It took a long moment for that depravity and disgust to really settle in.
“In Arabic, the words Eid-al-Mawlid mean ‘birth of the prophet,’” said Lark. “It’s one of Islam’s holiest days and biggest celebrations. This year it’s November ninth. The big Paradise shipments were set to commence two weeks from now — in time to be made into gift baskets for the Sunni Mawlid on November ninth. We beat SNR to the punch, Roland. Barely. Thanks to you and Daley Rideout and those wasp-cams.”
My moment of glory came and went and I enjoyed it briefly, but all the way to my bones.
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?”