The Sound of Echoes

by Eric Bernt

  She nodded. “I will miss seeing you, Eddie. It was nice having visitors.”

  “I will miss seeing you, too.”

  “I am your second angel.”

  “Yes, you are.” He paused to consider what he was about to say. “I will see you again.”

  “Do you promise?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I promise.”

  “And a promise is a promise.”

  “Yes, it is.” He opened the door the rest of the way, unaware that a man was standing on the other side of it.

  CHAPTER 88

  FRONT ENTRANCE

  DAVID’S PLACE

  June 2, 10:50 a.m.

  Sheila McCourt and Sheila Bryce, better known as the Sheilas, walked briskly toward Nance as he came out of the building. “Fancy meeting you ladies here,” he said.

  “Nice to see you again, Don,” Sheila B. said as cordially as she could. “Thought you partnered up on this one.”

  Behind him, Guthrie charged out of the front doors. “He did. With the best there is. Sheilas.” He offered a courteous nod.

  Sheila M. nodded back similarly. “Ray. Any of the others here yet?”

  “We’re the first,” answered Nance. “You’re the second. But the others won’t be far behind.”

  Sheila B. looked back and forth between the two men. “So you haven’t found them.”

  “Their signal died when we walked through the door,” Guthrie replied.

  “Sounds like they saw you coming,” Sheila M. said with a smirk.

  Nance clearly didn’t appreciate her tone. “Or somebody tipped them off.”

  “Believe that if it makes you feel better,” Sheila B. countered.

  Nance shook his head. “You know, I was gonna see if you two were interested in joining forces, seeing as how Dupre’s gonna show up with like five of his kids. But now I’m thinking, nah.”

  “Aw, we didn’t hurt your feelings, did we, darlin’?” Sheila M. said with mock sincerity.

  Guthrie stepped forward, pausing for a moment. He spoke with cold menace. “Just remember, we offered to play nice. Now, if you happen to find ’em first, don’t be surprised when we take them from you.”

  He and Nance turned to head back inside the building, when a sound grew rapidly in the distance. It was the low-decibel rumble of motorcycles being ridden at high speed in their direction.

  “You boys expecting company?” Sheila B. asked as she watched the bikers in their ninety-mile-an-hour approach.

  Nance tracked the motorcycles closely. “Pagans. Son of a bitch. What the hell are they doing here?”

  “Ain’t no coincidence,” his partner responded.

  “Somebody called them,” Nance said, eyeballing the Sheilas.

  Sheila M. spoke with a tone that was more concerned than it was defensive. “Wasn’t us, that’s for damn sure.”

  Sheila B. didn’t hesitate. “If you two are still interested in teaming up, we just changed our minds.”

  “Yeah, good idea,” Guthrie replied, completely distracted as the Pagans pulled into the parking lot.

  CHAPTER 89

  KITCHEN

  DAVID’S PLACE

  June 2, 10:52 a.m.

  Inside the kitchen, Eddie exited the broken freezer and bumped into Roberto, startling him. Eddie panicked. “Please don’t shoot.”

  Roberto held up his hands to show he was not in possession of a weapon. “What are you talking about? I’m here to help you, man.”

  Listening closely, Eddie nodded. “I believe you.” Eddie looked down to Roberto’s feet, studying them. “I wonder why I didn’t hear you?”

  Roberto lifted his pant leg to reveal the soft-soled shoes he was wearing. “Lots of our patients have real good hearing. I used to wake ’em up all the time. Wasn’t worth the hassle. So I got these special shoes and learned to walk real quiet.”

  “That is very impressive. Because I usually hear everything.”

  “I think you might have also been distracted.” He motioned to Lolo, who was peeking out from behind Eddie.

  She waved sheepishly. “Hi, Roberto. It’s me, Lolo.”

  “Yes, I know.” He nodded. “You’re Eddie, right?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “A lady named Eleanor is paying me to help you.”

  “I don’t know any lady named Eleanor.”

  “Well, she knows you.”

  “How much is she paying you to help me?”

