Surfers, mostly young, were hanging around the shack, some sprawled in the sand for warmth. Beyond the skeletal structure, the waves rolled in in near perfect symmetry. I talked to some of the boys, but only a few had been here on Wednesday afternoon, and none had seen a girl who looked like the picture on my phone.
Finally, one of them, barely a high schooler by the look of him, had been here late last Tuesday afternoon—the day after Daley Rideout had left Monarch. Yes, he said, he’d noticed a girl and two men who weren’t club members or locals. He peeled off his wetsuit, teeth chattering and hair dripping, looking at my phone screen as I swiped through the pictures of Daley Rideout for him. He nodded.
“Her name’s Daley,” he said. “You a cop?”
“No. A friend. I was a member here once.”
“Man, what happened to your face?”
“I cut myself shaving.”
A look.
I introduced myself. He gave me a quick once-over, palmed his hair off his forehead with both hands, must have decided I was okay.
He described the men as “way older than her,” and said he couldn’t quite figure out their relationship. It was like the men were in charge of her but she wouldn’t do what they said. None of them were dressed for the beach. Daley had on jeans and a sweatshirt that looked too hot for summer, and the guys looked like they’d come from work—long pants and collared shirts and, like, corporate shoes, you know?
“She was cool,” he said. “She wanted a beer, but there was only water in the cooler. She wanted to know about my board, and if my wetsuit worked, then why did I have goose bumps and blue lips, and didn’t it hurt to walk over the rocks to get in and out? The two guys, like, stood off, over there, looking at the waves and waiting. She asked if she could borrow my towel, but I didn’t have one, so I got one from Sean and she took off her sweatshirt and laid down in the sun for a while.”
“And her friends?” I asked.
“Just hung down closer to the water. Watching her and checking their phones. After half an hour she got up and gave Sean back his towel and went down the beach with them.”
“Which way?”
“Toward the power plant. Kinda weird. I watched them go to the fence and I saw two of the guards come out. Full-on machine guns, man, I mean serious stuff. They looked like Army or Marines. I watched because Daley was pretty hot and I liked her. The guards walked along the fence, back toward the buildings and all the nuclear waste and stuff. The guards let her and the guys in through a gate. That really surprised me. I thought, Wow, who’d want to go in there, get all like radioactivated?”
“Did they come out later?” I asked.
“Not that I saw. I went out a few minutes later, looked over at that gate a few times, but I didn’t see her again. Hey, if you see her? Tell Daley that Jake from the surfing club says hi.”
“I promise to do that,” I said. “Do you have a phone, Jake?”
“Backpack,” he said, nodding to a green pack hanging from a nail on the shack.
“How about we trade numbers? If you see her again I expect a call from you.”
Jake gave me his number and I logged it into my phone, then sent my number to his phone as a text. A beat later, I heard the chime from within the green backpack.
He dug some sunglasses from his pack and slipped them on. “She in trouble?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“Does it have to do with your shaving accident?”
“To be honest, yes. Call me if you see her, please.”
“Not a problem. She’s for sure got a boyfriend, right?”
“I don’t think so, Jake.”
He smiled. We shook hands. His felt as cold as mine had just a few short days ago.
* * *
—
BURT AND I came to the security fence around the plant, standard chain link, twelve feet high. No razor wire at the top, no electricity to shock curious surfers, swimmers, fishermen, sunbathers, or dogs. But still the end of the trail for citizens such as us.
From there the domes loomed higher. Some of the buildings had been demolished and taken away and an air of uselessness hung over the plant. The deconstruction cranes stood at rest here on Sunday, their latticed booms unmoving in the blue.
The only sign of life was plant security, the heavily armed guards that Jake mentioned. I watched a pair of guards patrolling the southern side of the station, automatic rifles slung over their shoulders, fat sidearms, ammunition, batons, and pepper spray on their belts. Desert camouflage uniforms. Another two emerged from a cluster of buildings, strolling casually toward the western perimeter of the complex.
About halfway along the western flank of the compound, a couple of Jeeps came side by side, with two more armed guards in each. Burt waved as they came down the road past us. I chose to look away. Watched a surfer catch a very nice left, barrel along, nothing fancy, just an honest longboard run.
When the guards were well past us, I popped the question.
“SNR Security, right?”
“Indeed,” said Burt. “And such friendly men. They waved back.”
“They just made up my mind about what to do next,” I said.
“Try me.”
“What good can come of a fourteen-year-old girl, her homicidal pals at SNR Security, a date farm where they beat visitors, and a decommissioned nuclear power plant?”
“No good at all,” said Burt.
“I want you to find a way into Paradise and take a look around. I’d do it myself, except . . .” I pointed at my own face.
