The Last Good Guy

40

High on the hill I saw houselights on in Alfred Battle’s slouching, ivy-coated home. The winding road through the orange trees was weakly lit. I kept an eye on it for a few minutes while sending three of my Olympus pictures to my phone — one of Battle, one of Reggie, one of Daley and her handlers.

I pressed the intercom and Marie answered.

“Mrs. Battle, this is Blake Hopper, with Fallbrook Family Values Coalition. I talked to you at the Power Hour on Sunday, and you offered to lease me one of your properties for our annual retreat. I was hoping you and Mr. Battle might be willing to discuss it.”

“You’re who?”

I repeated some of my pitch. Heard Battle’s stern voice in the background.

“Oh, of course!” said Marie. “Come up, Mr. Hooper.”

“Thank you, Marie. It’s Hopper.”

The gate squealed into action and I saw a porch light come on. Followed my headlights up the hill. Parked up near a detached garage in which Battle’s stealthy CTS waited in the dark.

Marie welcomed me in. She wore a powder-blue fifties house dress with white buttons and pocket trim, and a new pair of Jack Purcell sneakers. Hair up, eyes blue and joyful. She led me through a small foyer, then into a faintly lit living room. Mid-century and lots of it — a burnished walnut floor, pale turquoise walls, white acoustic ceiling. Trim chocolate fabric sofas, a glass coffee table, and bulbous avocado-green space-age lamps with abstract atomic-print shades. Bookshelves on three walls, an entertainment center with an enormous TV/stereo cabinet with sliding fabric panels. Marie offered me one end of a long brown sofa, and she took the other.

Alfred, draped in his bespoke brown suit, sat in a low-slung green orange-slice chair, his legs spread wide and his big bony hands on his thighs. The space-age lamplight caught one side of his face and left the other in shadow.

“Ford,” he said. “I thought that was you at the Hour.”

“You’ve got good eyes for an old man.”

A suggested smile. “All the better to read about you in the papers. Deputy Roland Ford, the indecisive triggerman in the death of Titus Miller. PI Ford, widowed by a whimsical God and a plane accident. Later, the slayer of a celebrity torturer. Most recently, the executioner of two very dangerous terrorists, saving countless innocent lives. Thank you for that, Mr. Ford. They were Muslim scum.”

“Glad to be of service,” I said.

“This is all very exciting,” said Marie.

“What did you think of the White Power Hour, Mr. Ford?”

“I thought it was interesting how the dinosaurs like you led the way for the new generation of haters like Odysseus,” I said.

“Spencer and Enoch have learned much from the post — Arab Spring Europeans,” said Battle. “We didn’t have that same perspective when I was young. We were still looking for the Soviets under every rock. We forgot about the mud people, who the Soviets turned against us so nimbly. We failed to react strongly enough, or there wouldn’t be any need for the alt-right today. If we could only have continued the lynchings, expanded them north to include browns and later Muslims, this would be a healthier and more prosperous republic. We softened.”

“You didn’t get soft, you got whupped,” I said. “By people who were better than you.”

Battle sighed and adjusted his long frame in the ridiculous-looking orange-slice chair. Smiled bitterly: “Frauds and adulterers. They all claim to have a dream. We don’t dream. We have a stated goal. We want to be free in the country that we founded. We want a country in which the white child has opportunity again and is respected as the superior child that he is. If this sounds familiar, it should. It is the foundation of the United States Constitution.”

“I thought you were very odd from the beginning, Mr. Hooper,” said Marie. “But that’s okay. I collected six pounds of oranges that day.”

“They’re good ones, too, Marie,” said Battle. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Ford?”

“I want Daley Rideout.”

“Then explain who she is, and why you want her, and why I’m in a position to help you.”

“Daley is the younger sister and the legal charge of one Penelope Rideout. Daley might be her daughter — maybe — if you’re willing to expand your field of interest to your pal Reggie Atlas. Either way, I want to return Daley to Penelope. As you know, your SNR meatballs are holding her.”

“Oh?” asked Marie.

“My reaction exactly,” said Alfred. He crossed his legs, then interlocked his finger over the top knee.

I showed the three pictures on my phone to Alfred and Marie and sat back down.

Marie frowned at her husband.

“I’m sure you’re aware that Daley is all over the Missing and Exploited Children websites,” I said.

