Then She Vanished

Twenty

I stood behind Dalton on his front patio as he faced his questioners. There were more of them than I’d expected after the nearby carnage: network, cable, PBS, NPR, Local Live! ProPublica, Politico, HuffPost. Print, led by Howard Wilkin from the Union-Tribune, who gave me an unthankful nod. I looked out to the street and saw their vehicles stacked back nearly to the intersection. Terrell stood beside me, hands folded in front of him, back straight, staring blankly ahead.

Dalton started with last night’s bombing, the governor’s state of emergency for San Diego County — which Dalton “absolutely” agreed with — and which would bring National Guardsmen and possibly federal money to “wage war on The Chaos Committee.” He raised his fist: “We’re going to hit them with everything we’ve got! The Chaos Committee will pay the full measure.”

ABC: “But what about the federal charges against you, Mr. Strait?”

“I haven’t read all the charges yet, but I don’t have to. None of them are true. I am innocent on all counts. The indictment is a political move to keep me from being reelected. Questions?”

NBC: “Is it true that you and your wife spent over two hundred and eighty thousand dollars in campaign donations on personal expenses over the last three years?”

Dalton: “Absolutely not. This is the new DOJ bringing these charges. This is the deep state, hard at work. They’re doing the same thing to the president.”

CBS: “Why is your campaign treasurer reporting a current balance of only five hundred and thirty-five dollars when your reelection committee has taken in over three hundred and seventeen thousand dollars this year alone?”

Dalton: “We spent it. We’re running a tough campaign. The question you should be asking is why my opponent in November almost certainly has terrorist blood relatives in the Middle East.”

ABC: “Can you explain why campaign donations were used to pay for a golfing junket to Hawaii, a family vacation to Greece, and first-class airfare for Natalie’s parents to fly from Los Angeles to Paris?”

Dalton: “Because we couldn’t get a nonstop from San Diego? That was just a joke, Bethany. I repaid that airfare out of my own salary. Same with the Greece trip.”

Fox: “Not according to prosecutors.”

Dalton: “They are absolutely wrong. It’s all political.”

ABC: “But you told the Federal Election Commission that the golf junkets were charity events when, apparently, they were simply trips with friends.”

Dalton: “War vets and donors — therefore legal all the way.”

A murmur rose from the media, a collective rebuttal to Dalton’s specious reasoning.

Howard Wilkin: “The Strait Reelection Committee claimed nearly a thousand dollars’ worth of new golf balls were donated to the Wounded Warrior Project, but they have no records of such a donation.”

Dalton: “Well, their bad.”

Howard Wilkin: “Mr. Strait, the prosecution has released copies of Strait Reelection Committee credit card statements, with charges paid to various airlines, restaurants, and resorts for dates that you, friends, and family were present.”

Dalton: “As I said, these charges are made up. Fake news. Why not focus on Ammna Safar’s relatives? The DNA evidence? DNA is never fake.”

Another ripple of protest from the reporters.

Politico: “Mr. Strait, why is Natalie not here to help defend herself?”

Dalton: “What was the question?”

Politico: “Why isn’t Natalie here?”

I looked at the back of Dalton’s nodding head, hoping he wouldn’t look back at me or Terrell. Which he did. I saw the confusion on his face, gradually replaced by a cool, focused calm before he turned back to the crowd.

Dalton: “She’s been missing for nine days. Foul play has not been ruled out. I had been advised by the police to keep this a secret but I honestly think you should know. Maybe you can help me find her.”

The reporters blitzed forward behind their mics and cameras, and their voices rose as if a volume knob had suddenly been cranked. A hundred flashes, a thousand blinking indicators. Facing the storm, Dalton raised his arms wide and waved his hands for order.

CBS: “Where was she last—”

Politico: “When did you last—”

ABC: “What is the evidence of—”

Dalton: “Two Tuesdays ago she didn’t report to work at the dealership. They found her car out in Pala, where someone said he saw her with two men, being transferred from her car to another. No word from her. No ransom demand. My boys and I don’t know what to do. We can’t help but think something bad has happened. We’re being eaten alive by worry. Please, all of you, look for her. She gets carried away sometimes.”

ABC: “What do you mean by ‘carried away’?”

Dalton: “It’s just a saying.”

Politico: “Hasn’t she gone missing before, Mr. Strait? Approximately a year and a half ago? Before surfacing in Las Vegas?”

Dalton: “Affirmative. She suffered a psychotic break with reality. A mental glitch. Nats has been on medication since then, though sometimes she forgets or neglects to take it.”