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. And I have some ideas.”
We stopped and looked at each other. “I don’t mean to sound wimpy, Burt, but it’s pretty fucking unfriendly down on that farm.”
“So I see.”
We continued down the beach.
“But,” said Burt, “I also see that this doesn’t have to be our problem. Who are you, Roland? You are an employee. You have seen your job site now and it is a formidable place. Those apes at Paradise could have killed you out there. They probably should have. I would guess that more than one of them thought it might be the prudent thing to do, put you down nice and deep and far away, like we did to our troublesome friend not long ago. So here you are, alive and breathing. What I’m saying is, is this job of yours worth it? Is the girl worth your life? Mine?”
I’d been wondering the same. Soldiers and cops put their lives on the line. It’s part of the job. A private investigator doesn’t have to. You can save your own skin anytime you want. No court-martial or internal investigations. You can even call the cops and let them do the dirty work. However, a PI can take on risk. And the amount of risk changes with what you think about your clients. I’ve had clients I wouldn’t jaywalk to help. And others I’ve taken a beating for.
“She’s fourteen,” I said. “And in the company of murderers.”
Burt looked down at the sand, nodded, as we walked along. “Between the feds, the state, and the county, there are thousands of people dedicated to finding runaways like Daley Rideout.”
“Yet some of those runaways still show up dead, or never.”
Human silence then, just the crash of waves and the cries of seagulls and the soft crunch of our feet on the sand. The ocean blue now, not green. Shadows lengthening west to east, evening coming on.
“Then, of course, there’s the sister.”
“Yes,” I said. “There she is.”
“I’m sure you want to come through for her.”
“I really do.”
“I can see why,” Burt agreed. “She’s responsible for the girl. Very much on the hook. And quite an eyeful, too. All those curves and curls.”
“She has my attention.”
“I saw it in your postures at the picnic table. How you walked her to her car.”
>
“None of you were exactly subtle.”
“Friends aren’t subtle.”
“It’s like catching something.”
“Slow to win, Roland. It’s a saying in sports.”
“I know what it is.”
“I’m not worried,” said Burt. “You’ll notice things in her that will slow you down. It’s easy to fog things up with your own breath.”
We continued past the power plant a few hundred feet, then turned around and headed back toward my truck. Strange to walk past all those eighteen hundred tons of nuclear waste buried in the sand just a few yards away. While you check out the surf, and think about your work, and about a woman you barely know and who has lied straight to your face and you still can’t close your mind’s eye on her.
“Now, so far as Paradise goes,” said Burt, “I’ve printed maps we can use. There’s an adjacent BLM parcel that Paradise doesn’t own—dirt roads, occasional bird hunters and rock hounds. I’ll be inside. You’ll be able to keep an eye on me. I talked to our friend Clevenger. He’s made some cameras we can have. You’ll like these.”
15
////////////////////////
WHEN we got back home, I was surprised to find the Irregulars and Penelope Rideout arrayed around the picnic table under the big palapa, apparently deep into cocktail hour.
Sundays are ceviche night at Rancho del los Robles. I gathered that Penelope had arrived earlier, unannounced, then honked from the gate until Dick had let her in. When Penelope saw the festivities shaping up, she’d offered to fetch the ceviche from our usual source, Rosa’s Restaurant downtown. Thereby earning an invite to stay for dinner. She sat between Dick and Liz, one of Liz’s “industrial-strength” margaritas in a stemmed balloon glass before her.
Penelope wore a summer dress on this summer evening—periwinkle, I believe the color is called. Hair up on one side, held by a flowered comb. Her white phone sat on the table in front of her.
They had saved me my place at one end of the table. I sat and hefted one of the two large pitchers of margaritas, poured away. A festive paper tablecloth and mason-jar candles, faintly fragrant.
Inspired by the drinks, Violet launched into a story of seeing her first and only bullfight in Tijuana a few years back—a novillada, or novice contest, that was particularly sickening if you were pulling for the bull, which she was. She had been furious at her date for bringing her to such a pointlessly gruesome spectacle and had broken up with him before they’d reached their Tijuana hotel, where she had then moved her things into a separate room, and the next day taken the Amtrak Surfliner all the way from Imperial Beach home to Santa Barbara.
“I thought you were living in St. Louis,” said Liz.
“Exactly,” said Violet, smiling. “But I was staying with friends in Santa Barbara that summer and I had to get away from that guy as fast as possible! And I still remember the name of the bullfighter who was the big draw that day—Adan Coreas. There are so many things that I’d like to forget, but once they get into my head . . .”
