find a tobacco-chomping icy-eyed man dressed like a western gunman, albeit without the six-gun. Blaine shrugged and cut the distance between them routinely. The man’s eyes fell on Wareagle.
“Hey, wait a minute, you’re not—”
He had started to go for his walkie-talkie when Blaine was upon him, his grasp harsh and painful. The man looked at him and spat tobacco on the neatly paved road.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.
“Ike Clanton, and that there’s my little brother Billy. And unless you’re Wyatt Earp, I’d say you’re in a heap of trouble.”
The man spat again. “This some kind of joke?”
“Oh, yeah. The joke’s called the O.K. Corral, and the punch line’s got to do with some half-assed cowboys running herd on a bunch of old men.”
Blaine started to ease himself and his captive down the road with Wareagle on the deputy’s other side.
“This is a U.S. government installation, mister. I don’t know who or what you are, but you’re in a heap more trouble than you know and it’s getting worse by the second.”
They reached the bookstore, and a quick shoulder from Wareagle had the locked door swinging open. The trio passed inside and Blaine immediately passed the guard to the huge Indian. Wareagle responded in turn by grasping the man around the neck in a death lock that shut off virtually all his air.
“I haven’t had a good day,” Blaine told the man who was straining up on the tips of his toes to lessen the pressure being applied to his throat. “In fact, I’ve had a pretty lousy week, lousy enough to not care much at all if the Indian has to break your neck. ’Less, of course, you tell us what we’ve come to find out.”
The icy-eyed man struggled for air and a stream of chalky brown tobacco juice dropped onto his white cowboy shirt.
“You’ll never get away with this.”
“Interesting cliche. Shame to waste it. We’re looking for a man named Hans Bechman. Used to be a German scientist until he signed up with this nuthouse.”
Wareagle allowed the guard some welcome breath. “No names, not real ones anyway. They never tell us any real names.”
“This one would be in a wheelchair,” Blaine explained further, recalling Bart Joyce’s description of the man he had seen directing the loading of cannisters onto the Indianapolis.
“Lots of people here in wheelchairs, mister.”
“This one would have come in one. Heavy German accent, too. Know the man?”
“No.”
“You’re lying. I can tell by your eyes. Look, friend, there’s a new sheriff in town and he’s about to snap your neck. Last chance. Know him or not?”
Wareagle increased the pressure and lifted the guard off the floor.
“Yes! Yes!”
Again Johnny let up on the pressure and eased him part of the way back down.
“Lives in number forty-nine,” the captive deputy said. “Almost never comes out. Keeps all to himself.”
“Very good.”
“Not really. You’re wasting your time if you expect to get something out of him. Man’s lost more marbles than a ten-year-old can sink in a hole. Doesn’t even know who he is most of the time.”
“Guess we’ll have to jog his memory,” McCracken said.
He nodded to Wareagle, who increased his pressure on the deputy’s neck enough to put him to sleep.
“Think we should tie him up, Indian?”
“Not unless we plan on being here past the coming of the moon, Blainey.”
The residence numbered forty-nine was located in the northern sector of the O.K. Corral, set off the path of stores and shops and away from the clutter of old folks loitering the day away in the shade. This and the others clustered around it had the look of hand-built cabins or cottages, the old-west motif still dominant. McCracken noted that although there seemed to be no rules to that effect, most of the residents kept to themselves. He and Wareagle saw scarcely any socializing as they circled about. It seemed the residents still stubbornly clung to the secrets that had brought them there for the last of their days. It was as if holding firm at all costs to those secrets was the only way to maintain even a limited grasp of the past, which fluttered like dust in the wind of their memory. There was hardly a sound in the air, other than the occasional jeep patrolling or the church bells clanging every quarter hour.
Blaine made sure no one was about before he and Wareagle approached the door marked with a forty-nine. They had no idea what to expect inside and could only hope Hans Bechman had enough command of his faculties to provide the final piece of the puzzle that began in 1945 on board the Indianapolis. Wareagle remained in the shadows while McCracken eased up to the door and knocked. When no sound or response came from within, he knocked again louder.
At last he heard the squealing of wheels over wood, then a hand fumbling with a knob inside. The door parted halfway to reveal a skeletal shape tucked into a wheelchair with a blanket over his lap.
“Do you have my towels?” Hans Bechman asked.
“Yes,” Blaine replied without hesitation.
“That’s good. I ran out. I called yesterday. You didn’t come.” Puzzlement crossed his face. “I think it was yesterday….”
The old scientist’s words emerged still laced with a German accent. What little hair he still had hung in unkempt clumps. Blaine heard him muttering to himself in German as he slid back far enough for McCracken to enter with Wareagle just behind.
“Where do you want them?” Blaine asked. “The towels, I mean?”
“Kitchen … no — bathroom … no — kitchen.”
Blaine turned back to Johnny. “Put Dr. Bechman’s towels in the kitchen.”
The old man’s eyes flared to life at that. “My name. You used my name.”
“Of course, Dr. Bechman.”
“I don’t hear it anymore. I don’t hear it at all. Maybe my ears are going. I like hearing it.” His eyes turned quizzical. “Do I know you?”
“No,” McCracken replied flatly. “I’m new.”
“Good. I don’t like the ones I know. They don’t talk to me. They don’t call me by my name.” His eyes glistened hopefully. “Will you talk to me?”
“I’d like that,” Blaine told him.
Chapter 23
The old man’s face suddenly took on an agitated expression.
“What time is it?”
“Almost two o’clock.”
“What day?”
“Thursday.”
“What year?”
“199—”
“Did you say ninety? It can’t be. Surely it can’t be. Tell me the truth now. Don’t be like the others.”