The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day

by Patrick O'Brien

  But, standing there, scratching his head and looking about, it suddenly registered. He remembered the helicopter he had seen earlier that day on the way to his backwoods dumpsite. And a helicopter made sense, too. How else would all this garbage be spread out over such a large area unless someone had used a rake or a shovel? It looked as though it had been dropped from the sky, and the only way that could have happened is if someone had, in fact, dropped it from the sky. It had to have been the helicopter.

  Turning abruptly, he went up his back porch steps and into the house.

  “Goddamn it, Sheriff, I tell ya, somebody came out and deliberately dumped a ton of it in my backyard. And that helicopter was not my imagination. It flew right over my truck as I was on my way into town, and it headed right for my place. I seen it with my own eyes.”

  “By ‘backyard,’ Mobley, are you talking about the part you use as a junkyard or the ‘lawn-n-garden’ part?”

  “Goddamn it, Sheriff, this is serious! And it don’t matter what part I’m talking about. They—they violated the sanctity of my home! They infringed upon my right to live in peace and quiet, without interference from outside parties. I have my rights, Sheriff, and you know that! Why, it’s just like somebody came along and took a big shit right on my doorstep and left the roll of toilet paper behind. It’s the same goddamn thing, and I want you, as a protector and defender of the public, to do something about it!”

  “Just whatcha got in mind, Mobley? You think I oughta start with fingerprints?”

  “Well, since you’re asking me for advice, Sheriff, you might start by coming out and taking a look at it. Why don’t you come out and see for yourself how somebody disrespected me? And, furthermore, I don’t think I have to remind you that I’m a law-abiding taxpayer in this county and that I voted for you in the last election. What that means is that I have a right to have this—this desecration treated as any other act of vandalism…because that’s what it is, pure and simple.”

  “Well, how ’bout I come out and get some fingerprints, Mobley? And we’ll see if we can identify the culprit.”

  Pause.

  “Jesus Christ, Sheriff, how ya gonna get fingerprints off a banana peel?”

  “It’s never been done before, Mobley, true enough. But I’m a man who likes to tamper with the impossible. You never know what benefits can be derived from experimenting with innovation. And, as I’m sure you recall, since you voted for me, one of my campaign promises was to be an innovator—someone not afraid to try new methods and techniques of law enforcement. And this opportunity—well, who knows, I might be able to expand the science of fingerprinting…”

  “I got a finger for ya, Sheriff—my middle one!”

  “Now, don’t get all upset, Mobley…”

  “Shit!”

  Mobley slammed down the phone. For a good thirty seconds, he stood there, hands on hips, and wondered what approach to take. It occurred to him that, just to show the bastards, he oughta bundle up every goddamn last scrap of garbage out there and haul it down the road, to a neighbor’s place, and dump it. Whether the helicopter had anything to do with it or not, he figured the profanation of a man’s sacred property rights had come about because of a conspiracy, anyway. He didn’t know who to blame or even where to start looking, but someone in the community had to be responsible. Someone had to have told someone else, and that had to have put in motion a plan deliberately intended to embarrass and humiliate him. More than just a wild guess prompted him to believe that someone out there knew all about it. He wanted to know who!

  Absentmindedly, in the throes of speculation as to the identity of the culprits, he opened his tin of Copenhagen and, gouging out a chunk, pushed it into the back of his mouth with his thumb. Only after nearly choking did he realize he had broken off a portion the size of a walnut. Disgusted, more aggrieved now than a moment before, he spat out half and chomped down on the rest with a determination that resulted in a streak of nut-brown juice dribbling out the corner of his mouth. Wiping it away on the back of his sleeve, he let the kitchen door bang shut behind him and went out into the yard again.

  For a full sixty seconds, with his arms folded across his chest, he stood in one spot and glared about as though entertaining an image of murderous rampage. Whoever had dared such a thing deserved a blunt introduction to the business end of a twelve-gauge shotgun, and had they appeared before him at that very instant, very probably that would have been their fate. He would not have hesitated to register the extreme rage just then roiling inside like an overdose of Tabasco sauce or a heaping teaspoon of Chinese mustard. He had been wronged, and the only thought that filtered through his fury was that of revenge.

  A couple of sheets of paper he hadn’t noticed before caught his attention. They had lodged in the high, overgrown grass just beyond the edge of the lawn. Three or four others were lying amidst the mess of empty ketchup bottles, fruits rinds, tin cans, and all the other garbage scattered around his feet and elsewhere. Unlike the odd scraps of paper mixed in with the rest of it, they were all the same size, and as he looked closer, he could see that each one had something typed on it.

  Curious, he went over to the nearest one and picked it up. It read:

  “What has been done here today should be regarded as an act of war taken against those who would willfully and selfishly despoil the environment. The SOLDIERS FOR A SANE PLANET are serving you personal notice that your continued disregard of the environment will not go unchallenged or unpunished. Like it or not, each and every single human being has a responsibility to be mindful stewards of his or her own small dominion. For too long, the consequences of neglect, indifference, and outright wanton abuse have put the health of MOTHER EARTH in enormous jeopardy. For the sake of our own generation, and the sake of all generations to come, IT…ALL…MUST…STOP!”