“But we never appear in the same frame in your pictures,” he said. “I had no idea the girl was in my wife’s house. Mrs. Battle owns too many homes for me to keep track of.”

“You’re free to tell that to the fed, state, and local cops,” I said. “But these photos are still enough to get you one phone call to a lawyer.”

Battle slowly rose, turned his back on me, and walked to a south-facing window.

“If I could deliver the girl to you, you would destroy these photos and say nothing of my company’s involvement?”

“The pictures are already in the cloud, Mr. Battle. And my associates know what to do with them.”

“Have you been hired by Penelope to find Dolly and bring her back?”

“Good guess. Her name is Daley.”

“Pays well, I hope,” he said.

“Standard fee.”

“May I ask what your rates are?”

“You can ask all you want.”

A decisive silence.

“Why does Reggie Atlas want Daley?” I asked. “And why are you allowing him to see her?”

Battle turned, raising a bushy eyebrow, his hawk’s face half- illuminated. “If I tell you what I know, will you leave me and Marie and SNR out of your dealings with the police?”

“No,” I said. “Although it would dispose me in your favor.”

“To what end?”

“Probably none at all. Your ass is cooked, sir.”

“When your ass is cooked, make s’mores,” said Marie.

Alfred smiled at her, then looked at me. “I love my wife.”

“I see why.”

“You two,” said Marie.

“Ford,” said Battle, “exactly what Reggie wants with the girl was never clear to me.”

“You should have made it clear,” I said. “She’s fourteen.”

“She plays guitar in her room all day,” said Battle. “She hasn’t said one meaningful word to me. But, according to Reggie, that girl has been showing up at his church for about a year. Seeking time with him. Making herself... available. For what? Reggie fears sexual intent. This behavior is much like her sister, Penelope’s, years ago, Reggie says. But Penelope’s advances went much further. He rejected her, of course. But shortly thereafter, she suffered a psychotic break with reality — professing that Reggie had seduced and impregnated her. With a baby everybody knew was her own sister. There is some suspicion in Reggie’s mind of Penelope’s role in the death of her parents, also. There was insurance money at stake. At any rate, Penelope followed Atlas all around the country, wherever his ministry took him, hounding him, demanding money. He has paid her handsomely. Many times. Simple blackmail, effective because of the pastor’s public life and extraordinary success. Of course he’s offered a final arrangement, and a nondisclosure agreement, but it must include a confidential paternity test, which is exactly what she does not want. End of revenue stream for Penelope. Reggie is very aware that one tweet from her to #MeToo would damage his ministry immeasurably. He’s hoping Daley might be able to talk some sense to her sister. And that is what I know about Pastor Atlas’s motivations and the girl.”

Marie left the room. Alfred watched her go, his face silhouetted in the lamplight.

“Your men took Daley,” I said.

Battle looked out a darkened window and said nothing.

“Let me refresh your memory,” I said. “SNR Security men took her away from her boyfriend’s condo in Encinitas. They executed him in bed. I was the one who found him. Nick Moreno.”

“Mud,” said the old man. “Consorting with white. Abomination. I know from experience.”

Battle gave me a flat stare. I wondered if what Marie had said about a childhood rape was true. Or if she had only been on one of her flights of fancy, making s’mores.

“Here’s what I think,” I said. “You’ve known Atlas for years. Like-minded individuals. So you knew his story about crazed Penelope and her sister. Which started ringing false when he took a personal interest in Daley, not the other way around. He offered donations to the White Power Hour if SNR could bring Daley to him. Not a tough assignment, really, for your boys. She even went along for the ride, at first. Literally. A rebellious girl, coming into her own. Eager to get away from her controlling sister. Then your fund-raiser’s light went on — why give Reggie what he wants until you’ve made him pay even more? Keep Daley and raise her price. So Atlas remains your revenue stream, but you have to let him see her once in a while. Proof of life. Like today at Cotton Point.”

Battle beheld me in the half-light. “We always need funding. And note, the girl has never been in danger. She has always been free to go. My men are upright, moral, and trustworthy.”

“Nick Moreno might disagree. And every time Daley slips her leash, your men grab her again.”

“They are protecting her from herself.”

Marie came back with three glasses of milk on a round tray. Three coasters and three cloth napkins. I set mine on the glass coffee table before me. Alfred sat again, pushed the napkin between his buttoned collar and his wattled neck, then took his glass with an appreciative nod. Marie returned to the far end of the sofa.

