The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day

by Patrick O'Brien

  Rick gave him a big grin.

  “The two gentlemen would like to make your acquaintance, Peewee,” he said, loud enough for the agents to hear. “Are you available right now? Is this a good time for you, or would you like to freshen up first?”

  Peewee looked over at the agents and grinned.

  “Tell ’em I’m on my way. I just wanna powder my nose first.”

  Rick laughed.

  “Better do as they say, man. They could come down on both of us.”

  Peewee scratched a two-day stubble and thought it over. He wasn’t about to be rushed. “Tell the two gentlemen that, in the spirit of cooperation, I’ll honor their request,” he said.

  Rick walked back to the agents’ car. “He’s pulling himself together. He’ll be right over.”

  “I hope he doesn’t feel inconvenienced.”

  “Nah, he’s doin’ his early-morning breathing exercises. It’s part of his daily routine. It keeps him sharp.”

  “No shit?”

  “A real health nut, huh?” Tom quipped.

  The two agents looked at each other and laughed.

  Peewee came up.

  “Morning.”

  The two agents nodded.

  “Guys, this here is Peewee,” Rick said, somewhat in the manner of a circus barker introducing his next act. “He’s gonna be our reconnaissance specialist. With him along to guide our little band of boys and girls, we’ll get to where you want us to be at the time you want us to be there.”

  Peewee fell in with the shtick.

  “I’m your man,” he said, “not necessarily the better half of the team but the other half, anyway. We’re at your service.”

  The two agents looked him over. Small and wiry, with sharp, angular features and dark, smoldering eyes full of mockery and defiance, he seemed the epitome of a renegade biker: an impression enhanced by a leather jacket, thick-soled, scuffed motorcycle boots, a Death Head ring on his finger, and a dark blue baseball cap that might have been worn by a car mechanic badly in need of a haircut.

  “Rick tells us you got a drinking problem, Peewee,” Agent Hammerstein said. “That right?”

  “I get drunk once in a while. Doesn’t everybody?”

  “He also says you were the mastermind behind this whole thing. That it was your idea?”

  “I’d say it was Mr. Budweiser’s idea more than mine. But I’ll take credit for it.”

  The two agents chuckled.

  “You don’t say much, do you, Peewee? Or maybe it’s just the circumstances?”

  “I got a hangover right now. But maybe, if you two fellas like, we can all get together later and have a little love fest.”

  The two agents chuckled again.

  “You guys oughta form a partnership,” Agent McCullers said. “You could get double-billing on the comedy circuit.”

  “We’d have to clean up our act first. Get a PG rating, anyway.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. But tell me something, Peewee, and I want you to be real honest with me here…you smoke a little dope now and then, don’t you?”

  Peewee thought it over.

  “Only for my lumbago, and a little something to counteract the pain of living. Life’s little tribulations and all that.”

  Agent McCullers continued. “You bring a change of clothing with you? A toothbrush? Mouthwash? Anything like that?”

  “I usually travel light. But I got a few things. Why?”

  “You put it all in some kind of bag?”

  “A gym bag, yeah.”

  Agent McCullers paused for effect, then said, “Why don’t you get that little bag right now and bring it over to me? Just reach inside the van and get it. Don’t fumble around for it.”

  Peewee turned to Rick.

  “What the fuck is this, man? Some kind of bust?”

  Rick swallowed hard. To Agent Hammerstein, he said, “I’m here, man, just like you wanted, and I’m doin’ everything you want. How come you’re fuckin’ with us? Peewee’s my partner, and he’s gonna be an asset to the whole operation…”

  Agent McCullers looked over at his partner and smiled.

  “What do you think, Bill? Should we forget it?”

  His partner snickered.

  “Yeah…I suppose. We’re not likely to find anything, anyway. But I’ll tell you what I would like, Peewee, and you can take this to the bank. If you don’t clean yourself up and get with a more respectable and convincing image, I personally will haul your ass in for looking like a piece of dog shit. In case you didn’t know it, it’s against the law to leave dog shit in the street, and right now you’re in violation of that law. You dig?”

