The Last Good Guy

44

For the rest of that day and the next, I accompanied Penelope and Daley on their several missions. Penelope wanted me on the clock for my time, which was fine with me. She wondered out loud how long she could afford my services before she went broke. I noted that Daley seemed exasperated at times like that, as if Penelope were her little sister.

I enjoyed their company, especially when they seemed to forget that I was there. I listened to them as you might to a pleasant mountain stream or the sound of waves. I was pleased to know I could stand between them and most wickedness that might come. In spite of being pounded senseless by six men, I felt needed and capable. Stitches out, hitting the bags again. I thought of Connor toting his machine gun and Reggie Atlas his lust.

I took them to their family doctor so Daley could be examined. Everything was fine. Then to a conference with Chancellor Stahl and attorneys for the Monarch Academy, followed by visits to Alanis Tervalua and Carrie Calhoun, and a sad few minutes with the parents of Nick Moreno.

I also escorted them to and from interviews with Darrel Walker, Mike Lark and his roomful of FBI agents, and the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I sat in if welcome, waited in lobbies and hallways when not.

Nearly everyone who talked to Daley treated her with warmth and mild awe at what she’d been through — though her story of running away was vague and incomplete. Mostly just hanging out with friends and playing my guitar, stuff like that... Only Lark and Walker knew enough to depose specific truths from her, much of which would become a part of the kidnapping, murder, and conspiracy to commit terror charges being readied against Alfred and Marie Battle, and several of their SNR employees.

An alert KPBS reporter noted that Daley Rideout had been suddenly dropped from the missing-children websites and wanted to know why. Penelope handed off her phone to me, hissing, “Her story is not to be told!” I wasn’t sure if that was meant for the reporter or for me, or maybe even for Daley, who was riding in the back seat of a rental car at that time. I told the reporter that Daley was now home in good health but didn’t want to be interviewed. The connection was bad and the reporter was insistent but I prevailed, having identified myself only as a family friend.

Fortunately, at about the time I was finishing up with KPBS, the Associated Press — after hundreds of social media accounts, rumors, speculations, and images of distant buildings burning in the night — broke the story of the bloody raid on Paradise Date Farm. Some harrowing photos. It was everywhere, leaving a runaway fourteen-year-old girl lost among the “two law enforcement officers and six homegrown extremists killed in a gunfight in a hidden Imperial County compound.”

Which was how I learned that Lark and his DOJ bosses had decided to let the homegrown terror plot out of the bag. And realized that many of the roughly 3.45 million Muslims living in the United States would dream that night — and many nights after — of lethal radioactive gift baskets arriving in their homes in celebration of the prophet’s birthday.

The cops and the FBI may have prevailed at Paradise by body count.

And yet, in its way, hate had won.

After dinner that night we all sat under the palapa and streamed the San Diego news on Dick’s laptop.

Near the end of the hour, which the station likes to conclude with a brief, uplifting story, the anchor noted that a missing Carlsbad Monarch Academy student had been found unharmed and was returned home following a tip that came in to the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. The fourteen-year-old had been gone for nearly two weeks.

“Nice to have a story with a happy ending,” she noted. “We don’t release the names of minors in cases such as this, but the student’s guardian told us earlier today that the missing girl’s story is about to be told. We look forward to that. That’s San Diego tonight and I’m Monet Reese.”

“I said her story is not to be told,” said Penelope.

“Not sounds like about,” said Dick. “She misheard you.”

“And I said it to Roland, not that reporter. Now look what she made me do.” She wiped a piece of strawberry that had somehow landed on her periwinkle dress, the same one she’d worn to shower me with gifts and nurse my wounds. “Can I get a retraction?” she asked.

“Nobody consulted me about my story being told or not,” said Daley.

“Oh, let it go,” said Dick. “They can’t change it now. It’s no big thing.”

A look from Burt.

No big thing unless you were Alfred and Marie Battle, Connor Donald, or Reggie Atlas, I thought. Then it might be a pretty damned big thing after all.

With dessert I drank coffee and mostly listened to the conversation at the table. After all the drama — the bloody shoot-out at Paradise, and the evil plans of SNR, and Daley’s dramatic reappearance — the talk was sparse and polite. A poet once remarked that after great emotion, a sense of formality sets in. Another noted that sooner or later everyone must get stoned. Which is true, but I was sick of being hit by them.

I helped myself to brownies that Liz and Melinda had teamed up on.

Daley played guitar, her voice beautiful.

Frank provided erratic accompaniment on Dick’s old guitar, sometimes finding notes to go along with Daley’s melodies, sometimes not. He told us that his father had bought him a two-dollar guitar when he was ten.

Burt offered to stay with them while I drove Penelope to Oceanside to get some things they needed. Dick said he’d be here, too. For Irregulars, they’re exceptionally reliable.

She sat with the white purse on her lap, hands folded over it, hair up on one side and held with a comb. She took a tissue from the bag and fussed with the strawberry stain on her dress again, then dabbed it with finality and put the tissue back.

“It’s really nice to be alone with you for a few minutes,” she said. “Daley and I will check into the Hyatt tomorrow, as you recommended. We don’t mean to wear out our welcome.”