  “None of your damn business.” Roberto turned to Lolo. “You should go on up to your room now and get under the covers.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until I say so.”

  She nodded, then headed for the door, where she paused and turned to Eddie. “You won’t forget your promise, will you?”

  “I will not forget.” He spoke with absolute conviction. As he watched Lolo exit, he heard the rumble of the arriving motorcycles. “Roberto, what is making all those loud engine noises? It hurts my ears.”

  “Man, if your ears are hurting now, you’re gonna have a serious problem.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out rubber earplugs. “My wife snores like a freight train. I can’t sleep a wink without these, but you’re gonna need them a whole lot more.” He offered them to Eddie.

  He examined them. “These look like excellent earplugs.”

  “Put them in your ears. It’s about to get way louder around here.”

  Eddie took the earplugs and placed them in his ears. He tilted his head from left to right, then rotated his head back and forth. “Yes, these are much better than tissue paper.”

  “Follow me.” Roberto led him out a delivery door.

  CHAPTER 90

  KELMAN NURSING AND REHAB CENTER

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  June 2, 10:55 a.m.

  The front-desk clerk finally scurried out of the office to the desk, where Mr. Elliott was waiting impatiently.

  In his German accent, he asked, “Is it common in this country to keep family members waiting so long to see their loved ones?”

  “I’m real sorry about that. I just had three major situations get dumped in my lap, but you don’t need to hear about that, do you?”

  “No, actually, I do not.”

  “Your patience is greatly appreciated.” The clerk smiled tensely. “How can I help you?”

  “I am here to visit my uncle Lawrence. Last name Walters.”

  “Lawrence is your uncle? How about that. I didn’t know he had any European relatives.”

  “Do you know the complete ancestry of all your patients?” Mr. Elliott asked a bit sharply, as any good German would.

  “No, I can’t say that I do, but I do know some,” the clerk said, clearly eager for this conversation to be over. “May I see your identification, please?”

  Mr. Elliott handed over his German passport, which identified him as Manfred Engels. The clerk studied the document. “German, huh? I guess you must be related through his wife.”

  Again with appropriate German disdain, Mr. Elliott replied, “How very astute of you.” He let the insult linger in the air along with the dreadful stench of hospital-strength antiseptic. “My mother was Anna’s older sister, Marie. She passed on twelve years ago. Apparently, they both carried the BRCA gene. One can only hope my cousin, Caitlin, is not also a carrier.”

  “One can only hope,” the clerk replied as he wrote down the man’s name in the official visitor’s log. He then pointed down the hall. “Lawrence’s room is that way, last door on the right.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Elliott nodded and walked down the hall. He glanced into each room as he passed, since the doors were all open—not unlike a gawker passing the scene of an accident who just couldn’t help but take a gander. It was only human nature to be curious about damage and decay. Because one day, it happens to everyone.

  Mr. Elliott arrived outside Lawrence’s door. He knocked gently. “Hello? Uncle Lawrence, are you awake?”

  CHAPTER 91

  DAVID�
�S PLACE

  WOODSDALE, MARYLAND

  June 2, 10:57 a.m.

  The four private investigators looked on as the Pagans circled around the front parking lot in a menacing ritual. It was a motorized dance of primitive territoriality. Each of the beasts rode atop a Harley-Davidson with no less than nine hundred cubic centimeters of engine displacement. These rides were not for the faint of heart, nor for the inexperienced.

  The bikes on display included a vintage Ironhead, a Forty-Eight Special, a Dyna, several Road Kings, and a matte-black Sportster. Each was among the baddest bikes on the road, and each commanded respect—even before an observer would notice the Pagan logo proudly worn on the back of each rider.

  These jackets were not worn casually. They were a badge of honor and could not be purchased in any store at any price. They had to be earned through blood and commitment, as defined by each group’s leader. When a motorcycle gang wore their colors, it was akin to pirates of a different era raising the Jolly Roger. It meant they were on official business. The question currently on the mind of each tracker hired by the American Heritage Foundation was, What the hell brought the Pagans here?