  “Hey, man, I always dress like this—this is me.”

  “I don’t give a fuck who it is. There’s no way in hell this group is gonna think you’re anything but a social misfit if they see you in attire more appropriate for a biker’s bar. And Rick, I credited you with more sense than that. You should have said something to the guy. You’re playing a role here, goddammit, and you need to keep that in mind. You could use a little cleaning up yourself.”

  “Whadda you want us to do—buy a new wardrobe?”

  “I want you to assume the appearance of someone they can identify with. The way you two are dressed now, they’re gonna wonder what the hell is up. The only way you could look more outta place is if you wore a clown outfit to a funeral for your mother.”

  Peewee and Rick laughed.

  “Can I borrow that line sometime?”

  “You can do anything you want with it, Rick. Just clean yourselves up.”

  Rick looked at his watch.

  “We’re supposed to meet them pretty soon.”

  “Give them a call. Tell them to go ahead without you. You’ll catch up. In the meantime, go home and change into something more presentable.”

  “It’s a long drive all the way back to my place, man…”

  Agent Hammerstein sat up in his seat and leaned partway out the window.

  “Well, let me put this as nicely as I can, Rick…we’ve put a lot of work into setting this up, and if you fuck it up because you haven’t got enough sense to play your role the way you’re supposed to, I’ll see that both of you go to jail. You established your bona fides with us, Rick, by cooperating, and so far you’ve done a pretty fair job, but you gotta stay serious. Don’t suddenly go slack on us. We’re not playing a game here. Comprende?”

  “Yeah…you want us to go home and take a bath?”

  “And get rid of the stubble, maybe stop and get the hair trimmed. You don’t have to don Ralph Lauren duds or anything like that. Just try your best to look like this all means something to you, besides a romp down memory lane. Okay?”

  “I’ll give them a call and let them know.”

  “That’s all we ask, Rick…stay with the script.”

  As Peewee and Rick walked back to the van and got in, the two agents looked on silently. They didn’t have high hopes that their pep talk would produce a sartorial miracle of any kind, and they were certain the habitual defiance that seemed an innate part of each man’s personality would probably prevent them from going over to the other side completely. They were sure to show up a bit scruffy, regardless—the hair, rather than trimmed, pulled back into a ponytail, the stubble left intact, and Rick might not bother to trade his black T-shirt for something less Gothic. Too much self-identity went into each man’s dress code, and they would do what they could to preserve as much of it as possible, even at the risk of incurring disapproval. But so long as they changed their clothes and got into something more suitable—the two agents could overlook any residual attitude needed to maintain a modicum of self-respect. They were, after all, concerned with a much bigger outcome than whether or not either Rick or Peewee conformed to their own personal dress codes.

  “So, whadda ya think, Tom? Is the game finally underway or not?”

  “I’d say everything’s set to go, Bill. But it’s not a done deal yet. We gotta get them out there first.
”

  “And even then, they gotta do what we want.”

  “Nothing about this is predicable, that’s for sure.”

  “I gotta feeling about Rick’s little buddy. He may be our best bet. I think, cornered, he’ll put up a fight, especially with a couple of beers in him. That’ll certainly get things moving.”

  “I believe you’re right. He’ll rise to the occasion.”

  “Let’s hope so. How about some breakfast, as long as we’re here?”

  “Sounds good.”

  36

  Breakfast sounded good to Heidi, too, as well as to the rest of them. After leaving her house, everyone drove up Sandy Boulevard and stopped at an IHOP, where they all sat together at a double table and ordered a kind of celebratory, rite-of-passage breakfast. For all the anxiety and uncertainty any of them had ever felt whenever on the threshold of a dramatic undertaking, a communal repast could fortify the state of mind necessary to carry through. To give a slight twist to a Samuel Pepys’ quotation, it was strange to see how a good meal and feasting together reconciled one to a contemplated course of action not entirely agreeable. A similar notion might be applied to a prisoner’s last meal—though the analogy, as it pertained to anyone in Heidi’s group, certainly would have seemed farfetched.

