The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day

by Patrick O'Brien

  “Okay, so there you go, Mitch…you’re in possession of knowledge they don’t want known. And if at some point they do get to you, you have a handful of aces, which puts you in a position to cut a deal. But it’s all premised on them knowing about you in the first place and then finding you. At this point, they may not even know you exist.”

  “I like the sound of that, Lisa. That’s good thinking. But you think I should lay low for a time, maybe take a trip somewhere?”

  “Europe, Mitch—we’ll go to Europe for a year or so…”

  “I just got back from Europe, Lisa. How ’bout somewhere else? Africa? South America?”

  “Daddy has a boat—a big sailboat. And you can go all over the world with one of those…”

  “I don’t know how to sail.”

  “I do.”

  “It’s an idea. But I gotta get back to Portland first. Maybe I’ll just stick with the original plan—ditch Heidi’s car and rent one.”

  “Okay, but don’t forget the fingerprints.”

  55

  According to old gangster movies Lisa had seen, the police or FBI very often showed up at a mobster’s funeral just to note the presence of anyone else of investigative interest, and it was conceivable that agents might be at Heidi’s funeral for the same reason. Even though the threat from the group and the group itself had been eliminated, there might remain unanswered questions about other activities that had to be cleared up. Family members themselves would be of no interest, of course, but anyone else would be fair game. Employing that rationale as a justification, Lisa recommended they forgo whatever obligation they might feel to attend.

  “We’ll put flowers on her grave afterwards,” she said.

  “Shall we do it around midnight, when we’re sure nobody’ll be there to see us?”

  “Very funny, Mitch—I’m trying to help us here.”

  She had an open suitcase on her bed and had just finished topping off several layers of sweaters, blouses, and other items with a pair of ski pants. The notion of sailing off into the sunset for the duration of an extended departure had been shelved for the time being. For one thing, the weather had turned bad. A snowstorm had just dumped several inches of snow all up and down the Willamette Valley and along the Columbia River. The accompanying cold snap had caked numerous motor and sailing craft with a thick layer of ice, and for all practical purposes had immobilized virtually all boating activity within a fifty-mile radius. There had even been talk of ice floes in the Columbia River, and the Coast Guard had advised against doing anything foolish.

  But Lisa’s dad had proffered his own advisement. He was not opposed to having his daughter spend time on the high seas. He liked the idea that she wanted to be adventurous, fearless, and independent, and he was not going to stand in the way of letting her venture off aboard the family yacht. He himself had cruised the San Juans, the Prince Edward Islands, and as far south as Baja, California. He knew the vessel’s capability and had no doubt that it could endure the rigors of a one- or two-year voyage through the Caribbean or down to the South Seas. And he had every confidence in his daughter’s proficiency; after all, he had taught her all the fine points of seamanship himself. But first things first.

  In order to condone his daughter’s desire to fling aside responsibility for a time and live the life of a cruiser, the boat needed refurbishment. He was not going to send it off without updating the rigging and all the other attachments. He might even have the hull painted; at least apply new bottom paint. And the motor could stand a tune-up and maybe even an overhaul. And he had been thinking of installing the latest GPS system. The old one worked fine, but he wanted his daughter to have the best survival tools on the market. He might even buy a new set of sails; the old ones had been around since day one.

  It hadn’t taken much persuasion. Both Lisa and Mitch appreciated not only that Lisa’s dad approved what, to the average person, probably had the taint of a chimerical undertaking but that, as well, he was so ready to help. But, just as important, they also appreciated that none of the upgrades could be made much before late spring. A temporary alternative had been decided on.

  Mitch walked over to her bedroom window and looked out. The heavy layer of snow-laden clouds had started to thin out, and a faint, translucent glow of sunlight filtered through with a hint of eventual clearing. He and Lisa had been together since he had gotten back from Butte and, with the suspense of not knowing exactly how things stood, he was anxious to leave. Their airline tickets had already been reserved, a good two weeks in advance, and the few possessions he had accumulated in the short time he had been back from Europe had all gone into storage. His own luggage, including hiking and skiing gear, sat in the foyer of Lisa’s apartment, ready to go into the elevator and down to the lobby. She had only to finish her own packing, and her dad would be there to meet them.