  As his brethren continued riding around the immediate area, including two carrying passengers on the backs of their bikes, the leader sped directly toward the four private investigators. They didn’t move. They knew to hold their ground.

  The Pagan screeched his bike to a stop within two feet of them and turned off his engine. He removed his helmet and got off his machine. It was only now that his full size could be appreciated. He was six feet four inches tall and 260 pounds, but it was the scars across his neck and face that gave him a truly menacing look.

  Guthrie stepped forward. “Can we help you with something?”

  “You dicks are upsetting some of the residents here. That ain’t right.”

  As the Pagans continued riding about in seemingly random fashion, it would soon become apparent that there was nothing haphazard about it. It was a well-orchestrated distraction. One of the two riders carrying a passenger sped off around the back of the building. He rode up to the kitchen loading area, stopping beneath a covered overhang, where they could no longer be seen from satellite view. This was where Roberto and Eddie were waiting.

  Eddie kept his hands over his ears until the rider switched off his engine and got off the bike. The Pagan removed his helmet, revealing a beard and unruly shoulder-length hair. “What’s up, Uncle?”

  “Hey, man, thanks for coming,” Roberto answered, then gave his nephew a hug.

  “We’re family.” The biker eyed Eddie as the passenger also dismounted. “This the dude?”

  Roberto nodded. “This is him. Eddie, this is my nephew, Lobo. Lobo, this is Eddie.”

  “Lobo means wolf in Spanish,” noted Eddie. “Did you know that?”

  “You don’t fucking say,” he replied sharply.

  “Yes, I do fucking say,” Eddie replied. “I just did say.”

  Lobo’s female passenger removed her helmet and Pagans jacket. She was striking, particularly because of her gold teeth and the small lightning bolts tattooed on her cheeks. She offered the jacket and helmet to Eddie. “Put these on.”

  Eddie shook his head. “Those are not mine.”

  “No, shit. Put ’em on, fool.” She was clearly not one to suffer nuisance lightly, nor those outside the neurological norm.

  Roberto intervened. “Eddie, they’re here to help you. She’s giving you a disguise so the men looking for you won’t recognize you.”

  Eddie thought for a moment, then nodded. “In that case, thank you.” He put on the helmet and jacket. His face was hidden behind a tinted face shield. “Everything looks very dark now.”

  Lobo studied him, then turned to Roberto. “He does realize what an honor it is to be wearing our colors, don’t he?”

  “Nephew, he ain’t got a clue,” his uncle responded. “Please remember he’s got . . . issues.”

  “I have Asperger’s syndrome,” Eddie corrected him. “But I have learned it is now more commonly referred to as autism spectrum disorder.”

  “I couldn’t give a shit. Get on.” Lobo motioned to the back of his bike, where his girlfriend had been sitting.

  Eddie did not move. “I have never ridden on a motorcycle before.”

  Roberto stepped toward him and spoke intensely. “If you ever want to see your friends again, get on the damn motorcycle and keep your mouth shut.”

  Eddie nodded and got on the back of the motorcycle. Lobo mounted the bike in front of him and started the engine. As he put the hog into gear and ROARED off, Eddie was thrown back into the sissy bar and nearly fell off. He instinctively grabbed onto what was in front of him, which happened to be Lobo.

  Eddie was terrified. He desperately wanted to let go of Lobo because it was most definitely physical contact, and with a stranger, no less—but he was more afraid of falling off the motorcycle. Not sure what else to do, he closed his eyes as tightly as he could and started to silently repeat every word of the conversations he and Lolo had had earlier. He started with a conversation that included Skylar.

  “‘You make my heart sing . . . I do? . . . Has anyone ever told you that before? . . . I don’t think so, and I probably would have remembered something like that . . . Skylar, you are a doctor. You should know that hearts cannot sing . . . It’s an expression . . . I don’t like expressions . . . Eddie, I’m sorry to disagree with you on this, but you are wrong. Hearts can sing. They sure can . . . Internal organs cannot sing. It’s physically impossible . . . Maybe yours just hasn’t learned how. Your heart. To sing, I mean . . . Maybe you can teach him, Lolo.’”