  Had the declaration been an eviction notice or, conversely, a check for a million dollars, he could not have been more dumbfounded. Incomprehensibly, he read through the sheet of paper three or four times until finally, with a contempt he usually reserved for someone who didn’t know the difference between a harrow and a plow, he crumpled it up and tossed it away.

  To his mind, things like this did not have any meaning out here. Maybe in Corvallis or Portland, where university students were always up to some kind of cockamamie mischief, perhaps. Or perhaps it had relevance to the long-haired hippies he used to see hitchhiking along the roads, as they careened from one pot-head event to another. Going on about global warming, the melting of glaciers, the rise of the ocean levels, and all the other claptrap the liberal media wrote about may have been of concern to the guitar-strumming, fiddle-playing, hand-clapping, sandal-clad riffraff who clogged the streets, then and now, with the protest marches and noisy chants. But out here, in a pastoral wonderland of tidy farms and open country, where people lived the plain and simple life, where they went to church on Sunday morning and during the week milked their cows and slopped their hogs, it didn’t mean a damn thing. Like a pustulous disease threatening a healthy body, it was an outrage. It threatened a way of life sanctioned by the unwritten law of custom and convention. It intruded on the natural order of things…and left in its wake a smelly goddamn mess!

  Going back into the house, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Bob, this is Mobley. Send me out some of them Mexes you got hangin’ around your office. And don’t ask me why! You know me—I pay you good money. Okay?”

  “I’ll have Big Jimbo bring them out in the bus, Mobley. They’re on their way right now.”

  15

  Before closing in on him. the two FBI agents wanted Rick to marinate in his sweat for a time. They knew if they left him alone long enough to ponder all the possible scenarios, he would likely realize, as a longtime guest of the federal government, that sooner or later he’d have something worthwhile to report. They counted on his own colorful imaginings, absent any helpful input they might provide, to fortify his resolve to get something set up.

&nbs
p; As they walked into his garage from the street, they didn’t expect to be disappointed.

  “How’s it going, Rick?” Bill Hammerstein came around the corner of the Volkswagen and gave him a big grin.

  “Yeah, how’s it going, big fella?” his partner chorused, coming around the other corner. “You’re still bangin’ away at that piece of junk, huh? You should’ve had it runnin’ by now.”

  Rick set a wrench down and wiped his hands on a grease-stained towel.

  “Don’t you guys ever call first? I got a phone number, ya know. And I’m in the book.”

  “It’s more intimidating this way,” Bill said.

  “Besides, as you already know, we’re a couple of fun-loving guys—we like to surprise people,” his partner added.

  “Yeah, most people like surprises. What about you, Rick, don’t you like surprises?”

  Rick walked over to an ice chest and took out a can of Budweiser. He snapped it open, took a quick guzzle, and set the can on the workbench.

  “I’d offer you one, but you probably got all the kicks you can handle right here and now. Besides, it might be interpreted as an attempt to bribe two of the agency’s finest.”

  “That’s a good one, Rick,” Bill said, grinning again. “It’s nice to see you’re right on your game. We don’t want our boy getting depressed or anything like that.”

  “That’s right. We forgot to mention that we concern ourselves with the mental health of our clients. As long as your morale is up to par, we know you’re not gonna try to do anything desperate and stupid—like try to fuck us.” Bill said.

  “That’s right, amigo. But by the same token, we haven’t heard from you lately. What gives?”

  “Yeah, it don’t look good when that happens,” Tom said. “We like to be kept informed. It makes us think maybe you don’t appreciate what we’re trying to do for you here.”

  “It’s all about communication, Rick. That’s why we’re here…because we wanna know what the fuck you been up to. What have you got for us? You been in touch with your compadres? Anything in the works? They planning on robbing a bank or an armored car heist to finance their activities? Anything major that you wanna let us in on?”

  “You want something you can salivate over, right?”

  “Put it any way you like, Rick, but it better play like sweet music to our ears,” Tom told him.

  “Because if it don’t, when we leave here today, we’re gonna take you with us, Rick, and see that you get fitted with a brand-new outfit. Unfortunately, for the fashion conscious, it only comes in one color, and we employ a blind spastic to do the tailoring, so you never know if it’s gonna fit right. But, correct me if I’m wrong, Rick, but I don’t think you’re into fashion…unless you got some tendencies we don’t know about.”

  “I’m working on something.”

  “So sing us a song, Rick. We’re all ears. We’re waiting to hear what you have to say”

  “Yeah, well, are you ready for this?”

  “Fire away, buddy.”

  Rick began telling them about Art Jimson and the commotion he had stirred up because of a number of wolf kills in the Livingston area of Montana, where Art had his ranch. According to Peewee’s account of the televised newscast, he said, a half dozen wolves thought to have strayed from Yellowstone or down from Canada had been found shot to death. Nobody knew for certain who was responsible, but local wildlife groups had pointed the finger at Art because he had a reputation as a wolf baiter. Not only was it known that he had killed two wolves on his own property, but he had bragged about going after several others, even going so far as to put out poisoned meat. Other than the fact that he claimed to be “handling the predator problem,” no real evidence against him existed, but people were free to draw their own conclusions.