  For several days after he got back from Montana, he had hung out in Lisa’s apartment; not with all the shades pulled down and the curtains closed, but still feeling very much like a hunted man. He had no way knowing, of course, whether they might actually be looking for him or whether he was just gripped by paranoia. The news reports that had come out afterwards hadn’t mentioned anything about the investigation being continued. According to the FBI bulletin, the matter had ended with the “gun battle” at Art Jimson’s ranch. A domestic terrorist group had been surprised in the act of what amounted to a reprisal for the purported willful destruction of an endangered species, and the perpetrators, rather than surrender, had initiated an unprovoked firefight with FBI agents. The “unfortunate” incident had resulted in the death of all the perpetrators (they apparently viewed themselves as martyrs for a cause and hoped that their deaths would inspire others to emulate their commitment). In any case, the public could rest assured that the danger had passed; that the FBI had rooted out a terrorist organization that had sought to use violent methods to advance an agenda diametrically at odds with mainstream America.

  The local media—liberal in its bent—was not so easily impressed. As soon as the news broke and the identities of everyone in the group had been released, a small platoon of reporters throughout the Portland metro area had done what all good reporters are wont to do—they had set out to investigate the facts; rather, to ascertain what facts, if any, remained to be uncovered.

  After a month-long stretch of interviewing friends, relatives, acquaintances, and whoever else they could find, their curiosity turned up a wealth of personal information about each one of the group’s members, but nothing at all in the way of nefarious official shenanigans or a possible cover-up. And, most disappointing and frustrating of all, their efforts to learn about the group itself, as a terrorist group, ran headlong into a stone wall. Even Heidi’s husband stymied them. His only concession to the public’s right to know came in the form of a terse statement:

  “Heidi was a loving mother and a good wife. I deeply regret her loss and that she carried her notion of political activism to the extreme. Though we were close in many things, I had no real knowledge of her activities and can only try to fathom what, ultimately, motivated her.”

  Finally, the frenzied attempts to learn whatever else was to be learned simmered down, and those who had expressed incredulity and surprise went about their business. As with an earthquake, the event had risen high on everyone’s list of newsworthy topics, but then, after the natural fashion, had fallen off…and everyone went home.

  All of which fortified Mitch’s shaky sense of security. With each passing day, he had tuned in to the news channels to see what he could glean between the lines. With as much interest as an avid sports fan keeping track of his favorite team, he watched for any new announcements that might portend a renewed effort by the FBI to delve further into a rather bizarre, though certainly not unique, undertaking. He wanted, and needed, the assurance of safety. Despite not wanting to know if anyone out there was looking for him, paradoxically he had to know. He couldn’t resist the open flame; at times eve
n considered a phone call to the FBI to ask if they had closed the case; or were they still interested in it? Foolish even to think of such a thing, but the fear gnawed at him. Finally, his fear gave way to the inevitable…

  Posing as a reporter, he called the FBI office in Portland and asked to speak to the agent in charge of the case. Point blank, when the agent came on line, he inquired as to whether the case had been closed.

  “We don’t usually give out information like that,” Bill Hammerstein told him. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t waste more of my time on it.”

  “Does that mean it’s closed, then?”

  “You’ll have to draw your own conclusions on that, sir.”

  “Well, it’s my job to ask. You know how it is with reporters—they’re always looking for something else to write about.”

  “I can appreciate that. But, trust me—your time would be better spent elsewhere. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks for your time.”

  “That’s quite all right.”

  “Mitch, can you help me with this?”

  He turned away from the window and went to the bedside. Lisa had finished packing the last of four suitcases and was having trouble with one of the straps. Mitch pressed down on the bag’s upper half and pushed the buckle pin into place.

  “You need to lose some weight,” he said. “It’s going to cost as much as the plane ticket just to get them all there.”

  She kissed him on the cheek.

  “I never worry about minor details,” she said. “But, look, why don’t we just stop on the way to the airport and drop off the flowers? It’s on the way, and Daddy won’t mind.”

  “He’ll wonder who she is, won’t he?”

  “We’ll tell him it’s just a dear friend who recently passed away. I’ll make up a story. People die all the time…”

  “So your folks never knew any of them, huh?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just…it’s just that nobody’ll ever know what really happened, I guess.”

  Lisa went to her dresser and picked up a black and white Teddy bear. Holding it in her hand, she looked at it as though to make a decision.

