Two hours went by. I didn’t take my eyes off that front door except to check my phone for Paradise activity. Quiet again out there. I wondered what Lark was planning. I knew it would be swift, thorough, and adequately powered — federal-style. I doubted I would be a part of it, though I surely wanted to be. It might be my best chance for a rematch with six men I’d come to despise.
Reggie Atlas came out alone and angry. He slammed the heavy door with both hands and plenty of muscle. I got a couple more good shots. He threw open the door of his Mercedes, stepped inside, and slammed it, too. I watched him head up Calle Marlena toward Avenida de las Palmeras and the exit.
Ten minutes later Battle emerged, unbuttoning his suit coat on the way to his car. He was flanked by Donald and Revell, who held open the door of Battle’s CTS. Three more shots with my shutter on silent. When the tall old man had retracted all of himself inside, Revell closed the door and gave a curt salute.
I waited awhile, pondering. Wondering if Daley Rideout really was inside that house. All they had to do was keep her on the grounds, away from phones and computers, and there wasn’t much she could do. Keep her from screaming out for help. If she even wanted to leave that badly. But did she? If not quite badly enough, they could always take her down to the beach when she got bored. Out for a good meal now and then. I wondered if they were drugging her. They could have strung her out by now. Locked behind the bars of a narcotic.
And every question led to another: Were Battle and his SNR men keeping her for Reggie? Or from him? Had Battle just allowed him a visit? If so, for what purpose?
I knew what Penelope’s answer would be. It was a terrible possibility, and I was in no position to refute it. Why would Battle let the preacher do such a thing? Were they charging him for her use?
But Reggie claimed he needed Daley Rideout to prove his innocence. Was that all bluff? What if he’d drugged, raped, and impregnated Penelope Rideout exactly as she’d described? Then threatened violence to keep her silent? In that case, if Battle turned Daley over to Atlas, she would be the living proof of his crimes. And when he was done with Daley, he would have to silence her.
Evening. Tradesmen, gardeners, and servicepeople leaving in their trucks and vans. Citizens returning in their premium rides. I half expected Ruthven to track me down, driven by boredom and suspicion. Maybe she’d gone home. Or maybe I’m easily forgotten.
Okay. I was hungry. Needed a bourbon.
I had just started up the Malibu when the big wood-and-iron door opened and Connor Donald stepped into the shade of the porte cochere.
Followed by Eric Glassen and Adam Revell, flanking Daley Rideout. She was dressed in shorts and flip-flops and her “I’m not as stupid as I look — Are you?” sweatshirt.
She wore her backpack, carried her little guitar in its gig bag with one hand and pulled a piece of rolling luggage behind her with the other. Her posture was good, her attitude calm.
Where are you going?
I got two shots before the silver SUV swallowed them up and shuddered to life. Traded my camera for my phone and called Sergeant Ionides. Gave him the actors and the make, model, and plates as the Expedition rolled onto Calle Marlena. Told him the three men were likely armed. Ordered my hands away from the steering wheel so I wouldn’t do something foolish like follow them. I couldn’t put Daley Rideout in that kind of danger. At least Ionides could light a fire under Dispatch and they’d get the Orange County sheriffs into action as fast as was departmentally possible.
Departmentally possible.
Which wouldn’t be fast enough. The SUV curved out of sight up Marlena. Seconds from now, the SNR men and Daley Rideout would be exiting Cotton Point Estates onto Palmera, just blocks from an interstate highway serving 28.3 million Southern Californians, armies of tourists, and legions of big rigs.
I saw a way to pry Daley away from SNR.
Thought I did.
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.”