  Rick’s buddy Peewee had drawn his own conclusion.

  Being a wolf lover, he had a bit of a mania when it came to the subject. And his response to the newscast had been visceral. He had likened the killing of this “freedom-loving animal, with family values that humans oughta emulate” to a violation of something deeply personal. Not only that, but he now had the idea he wanted to get revenge against the guy by going after his cattle. Lately, when they were out drinking together, it was all Peewee talked about. He had even gone so far as to plan out how he would do it: driving all the way out there and then scouting the area, looking for the best plan of attack. Just like it sounded, he regarded the whole thing as a sort of military fantasy: something akin to mock battles with paintball guns or cross-country orienteering treks with map and compass. He was big on both activities, and going all the way to Montana to shoot a few cows would merely be an extension.

  The two agents looked dubious.

  “Well, your buddy sounds like a rock-solid nut case, Rick,” Tom said, “and he probably oughta have his clockwork checked out by a committee of experts. But what’s any of this got to do with your compadres? You’re not trying to tell me they’re in the same bullshit league, are you?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to anyone yet.”

  “You haven’t talked to anyone yet? You mean you haven’t sounded them out or anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  The two agents traded a glance that instantly disabused Rick of the clubby drumbeat of playful menace and brought to the surface a darker note.

  “What the fuck you waiting’ for, buddy?” Bill said, giving Rick a hard look. “You think we’re here to play games? You think your ass isn’t on the line? Because if you do, you better have a serious talk with yourself.”

  “Yeah, Rick, what the fuck’s the delay? We’re not gonna let you run loose forever without some kind of action we can focus on. So get your Volkswagen fixed and get your ass over there and start talking to somebody. We wanna see a plan of action here, complete with timetables and a list of participants, pretty damn soon. Otherwise these visit of ours aren’t gonna be sociable anymore.”

  Rick opened another can of beer and downed a healthy slug.

  “I don’t go over there much,” he said, “hardly ever, in fact. You guys gotta understand…I don’t normally hang with these people. I mean, I’m not comfortable with them and they’re not comfortable with me. Sure, we did the Cleveland gig together, but that was a onetime thing. Apart from the fact that I rigged it for them, I was just there as an onlooker. I tolerated them and they tolerated me, by mutual, unspoken agreement, for the duration. But after it was all over, we went our separate ways.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you feel like a misfit, Rick. But you can stuff all that class bullshit for the time being. Just go over there and talk it up. You’re suddenly an indignant animal rights activist and you wanna know if they wanna be part of the plan. Make it plausible. Get details worked out. Appeal to their sense of injustice. Play on their idealism. And, if you have to, tell them you were suckled by a wolf and feel a real kinship with them. Tell ’em any fuckin’ thing you like, but get them motivated,” Tom said.

  “You guys are fucking diabolical, you know that?”

  “Don’t get analytical on us, Rick. Just do whatcha gotta do. Get a pair of Nikes if you have to.”

  Rick finished his beer and tossed the can into a waste bucket.

  “It ain’t gonna be that easy,” he said. “I can’t just pop in on them outta the blue and start pushing the idea. For one thing, it might sound outta character. I mean, I’m not exactly a dyed-in-the-wool tree-hugger. For another, they might wonder why I’m coming to them…why I don’t just go out there and do it myself. They’re kinda naïve, but they’re not stupid. They can figure things out.”

  “Regardless, buddy, you’re gonna hafta handle it yourself. Tom and I can’t help you out there.”

  “Yeah, Rick, you gotta come up with your own plan.”

  “Well, I gotta plan…of sorts.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “I’m gonna see her tonight.”

  Bill looked at Tom and winked. “Anybody we know?” />
  “If you been doin’ your job, yeah. She’s part of the group…Jody.”

  “Okay—so you’re gonna run the idea by her? How you gonna play it?”

  “I’ll tell her about Peewee. Just kinda work it into the conversation. She’ll do the rest…probably mention it to Heidi. Heidi’ll probably be intrigued. She’ll mull it over for a while, then give me a call. I’ll talk about it, work it up into something that might appeal to the media. Heidi goes for that kinda thing. If I’m right, she’ll take the bait…”

  The two agents exchanged a look of mutual approval.

  “Not bad, Rick,” Bill said. “You been thinking. I like that. It shows initiative.”

  “Yeah, buddy, you’re starting to let your devious side come out. That’s a healthy sign. Can’t get anywhere without that.”

  “But, if she does go for it, I’ll need you guys to help me.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ll have to show her that I’m organized. Let her know that I’ve got access to the equipment we’ll need to pull it off—a few rifles, walkie-talkies maybe, a local contact. I can’t expect her to buy into it without furnishing the practicalities.”

  “Okay. You figure out what you need, then let us know,” Bill agreed.

  “But listen here, regardless of what we do for you, you don’t go around blowing your horn about it. Comprende?”

  “I’m not stupid,” Rick said. “This is all between us and nobody else.”

  “Glad to hear it, Rick.”

  “Yeah,” Tom agreed, “our boy’s getting smarter all the time.”