Once again through his son-in-law, Richard, Johnny Thapaha had invited Mike to the top of this desolate mesa, this time to spend a night under a brilliant canopy of stars. Johnny Thapaha sat with his back to the fire, looking over the valley below. There, the utter darkness was broken by the occasional light from Navajo homes preparing for the night.
Mike had prepared for this outing, wearing a wool sweater under his blue windbreaker. Even with the layered clothes, Mike felt the biting cold of the night air. He boiled some water in a metal coffee pot on the fire. He put a few jasmine tea leaves into two metal mugs, splashed hot boiling water on them, and offered one to Johnny Thapaha, who silently accepted the mug. Johnny Thapaha put the fragrant brew to his lips, blowing over the mug to cool the tea before taking a sip. Mike, sitting off to the side, did likewise.
In the darkness, by the flickering fire and occasional sparks that shot into the air, Mike had talked about his childhood. How he was born in China and how he grew up in Washington, D.C. He spoke about the lessons that he had learned these past few weeks and about the sense of community that he felt on the Navajo reservation. Through all of this, Johnny sat quietly neither replying nor even suggesting that he was paying attention.
The two men sat on the stark mesa and pondered each other, the cosmos, and why they were there.
“Michael. He was young — like you. And like you he had traveled over great distances to come to this place. He was Cha-le-gai, as you are. But his voyage was through the cosmos; yours across the ocean.”
The words snapped Mike out of his reverie. “Was he alive? Is he still alive?”
“No. I found him in the wreckage of a great ship. It was the fourth ship from far away. He was gasping for breath. His three companions had passed on before him. He was the fourth, the promised one. The traveler.”
“What do you mean the promised one?”
“All of nature is divided into four. There are four colors, four cardinal directions: north, south, east, west, four sacred mountains, and the four visitors. The traveler has been spoken of for many generations, through many voices.”
“What did you do?”
“I brought him to this mesa, on the ledge below. I tried to bring him back to walk with us, but his injuries were too great.”
“Did he say anything?”
“It was not talk as we know it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw wondrous things. I saw horrible things.”
“What things?”
“Things I cannot say.”
“What were they doing here?”
“To discover and to learn.”
“How long did he live?”
“Not long. Four days and four nights.”
“Where is he now?”
“His travels were many and of long duration. Now he walks with the spirits of his fathers. After his spirit left, I committed his mortal remains to the earth. His clothing I burned.”
With that Johnny Thapaha lapsed into the silence that Mike had come to know so well. The rest of the evening was spent in solitude. Johnny Thapaha meditated; Mike marveled at the brilliance of the night sky and pondered the meaning of Johnny Thapaha’s message and his fourth traveler.
“Mike? I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Smith, as he reentered the small conference room where Mike stood quietly, hand still on the receiver. “Is there anything wrong?”
“Oh, hi, George. I just got word that a good friend of mine passed away. Sorry, I was distracted,” said Mike as his thoughts once again focused on the present.
Although Mike visited the gentle mystic many times over the years, Johnny Thapaha never again spoke of the traveler. Mike did, however, learn much from the Navajo and, in the course of that relationship, developed a strong sense of belonging. Over time, Mike was accepted into Johnny Thapaha’s extended family.
The news of Johnny Thapaha’s death had a profound effect on Mike. It was more than losing a friend. After all, people do get old and pass on. That wasn’t it. It was the mystery, the unresolved questions that would now remain unanswered forever.
In his hands, Smith held a lightweight summer tan poplin suit, blue cotton buttoned down long sleeve shirt, brown leather belt and tie shoes, brown socks, and, wonders of wonders, a navy blue silk tie with orange diagonal stripes — the University of Virginia school tie. The normally reserved Mike was pleasantly surprised by Smith’s resourceful nature.
“I thought the tie would be a nice touch,” said Smith.
1993: Identification
Mike and Adams decided to take Adams’ government issued sedan for the trip to Severna Park, Maryland, to interview Jerry Mitchell, the owner of the panel truck involved in the attack on Huntersville Road. It was late afternoon before the two of them were able to get going.
About 6:30 p.m., they pulled into the driveway of the neatly kept clapboard frame house, with the black wrought iron sign spelling out “Mitchell” at the corner of the driveway. Adams and Mike walked up to the door and rang the doorbell. A middle aged woman answered the bell.
“Hello, Ma’am. I’m Herbert Adams, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Is Mr. Mitchell available?”
“Jerry isn’t here. I’m Mary Lou Mitchell, his wife. Is he in trouble?” said Mrs. Mitchell, a worried look on her face. “He hasn’t been home since yesterday morning when he left for work. I’ve called and called, no one knows where he is.”
Mike and Adams exchanged quick glances.
“Does he often not come home?” Adams asked.
“No, it’s not like him at all. God, I hope nothing’s happened to him,” said Mrs. Mitchell with tears starting to form in her eyes. “Do you know something? Is Jerry okay?”
“We don’t know,” said Adams. “Do you have any photographs of Mr. Mitchell?”
Getting suspicious, Mrs. Mitchell said, “Just why are you here? Is Jerry in some kind of trouble?”
“A black paneled truck registered to Mr. Mitchell was involved in a matter under investigation by the Bureau. We don’t know if Mr. Mitchell was involved.”
“Oh, my God!” screamed Mrs. Mitchell. She began to shake, tears pouring down her cheeks. Mike moved forward to hold her and she kept crying as he held her to him. After she was able to regain some composure, she asked between sobs, “Is he dead, injured? I’ve got to get to him. Where is he?”
“As I said, Mrs. Mitchell, we don’t know,” said Adams. “If you have some photographs of Mr. Mitchell, they would help a lot in our investigation. By the way, this is Mike Liu, an investigator with the Navy. Some Navy vehicles were involved in this matter.”
Mrs. Mitchell let Mike and Adams into her simply furnished living room, which was immaculate. The early American maple furniture had cushions in a green floral design. A braided oval rug covered the otherwise bare hardwood floor. The hangings on the wall were all prints of various scenes, Norman Rockwell, Grandma Moses and that vintage.
Mrs. Mitchell had been cooking when Adams and Mike came up to the house. The beefy fragrance of stew cooking on the stove made Mike think about dinner.
The two Mitchell children came into the room for a brief moment and were told by their mother to go into the kitchen and watch some television.