“You can have the casita a few more days if you’d like.”

“No. I feel complete again. Daley is better. I’ll be able to sleep at night. My soul won’t feel eaten alive. Thank you for finding her.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

I nodded.

“You certainly earned your pay.”

“Thanks for being generous.”

“You should be the most expensive PI in the world. In my opinion.”

I steered my rental truck down Highway 76, west toward Oceanside. Managed to hit all the red lights. Didn’t mind.

“Sorry I came on so emotional and ditzy and full of evasions,” she said. “I was totally freaked by Daley running away from me. And I liked you as soon as we met there in your office. I didn’t know how to behave. I don’t know the first thing about men. Got off to kind of a bumpy start with you guys, as you may or may not know.”

“I know.”

“I hope you do,” she said. “Because you’re the only one I’ve ever told. But drop it. I am what I am, no matter what you choose to believe. Well, damn, another red light. Guess we’ll have to sit here and talk about the next thing. What do you think of those Padres?”

“Have you given any thought to outing Atlas?” I asked. “Talk to Daley, get a lawyer? Call that reporter who asked about Daley? Get it all out there once and for all?”

She glanced at me, then looked straight ahead for a long while. “Someday. Roland, that’s pretty much all I’ve thought about for fourteen years. That, and how to stay away from him. As I explained to you, I don’t want Daley to grow up knowing that her father’s a monster and her mother’s a victim. She believes her father and mother were kind and loving parents. There’s a hole in her, but that merciful illusion helps to fill it. Each year the hole becomes smaller. I want to wait until she’s ready. And you know Reggie said he’d kill me if I speak out. On four separate occasions he promised to. I know him well enough to believe him.”

“That’s part of the story you need to tell,” I said.

“Not until Daley is ready.”

“And you.”

“Yes. And me.”

“Times are better, Penelope. If you act now, you can take him down before he can hurt you. You can blow him out of the water with one tweet. You could do it in less than the time it takes us to get to Oceanside. You two can stay with me while the cops investigate and the courts order a paternity test. Then it’s all she wrote for Pastor Reggie Atlas. SNR is broken and Battle will die in prison.”

She gave me a long, frank gaze. I returned it in parts, trying to read her expression in the colored glow of the traffic lights. I wondered again if the paternity test was stopping her. If she knew it would reveal the innocence of Reggie Atlas.

I couldn’t read her face or her mind. My heart believed Penelope because it wanted to. My reason doubted her because it had to.

I parked in her driveway, behind the cheerful yellow Beetle. A motion light came on. The night was damp again and the streetlamps glowed through feints of fog.

Her eyes were gray and cool in the dashboard light. “Come on in, Roland. This won’t take long.”

She unlocked the front door and we went inside. A lamp was already on, weakly illuminating the little living room and its plaid couch and director’s chairs, the upturned orange crate/CD stand, the small collection of photos on the wicker stand, the TV.

“Getcha a drink if you’d like,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

She walked into the hallway and a light came on. I heard her footsteps on the old wooden floor, the creak of boards, a closet rolling open.

I poured a conservative drink, added an ice cube. Sat in the living room, where I could keep an eye on the yard and the street. Sipped the good, smooth bourbon. Heard the Amtrak Surfliner groaning into the Transit Center just a few blocks away. Then Penelope, coming back up into the living room, clothes on hangers dangling from each hand. She laid them over one of the director’s chairs, balancing the load so as not to tip it over. Gave me a matter-of-fact nod.

“One more load,” she said. “Daley’s.”

I sat in the still, small room and listened to her bumping away in Daley’s room. Her sister’s room. Her daughter’s room. I told myself it really didn’t matter, but of course it did. One was ordinary human grace, the other a rape of it. I wondered if there was a deeper wisdom in Penelope’s refusal to tell her daughter this alleged and awful truth. If I was failing to see the bigger picture. I tried to think what it might be. But I was a childless widower with a history of willing violence and an incomplete understanding of this world.

Penelope brought out another handful of clothes on hangers, Daley’s — lots of black and pink — and a paper shopping bag of toiletries.

“Almost,” she said. “And how’s that drink?”

I made her one and away she went.

I heard her shower go on. A few minutes later she came padding down the hallway, feet bare, by the sound of them, and stood at the threshold of the living room. She was wearing a brief pink robe with white daisies and a price tag dangling from one sleeve. Matching slippers. A black camisole. The empty highball glass in hand.

“I’m not sure what to do next,” she said. “Will you take over?”

“You left the price tag on the robe,” I said.

“Maybe in case I have to do that.”

“Don’t do that.”

Sex can be tender, passionate, urgent, formal, animal, awkward, sudden, kind, brief, long, sad, alien, familiar, punitive, unselfish, inspiring, competitive, exhausting, heart-pounding, electric, empowering, embarrassing, ornate, dreamy, martial, surprising, disappointing, rambunctious, lonely, purposeful, greedy, funny, furtive, loud, languorous, acrobatic, ambitious, required, frequent, rare, once.

Or many combinations thereof. Dealer’s choice.

If I had to describe those hours with Penelope Rideout, I would start with wonderful.