  It was only now that he realized she had. Eddie’s heart was singing. Yes, it really was. Thump-thump, thump-thump. He could feel it. He really could. Sitting there on the back of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, clinging for dear life to a man who looked like a wolf, Eddie finally understood what Lolo and Skylar had been talking about. Thump-thump, thump-thump.

  Of course hearts could not sing literally! It was a metaphor used to describe the sensation of bursting with joy. Which meant it was an expression, a type of language he had always disliked because he found them confusing. But for the first time in his life, he understood an expression. Because he could feel it. He could hear his heart singing. Thump-thump, thump-thump. Not just beating but singing.

  For the rest of Eddie’s first-ever motorcycle ride, this was what he focused on. Not the incredibly loud two-cylinder Harley-Davidson engine revving beneath him. Not the sound of the wind whipping past him at over seventy miles per hour. Not even the terror he felt every time Lobo leaned the motorcycle into a turn. Eddie listened to the music of his heart. Thump-thump, thump-thump.

  And it was beautiful.

  CHAPTER 92

  KELMAN NURSING AND REHAB CENTER

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  June 2, 11:01 a.m.

  Mr. Elliott entered Lawrence’s room slowly. “Uncle Lawrence, can you hear me?” He saw the old man sitting in his easy chair, which was pointed out the window. He must be sleeping, the assassin figured. It’s what old people spend most of their time doing. What a waste.

  “How would you like to take a little excursion today?” he asked, not expecting a response. Which explained the surprise on his face when he received one.

  “Sounds good to me.” The man sitting in the chair, clenching a dart gun in his right hand, was not Lawrence. He was wearing a white wig cut just like the old man’s, but it was not him.

  He stood up suddenly and fired a dart into Mr. Elliott’s abdomen. Mr. Elliott quickly removed the dart, but not before whatever drug it contained had entered his bloodstream. It was nearly instantaneous. His body sagged as he desperately tried to fight off its effects.

  Dropping the German accent, he spoke in his regular voice as the man stepped out of the chair to face him. “Who the hell are you?”

  The man removed his wig. “Someone who has been waiting to meet you for a very long t
ime.”

  “I gather this is personal for you, then,” Mr. Elliott replied as he reached toward the small of his back, where he had concealed a Ruger beneath his shirt. But he did not reach it quickly enough.

  The man kicked him squarely in the chest, sending him flying backward into a nightstand holding several framed photographs of Lawrence and family members. The glass frames shattered as the Ruger escaped from Mr. Elliott’s grasp and slid across the floor. Mr. Elliott grabbed one of the broken frames and threw it at the man. Then another. And another.

  Several of the flying shards of glass cut into the man’s flesh: one in his forearm, one in his chest, and one in his cheek, which just stuck there like some new type of adornment that might accompany a nose ring or a tribal ear stretching. He showed no emotion at all as he removed the glass from his face. Blood streamed from the wound. As he dropped the shard to the cold linoleum floor, it made a distinctive plink sound.

  It was only now that Mr. Elliott realized what he was up against, particularly as his motor functions grew increasingly impaired from the tranquilizer. He desperately started throwing anything he could grab. A lamp, which his assailant managed to duck, smashed into a cinder-block wall behind him; a desk chair sailed through the window with a loud crash; and a brass-handled derby walking cane, he effortlessly caught in midair with one hand.

  “My turn.” Holding the bottom of the cane, Hogan wielded it like a club and slammed the brass handle into the side of Mr. Elliott’s head. His skull shattered. The sound was distinctive. “That was for a friend of mine.”

  Mr. Elliott immediately dropped to all fours, bleeding profusely but still struggling to maintain consciousness. He desperately tried to crawl toward his weapon. “Who . . . was your friend?”

  “I won’t give you the satisfaction.” Her name was Kindra Ogletree. The thought only seemed to further fuel Hogan’s rage.

  Mr. Elliott was defenseless against the next strike, a front kick to his face. His nose was completely shattered. He went down in a heap and did not get back up. “That was for my other friend who tried to help the first one.” His name was Lyle Murphy.