  Even though she wasn’t going with them to Montana, Lisa tagged along as far as the restaurant. She and Mitch had spent the night together at his apartment, and she wanted to be with him up to the last minute to ensure that he did not change his mind about going. For all the sincerity of the commitment he had made to Heidi, he had doubts about the desirability of traipsing several miles across unfamiliar range-land to shoot a few cows and then scurry off. The idea struck him as being of little value in terms of the kind of message it would convey to anyone, and it seemed downright silly: more of a theatrical stunt than anything else. Besides—and this was an argument he couldn’t quite square—he had read that certain states did allow regulated wolf kills as a way to control the population. In some cases, it was, in fact, all right for a rancher to shoot the beasts without suffering consequences. In light of such a seeming contradiction, where was the logic in protesting the kind of thing being done anyway where it was legal? To be consistent in their objection to wolf kills, maybe Heidi and her little group should journey throughout the West and, whenever they heard about a rancher taking it upon himself to shoot a non-compliant wolf, kill a few of his cattle to teach him an object lesson. If what they intended to do was all about publicity, in hopes of focusing awareness, perhaps they might want to consider the idea. It would, after all, satisfy their environmental objectives while at the same time giving them that sense of high adventure and derringdo they seemed to crave and that, if truth were known, may have been as much of a motivation.

  Whether and to what extent Mitch’s reservations indicated a genuine reluctance to go along, or simply reflected a penchant for critical thinking, thanks to Lisa’s intervention, the issue never got beyond pillow talk. In her own way, she managed to muffle any dissenting opinion he might have tossed out as food for the others to fatten up any of their own reservations. Heidi and the others might, themselves, have harbored a troubling thought or two about going to Montana, but Lisa tried her best to make sure they never got the benefit of Mitch’s input.

  Wearing a diaphanous red and black negligee that stopped just short of mid-thigh, and rivaled anything for sexiness found in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, Lisa had curled up against him and, while he prattled on, listened with a dutiful and thoughtful gaze. As his objections played themselves out, she feathered his bare abdomen with her fingertips and said, “There’s a difference between wanton destruction of a wild animal and regulated culling, isn’t there, Mitch?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “And we’re protesting wanton destruction, not regulated culling, right?”

  He raised his head off the pillow and looked at her.

  “I see where you’re going with this, Lisa, but—”

  “Well, then what might happen elsewhere doesn’t have any bearing on what we’re doing, does it?”

  “Not if it’s just wanton destruction you’re talking about…”

  “Exactly. But that’s not the only reason we’re protesting. We’re also drawing attention to the importance of allowing nature to maintain a healthy balance. And that’s useful in itself, because wolves are as much a part of a healthy environment as bears, mountain lions, badgers, raccoons, wolverines, coyotes, and any other predator. They all have their place, Mitch.”

  “I know all that, Lisa. And it’s not really that so much as the extreme nature of what we’re doing. I mean, I like Heidi, have a lot of respect for her convictions, but, I have to say, these shenanigans—and, in a sense, that’s what they are—seem to be more about staging an extravagant performance than about a serious attempt to draw attention to something. For example, we could’ve just made Mobley Johnson the object of a letter-writing campaign, explaining why it’s not okay to dump his garbage along the roadside; we might have even showed up at his house and offered to sit down and discuss it with him. How much better would it have been if we had used persuasion to bring him around to our side? We might have made a friend, as well as a real convert. And the construction-site caper—if we’d simply gone out there to protest with signs and some kind of rally, we could have garnered the same amount of publicity, not to mention that what’s-his-name would still be alive.”