  “Should I take this with me?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Teddy bear—my lucky Teddy bear—should I take it with me?”

  “You got me there, Lisa. You wanna take it? Take it.”

  Lisa set the cuddly black and white bear next to her purse and commenced putting a few toilet articles in a small bag.

  “Should I start taking things down to the lobby?”

  “Daddy’s bringing Lope…he’ll do it.”

  Mitch looked at his watch. “What time’s he supposed to be here?”

  “In a little bit.”

  A short while later the apartment buzzer sounded.

  “That’d be him now,” Lisa said. “Can you let him in?”

  “Sure.”

  Lope appeared in the doorway. He had on a wool over-shirt and a stocking cap.

  “Buenas dias, Lope! Como esta?”

  “Muy bien, Señor Mitch. Y como esta?”

  “Very well, Lope, very well. But come in, come in. Are you ready for some exercise?”

  “Si, señor…Lope esta listo.”

  “Good, because all this stuff has to go down.”

  Lope looked at the pile of suitcases and ski equipment. “Que mucho! Por los dos?”

  “Si, Lope,” Lisa said, joining them. “Pero la mayoria pertenece a Mitch. It’s all Mitch’s.”

  Lope laughed. “No, no, señorita, yo no pienso.”

  Mitch chuckled. “Lope es hombre inteligente, no?”

  Lisa smiled. “Well, half, anyway.”

  “The lighter half.”

  Lope laughed again. “You want I take down now?”

  “Yes, Lope, please.”

  Lope picked up two suitcases, one in each hand.

  “I’ll help you carry it all to the elevator,” Mitch said, following Lope out the door with skis in one hand and ski boots in the other.

  After it was all loaded on board, Lope stood in front of the button panel and looked around.

  “No more room,” he said helplessly.

  “That’s okay, Lope, tell Daddy Mitch and I will take the stairs.”

  Mitch turned to Lisa. “Will all this fit into your dad’s car?”

  “I bring my truck,” Lope said. “I follow out to the airport.”

  “Good idea.”

  Shortly afterwards, Lisa and Mitch met Lope in the lobby, and Mitch helped carry the bags and equipment out to the parking entrance. Lope’s pickup truck was parked at the curb, just beyond the double-glass doorway.

  Lisa’s dad, wearing a leather overcoat with a black fox fur collar, stood leaning against the Cadillac’s fender, holding an Arturo Fuente handmade cigar in one hand and a silver flask of Irish whiskey in the other. Lisa walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Mitch came up a moment later.

  Mr. Coleman, putting the cigar in his mouth, shook Mitch’s hand.

  “My boy, you and my daughter certainly picked the right time of year to be off to Spain. I only wish I were going with you.”

  “You and Mommy can join us later, Daddy.”

  “We may do that. It’s been awhile since we did the Grand Tour. It’d give us a chance to see how things have changed.”

  Lope finished loading the last of the bags into his pickup and walked over. “I am ready now, Señor Coleman,” he said. “You want I follow?”

  “Yes, Lope, just stay behind me. And when we get there, we’ll park in the lot. We can use a handcart for the luggage. Are you sure you’ve got everything you need, Lisa? We can always make room for more, you know…”

  “I’ll be fine, Daddy.”

  “And you, Mitch, how are you fixed?”

  “I’ve got two changes of underwear and three extra pair of socks. I’ll manage.”

  Mr. Coleman chortled happily at the young man’s little joke. Along with a sense of humor, one of the things he felt they had in common was a certain penchant for frivolously disregarding an oftentimes serious intent.

  “Well, if you run out of socks, be sure to let me know. I’ll have Natalie send you an extra pair.” Pleased with his own little joke, he guffawed.

  Chuckling, Mitch allowed as how she might include a box of Arturo Fuente cigars along with them.

  “Your tastes are becoming expensive, my boy,” Mr. Coleman said with a smile and without reproach. “But that’s only in the natural progression of things—always moving up the ladder to something better. Once you’ve tasted a top-shelf Hennessey Cognac, it’s hard to go back to anything less. Human nature, I suppose.”

  “Who knows? It may be my downfall.”

  “Nonsense…Nothing good is ever a downfall. But Lope is standing here, shivering in the cold. Being from the southern climes, he’s not used to what, so far, has turned out to be a rather extreme winter. I must say, it is unusually cold, isn’t it? But we tarry…”