Terrell groaned softly.

NBC: “What’s her diagnosis?”

Fox: “Which medication?”

Dalton: “Bipolar something or other. Not sure of the drug. I should also say that all of the Strait reelection donation books are kept by my wife, Natalie, as well as access to the checking account and campaign committee credit card. All campaign donations come through her and any expenditures are either made by or approved by her.”

Howard Wilkin: “Are you saying your wife made these questionable purchases without your knowing?”

Dalton: “Very possibly. I can’t speak for her. That’s something we’ll have to get to the bottom of when Natalie is safely returned. The most important thing is that she comes home and we win this election. Baby? Natalie? If you’re watching this, only God knows how much I love you and miss you. And the boys, too.”

Terrell turned an astonished face to me, and mine might have looked the same to him.

The noise of the twenty reporters and videographers rose even louder, a layered chorus aimed at Dalton. Dalton turned around again, smiling faintly, then back to the media.

ABC: “What is the evidence of foul play?”

Politico: “What is your relationship to Sacramento lobbyists McKenzie Doyle of Asclepia Pharmaceutical and Heath Overdale of Kimmel, Overdale and Schmitz?”

“Absolutely none of your business!” Dalton yelled out. “Don’t throw me under the bus until all the facts are known. Talk to the San Diego sheriffs. Or here, talk to this guy — Roland Ford. He’s the PI I’ve hired!”

Dalton pivoted on his good leg and swung back inside, artificial foot banging hard on the wooden porch.

Questions frayed behind me as I took Terrell by the arm, guided him inside and slammed the door.

“How’d I do?” Dalton blurted out, headed for the kitchen. Terrell pounded upstairs without a word and I followed Dalton. From a bottle in the freezer he poured a generous vodka into a coffee mug, downed it and poured another. Then led the way back into his living room.

“You just blamed your wife for twenty-two counts of fraud, misuse of funds, and conspiracy,” I said.

“I didn’t mean to, exactly. But it’ll help them find her, right? It’ll get the suspicion off of me so I can win this damned reelection, right?”

Terrell flew into the kitchen, grabbed a can of soda from the fridge and headed — I guessed — for the garage. “Fuck you, Dad,” he called back.

I heard a car door slam, a vehicle start, and the rolling thunder of an old garage door motoring up. Then the shouted questions and shouted answers from Terrell, followed by a screeching of tires and shrieks of alarm.

Dalton stared at the kitchen, from which his son’s curse seemed to echo.

“Did I screw up, Roland?”

“Did HerediLink really get a sample of Ammna Safar’s DNA?” I asked. “Or is that some fake news of your own?”

His boy smile. “One of my people went through her trash can at the curb early one morning. Tissues of God knows what, and wads of used dental floss. Red, the cinnamon flavored. Scout’s honor.”

Dalton set his mug on the coffee table, lowered heavily into the couch and rubbed his bad knee. I stood by the fireplace, looking at him while I considered walking off the job. In order to escape a devious child in a hero’s costume betraying his wife and the public trust. While sucking down its money. More important, I wasn’t sure he much missed his wife beyond her value in helping him win an election. Which in his mind might include her taking the brunt of blame for their shared foolishness and criminal dishonesty. I could see him making photo ops out of visiting her in prison.

“Dalton, you’re disgusting.”

“Oh, sit down.”

“I’m good right here.”

“Lee and me see eye to eye,” he said. “But it’s rough times for me and Terrell. He’s a mama’s boy, that’s for sure. I suppose he gave you his movie?”

I nodded.

“It’s really good. He adores his mother.”

“Do you?”

“Sure I do,” he said, rubbing his knee again and not looking at me. “What’s that supposed to mean? Everybody does.”

On my way home, Harris Broadman called.

“I had no real idea how much mischief Dalton has gotten himself into,” he said. “But I watched his press conference on his Facebook. Is there anything I can do?”

I thought it was strange that Dalton’s recent calamities were enough to draw his old war buddy out of sixteen years of silence. But then, I can sometimes be a hard and unseeing man. I reconsidered Broadman in light of the press conference, imagining how it would affect him. I imagined that these last sixteen years could have been as hard on Broadman as on his failed rescuer — not as a man burned by fire but as a man burning with a resentment he wouldn’t admit. And couldn’t put out. Maybe Broadman needed to forgive Dalton for what he had failed to accomplish in Fallujah the day their Humvee hit the bomb. Every bit as much as Dalton needed that forgiveness.

“You two should talk,” I said.

“Yes, I believe we should.”