“What happened today when Atlas came to Cotton Point?” I asked.

“Happened?”

“As in, what did you do?”

“We socialized as adults. Sat in the living room and talked about current events. Sports, too, of course. Exchanged ideas. One of my SNR employees, Adam, is an excellent cook. Today was broiled ahi, asparagus, and Tater Tots.”

“Was Atlas alone with Daley?”

“I don’t allow it,” said Battle. “I’m not sure I trust him.”

“You all talked and had lunch?” I asked.

“And Pastor Atlas led us in prayer. That is the absolute truth.”

“How did he behave toward Daley?” I asked.

“He was formal. Per usual. He told her once again that he only needs to satisfy some final obligations, and she’ll be free to go with him. They sat well apart from each other. But often, he looked at her with an affection — an adoration, I’d say — that was downright embarrassing to everyone in the room but him. Not the first time.”

I weighed what I knew about spirited Daley Rideout against this strange account. “How did she react?”

“She seems both repelled by and drawn to him,” said Battle. “A girl, then not a girl. They are very similar, psychologically. Like magnets. With their polarities opposed, they attract. But when aligned, they repel.”

“As men and women always do,” said Marie. She smiled, drank some milk, dabbed her lips.

This alleged afternoon at Cotton Point was hard for me to picture. The hatemonger, the preacher, the gunmen, and the girl. A storm of crosscurrents, most of them vile.

“Have you ever talked to Penelope?” I asked.

Battle shook his head, sipped his milk, and waited.

“I have,” I said. “Let me give you something to think about. Penelope told me something. It was difficult for her, and I have no good reason to disbelieve her. She’s known Reggie Atlas since she was eight. With her family, she attended his services and guest appearances. He was building his congregation. Six years. During which time he developed a faith-based relationship with her mom and dad, and especially with Penelope herself. It included one-on-one conversations, phone calls, emails, and an occasional postcard from Reggie’s itinerant preaching. Over the years he convinced her that their relationship was special in the eyes of Jesus. Sacred. She wholeheartedly agreed. When she was fourteen and a virgin, he invited her into his travel bus, where he baptized, seduced, drugged, and raped her. The morning-after pills failed. Daley was born nine months later. Atlas has been keeping track of her and his daughter ever since. Penelope hasn’t been shaking him down for money. She’s been trying to keep his daughter away from him. Fearing that he will repeat himself with her.”

“True monsters always do,” said Marie. “I think I read that story in a book once. Some tragic Greek? The Bible, maybe?”

“Interesting,” said Battle.

“It’s a helluva lot more than just interesting,” I said.

Shadow and light on Battle’s hate-carved face. Something like pain. “Do you think that’s true? Penelope’s story?”

“I think it is.”

“Oh.”

Again, pain on the Old Hawk’s face. Penelope’s story must have gotten to him. Alfred Battle: moral hater.

Marie collected the glasses and napkins, left the coasters. She winked at me as she made for the kitchen. I heard her set the glasses on the counter.

“Where are they taking Daley?” I asked. “She had her things when they left.”

“That brings us to a crossroads, doesn’t it?” asked Battle.

“Here’s your crossroads, Alfred — I want the girl and you’re out of time. Where are they taking her?”

“I own a compound in the desert,” said Battle. “As you know, it’s difficult to find and has good security. Daley will be safe there.”

He squinted at me and smiled fractionally — gauging my fear of returning to Paradise Date Farm. I felt fear, even with Battle as my shield. I also smelled revenge. And, more important, a chance to parse the riddles of the wasp-cams.

“Why not keep her at Cotton Point?” I asked. “Two guard gates. Tough to crack.”

“You managed to find her,” said Battle. “In truth, I had a premonition that you hadn’t gone away. In spite of your down-home welcome at Paradise. Maybe even because of it. Scent of revenge? SNR was proud to have felled a local hero.”

“Proud of six on one?”

“I treat them like attack dogs,” he said. “Always keep them a little hungry. Psychologically.”

“Stand up.”

“I’ll need to make some calls.”

“That’s funny. Stand up, old man.”

He worked himself up from the chair. Same height as me, gray raptor’s eyes boring into mine. I reached inside his suit coat and felt for a gun. Faint smell of milk on his breath. A whiff of the same shave cream Grandpa Dick uses. Dad, too.