  “You miss the point of it all, Mitch. You’re too stuck in the idea of the sensible approach. Maybe doing it your way would have worked better—or achieved the same result—but, here’s the thing, Mitch…it wouldn’t have been as much fun. Heidi’s way may be outrageous, even to the point of craziness, but it has the advantage of turning it all into something challenging and exciting, even a bit dangerous. I mean, I’ve listened to speeches at protest rallies…I’ve been swept up in the wonderful sense of camaraderie that’s to be had…I’ve had that deep awareness of being connected to something much larger and far more meaningful than the individual ego; I’ve lost myself in the crowd. But none of it has ever compared to the feeling of stepping beyond the limits into a zone that’s both frightening and exhilarating, Mitch. In either case, it’s wonderful to be alive, but the latter is so much more intense.”

  “Why don’t you just take up skydiving or mountain climbing? They’re both pretty intense.”

  She looked at him as if to chide him for his flippancy. But slipping her hand under the drawstring of his pajama bottoms instead, she whispered, “Now tell me you’re going to be there tomorrow, Mitch, right along with everyone else.”

  Mitch swallowed away a sudden catch in his throat and just stared at her with the bemused expression of one for whom speech no longer seems an option.

  Without another word, she brushed her lips lightly against his, then rolled on top of him. Spreading her thighs apart, she straddled him at the waist and lifted her negligee up over her head, tossing it aside. Leaning forward, she put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

  “What are you thinking right now, Mitch?” she asked.

  “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “Good…because you think too much, and I want you to stop. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you get back from Montana, we’ll do something special…maybe go to Arizona and do some hiking. Daddy has a condo in Scottsdale. We can hike during the day and spend our evenings enjoying the nightlife. Does that sound like fun?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “Good…I’d like that, too. I’d like that very much, Mitch…”

  § § § § § §

  “Glad to see you could make it,” Heidi said. She, along with the others, had arrived at the restaurant a few minutes before, and by the time Lisa and Mitch came in and sat down, they were comfortably seated at a table in the center of the room. The waitress had already set out coffe
epots for everyone and had handed out menus.

  “Mitch insisted I drive faster so we wouldn’t be late, but I didn’t want to get stopped.”

  “All ready to go, then, huh, Mitch?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it, Heidi. I’m here with bells on.”

  “It’s all he could talk about last night. I even got Daddy to lend him one of his hunting rifles. I told him he was going deer hunting in eastern Oregon with some friends. Daddy was impressed…he’s a hunter himself.”

  “Before you know it, you’ll be a chip off the old block, Mitch,” Heidi kidded him.

  Lisa laughed and gave Mitch’s hand a squeeze.

  “I don’t know about that. But he and Daddy have hit it off. Right, Mitch?”

  “Uh, huh.”

  The breakfast orders came and were placed around the table. The waitress got Mike and Tony’s mixed up, but neither said anything; after she was gone, they simply exchanged the plate of sausage and eggs for the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and then both dug in.

  Carlos, Ralph, and Misty had ordered an eight-ounce sirloin apiece, with pancakes on the side. Jody had eggs Benedict, along with half a grapefruit. Mitch had oatmeal mush, sprinkled with brown sugar and raisins, and Heidi opted for hamburger steak, two eggs sunny-side up, hash browns, and sourdough toast. Lisa had a bowl of granola and a side dish of fresh strawberries and cream.

  “So how long do you think it’ll take you to get there?” she asked.

  After dousing the hamburger steak and hash browns with ketchup, Heidi set the bottle aside and said, “Staying at about sixty-five, maybe thirteen or fourteen hours…maybe more with rest stops.”

  “Are you gonna drive straight through?”

  “There’s been some debate about that…”

  “Tony wants to stop in Missoula so he can go to a cowboy bar,” Mike said.

  “I do not!”

  “That’s what you said.”

  “I did not. Anyway, I was just joking.”

  “Why don’t you go along with us, Lisa?” Carlos brought out. He had just drenched his pancakes with raspberry syrup and had cut out a wedge-shaped portion with his fork. He held the bite halfway between the plate and his mouth.