Then She Vanished

Thirty-Six

That night, the Irregulars, Tola Strait, and I watched a San Diego News special titled “Chaos in California” on the big TV in the palapa. My phone sat on the table for updates from Proetto. Silence. The white Suburban had so far vanished into the highways of Southern California, Proetto speculating that The Chaos Committee might have many sympathizers and safe havens.

Burt and I had been lucky. I had a bandaged shrapnel cut on one cheek and Burt’s right knuckles were wrapped in gauze.

Here at Rancho de los Robles, Wednesday is known as Catfish Wednesday. Which means that Grandpa Dick deep fries his favorite dish and all participants bring something at least vaguely Southern to complement the fried fish.

We all try to be thankful and contrite on Catfish Wednesdays, no matter what strife, rancor, or disappointment might be piling up inside us or in the world around us. We agree to let the day be more than the sum of its problems.

And try we did: ice-cold prosecco or lemonade at cocktail hour; social Ping-Pong with evenly matched teams; an upbeat “I–Ching” consult for each of us from Odile; much sympathy for and genuine interest in Tola, her business, and her bereaved family; improved guitar from Frank on his native Salvadoran folk songs; reduced squabbling between Grandpa Dick and Grandma Liz; Burt garrulously refilling drinks and offering bacon-wrapped devil dogs from Fallbrook’s Oink and Moo restaurant; even the mongrel Triunfo napped under the picnic table rather than chasing and crunching the Ping-Pong balls.

For a while I felt the blessing of surviving machine-gun fire, the goodness of our world and the people in it, the comfort of kindness and respect, the hope that comes from belief that the next day can be better and the day after that better still. Why not? In Tola’s occasional looks I felt the optimism of love, how it takes you over and makes you want to be better. I remembered her tearful words after the slaughter on Palomar, the way she blamed it all on herself. This is my lowest valley. My bottom. I’m going to do better with everything I touch in life.

But as I turned on the gigantic-screen TV to watch “Chaos in California” I felt cold dread wash over me, knowing that the show would flood our little campfire of human decency like an icy river.

Cohosting “Chaos in California” were familiar San Diego News anchors Loren Clement and Amber Hunt.

Over a video backdrop of burning cars jamming a street in San Bernardino, Clement led off:

“Never in history has California experienced the willful taking of life and destruction of property of the last two weeks. This unprecedented violence is being inspired by the self-proclaimed Chaos Committee, a group of masked terrorists as mysterious as it is deadly…

“But first, the facts,” he said.

Clement’s affable mug was replaced by a street brawl in Oakland, over which Clement narrated offscreen:

“CC-claimed victims” were three — a small-town police chief, one U.S. congressman, and his aide — all killed by mail bombs. But murders “directed or inspired” by the CC were thirteen across the state, and included six sworn officers, four of whom were shot in the back from long distances.

“CC-inspired destruction of property” statewide was estimated at $675 million and consisted mostly of arson-set fires of government buildings, schools, and places of worship. Scores of retail businesses had been set on fire, hundreds of cars had been torched, thousands of windows smashed. Emergency rooms across the state were experiencing record numbers of gunshot injuries and violently broken bones.

“Over half of California’s public schools have experienced shutdowns of three or more days,” said Amber Hunt, whose usually pleasant face now appeared tense and determined.

“Most hard hit are high school students, teenagers who have grown up with classroom killings and active-shooter drills and who seem almost unanimously to have expected this terrible violence. And then, there are elementary school children who have little understanding at all of what is happening in their world. Let’s let some of these terrified people speak for themselves…”

Faithful ministers, firm rabbis, beseeching imams.

Sobbing children, fierce mothers, stoic dads.

“I don’t know how much more of this we can stand,” said Liz. “As a people.”

“It will end when they kill The Chaos Committee,” said Dick. “And America can get back to baseball.”

“This is no time for jock humor, dear.”

“But then what comes next?” asked Odile.

“Civil war,” said Frank.

Triunfo perked up at his master’s words, then clunked his head back down to the flagstone.

Tola gave me an absent look. Checked her phone under the table and away from me. Took my hand.

Loren Clement:

“Who are and what is The Chaos Committee? We’re going to replay the Local Live! takeover video again. But rather than try to speculate on the philosophy of this deadly band — perhaps much larger in numbers than a mere band, according to the FBI — we’ll let them explain their beliefs in their own words.”

I watched the studio invasion commence anew — the grotesque masks, the clumsy violence, the pistols held to the heads of two terrified reporters — and wondered again that it hadn’t ended in blood. I tried to tell who was behind each mask. It looked like Broadman was the Iroquois and Holland the WWI splatter mask. Gretchen very possibly the female Hannya. Leaving the two ninjas. The voice of the Iroquois came as before, digitally augmented, Vaderesque.

“Allow us to introduce ourselves. We are representatives of The Chaos Committee… We wanted to give you a chance to meet us. Face-to-mask…”

I half listened to the doomsday voice coming from behind the grinning Iroquois tribal mask. The other half of my attention roamed the underground tunnels and The Chaos Committee “headquarters.” I expected Lark had raided the Bighorn and its warrens by now. I hoped they would treat Cassy Weisberg with care. I doubted that Broadman, Holland, and Deuzler would be found anywhere near Borrego Springs. All the while I wondered, too, if Natalie — after being stolen by these people, body, heart, and mind — had finally fallen in with them. And like everyone else, I wondered where the next bomb would explode.

I watched the screen as anchorman Dwayne Swift fainted and his ninja attacker tried to drag him back up into his seat.

Looked out across the pond as I listened to the Iroquois mask, so pompous and proud of his stupid ideas.

“My brothers and sisters in arms. As proof of our power and the power of our ideas, witness the Encinitas office of Representative Clark Nisson. Good night!”

Again the masks advanced on the cameras and again the picture went dark.

“Why have these calls to anarchy taken hold in the most prosperous nation on earth?” asked Amber Hunt. “To answer this, we’ll talk to experts — all of whom agree that a ‘perfect storm’ of economics, politics, religion, and race has been brewing in our country for years. Later in the show, we’ll talk to American voters and see just how this sudden jump in American terror will influence their decisions in November.”

November seemed far away.