The weapon was napping in the small of his back, right side, where I carry mine. I broke it from the holster and held it out and away, taking hold of his necktie while I ran a boot-toe around his ankles for a second gun.

“I haven’t been frisked in forty-eight years.”

“Miss it?”

“I was contemplating a knee to your face. If you’d knelt down to check my ankles.”

“Sorry to have missed that.”

I stepped back and looked at the gun, a slim five-shot revolver with an enclosed hammer and a smooth front sight — great for concealment and snag-free on the draw. Old-fashioned and deadly, like its owner. Put it in my jacket pocket.

I heard Marie coming in from the kitchen, new sneakers squeaking, oddly slow in her approach. I turned and she stopped, a nail-studded baseball bat over one shoulder, ready, both hands choked way down on the grip.

“I implore you,” she said.

“You disappoint me, Marie.”

“I so don’t mean to.”

“Please give me the bat. By the handle. And sit back down where you were.”

“Okey-dokey, Mr. Hooper.”

I set the hideous club on the coffee table, a wave of adrenaline surging through me. Careful not to scratch the glass.

Took Alfred’s phone, turned it off, and slipped it into my pocket.

“If Daley isn’t at Paradise like you say, we’ll just swing by the sheriff’s station in Encinitas,” I said. “Where I’ll introduce you to Detective Sergeant Darrel Walker. Black dude, good cop. He’d love to see my Cotton Point pictures of you and Daley. He’s already got the crime-scene shots of Nick Moreno. He’d enjoy bringing charges against a legendary white-supremacist geezer such as yourself.”

“Proving charges could be difficult.”

“So could dying in prison.”

“Which is why I need assurance that once the girl is in your possession, you will not inform on me to law enforcement. A simple this for that.”

“No assurance,” I said. “But for tonight I’m your only hope of staying a free man, Alfred. Take me to the girl.”

A heavy lift of eyebrow. “Would two hundred thousand dollars buy your silence regarding me and the girl and the boyfriend? Allowing your cop friends to focus on the actual actors — Connor, Adam, and Eric? I have the cash, right here on the property. Or Bitcoin, if you prefer. Almost impossible to trace, as you know.”

I was disappointed but not surprised that Battle would so eagerly throw his men under the bus. I had to figure they would throw him under, too.

“You’re driving,” I said.

Extra sharpness in his eyes as he regarded his wife. “I’ll be home shortly, Marie.”

“Will you come to me by moonlight, though hell should bar the way?”

Battle looked at me. “That’s from her other Alfred. Noyes, the poet. May I say goodbye?”

“Oh, take your time,” I said. While Alfred and Marie hugged, I texted Burt and Lark, looking up to the Battles between letters. Alfred kissed her on the cheek. Her chin quivered. She rose and hugged him long and close, plump arms around his thin frame.

“Do nothing foolish, dear,” he said. “Do nothing at all.”

When he broke away and she looked at me, a tear rolled from her left eye. I looked at the nailed club on the coffee table and I tried to judge her capabilities against her madness. Close call.

“Marie,” I said, “would you like to come along?”

“I will not endanger her in any way,” said Battle.

“I thought you’d never ask!” said Marie.

I politely searched her for a phone or weapon, found neither. She smelled of lilac.

“That was a little personal,” she said, smiling.

Outside, I took the battery out of Battle’s phone, then locked them and his revolver in the big tool chest bolted to the bed of my truck.

We got in and closed the doors. Battle in the driver’s seat, me on the passenger’s side, Marie in back. She had her seat belt fastened first. I set my .45 on my lap and started the engine. Battle glanced at the gun, then adjusted the mirrors slightly. Marie looked through a window and waved goodbye to her house.

“Drive,” I said.

We wound down through the orange grove toward Holiday Lane. “I expect some kind of help from you,” said Battle. “SNR discovered a runaway girl. They did not abduct her. There was no force involved. No threats or coercion of any kind. They were protecting her from Reggie Atlas.”

“Nick Moreno,” I said.

“I knew nothing about him. I’d never heard his name until the news.”

“Save all that for Darrel Walker.”

“I will not be done in by a runaway girl and the timely removal of one muddy sexual predator.”

“Don’t count on it. What do you think about all this, Marie?” I asked.

“All what?”