The ceviche was great, as usual—fish, shrimp, scallops, and octopus. Everyone had their stories. Even shy Frank offered up some harrowing tales of crocodile-heavy rivers and big jungle snakes and riding La Bestia up through Mexico to the United States. He had the Hispanic flair for understatement. A small boa of constrictor, maybe twelve feet. I caught Penelope looking at me, twice. Just after checking her phone. I looked back at her in the candle glow, her burnished bare shoulders and the light on her hair, and eyes that had taken on the color of her dress.
After dinner, Ping-Pong. Liz a good and graceful player, as many tennis players are. Violet’s ponytail flew every time she looked behind her and up, for that airborne threat she seemed to fear. Penelope had fast reflexes and accounted herself well with her partners. Within the summer dress her body was beautiful. Burt’s team won every game, which it almost always does. Once in a while I can take him in singles. Tonight, I kept myself on the disabled list, though it wasn’t easy.
Then the Irregulars vanished and Penelope took up her place at the table again. We tried to make light conversation, but, set against the obvious pain and peril in our worlds, the small talk was awkward and witless.
She looked down at her phone for maybe the fiftieth time. “I brought some things over for you,” she said. “I’ll get them.”
From her yellow Beetle she carried two large shopping bags, each a bright floral design. She set them on the table at her place across from me, and remained standing. The Ping-Pong exertions had knocked her hair loose, and curls dangled over her forehead in some disorder. The candlelight wavered on her face and gave her eyes a theatrical quality.
“This is a bourbon I’m told you like.” She displayed the bottle using both hands, hamming it up like a game-show model. Set it on the table facing me. Then looked into the bag with a thoughtful expression, as if considering the order of things.
“This is a box of chocolates.” She propped the chocolates against the bourbon. Inside the bag, she moved something with one hand so she could get to the next item.
“These are oranges, pears, and peaches. All organic. See?” She carefully set them on the table.
“This is just a sixer of Bohemia from Vons,” she said. “My favorite. Now, this . . . I really hope you like this. It’s to take the place of the one they ruined out in the desert. I got the XXL, but I can exchange it. If you don’t like it I’ll get you a different style. I’ve always liked snap-button Western shirts. Though I haven’t ridden a horse since I was a girl.”
She smiled goofily and shrugged. The shirt was folded neatly, with the plastic collar brace still in it. The colors were muted and rich. She propped it up against the bourbon opposite the chocolate.
“I like it,” I said.
“For more practical things.” She set aside the empty first bag and tugged the next one into place. Then presented the booty. “Behold: antibacterial ointment for your wounds. And a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I know you must already have these, but you could be running low. I’d be more than happy to change your dressings before I leave tonight. Thus, three different kinds of bandages, from butterflies to the big square pads with adhesive on the edges. Cotton balls. And painkiller spray made from aloe. Plus, I thought some of these cold-hot stick-on dealybobs would come in handy, but not over broken skin, of course. Now, this is therapeutic massage oil, says right on the label. I am volunteering to treat you with it, when you’re up to such a thing. I hoped it wouldn’t embarrass me to give this to you, but it kind of does. I’ve never given or received a massage in my life.”
She smiled, a little embarrassed, by the look of it. Just like she’d said. “And there you have it.”
“Treasure beyond compare,” I said.
“Well, at least some stuff you need.”
She studied her gifts in silence. Cut me a look, still embarrassed. Set the meds and bandages and cotton balls aside, then pushed them toward me.
“I don’t know what to make of you,” I said.
She came around and sat down next to me. “If you can turn, I’ll touch up that face of yours and explain me to you.”
I turned. Up this close, Penelope Rideout was authentically beautiful. She set one of the candles on the table next to us. The smell of melting wax mixed with her light scent.
“I’m not bad at this,” she said. “My mother was an RN. And Daley was just one endless accident when she was little. Nothing serious. Let’s start with the ding in your head.”
Her hands came at me and I closed my eyes. Felt the rasp of the bandage, the dab of cotton, and the cool alcohol around the stitches. They’d shaved a good-sized island of my scalp.
“Like my haircut?”
No reply. The stink of ointment and the light swipe of her finger.
“Everything I told you about my husband, Richard Hauser, is true,” she said. “I k
now because I made him up.”
“Explain.”
“In the beginning there was the accident. It happened in March of 2009. We were living in Eugene and we were a happy little family. Mom and Dad went to dinner for date night. Their date night was Thursdays. I made us girls chicken potpies and I did homework. I was a senior in high school. Daley sat next to me on the couch, watching videos on her gadget. She was four. It was raining hard, and windy. On the way home, Dad went off the road in our van and down an embankment and into the Willamette. The van slammed down into the rocks and the windshield broke and the van got swept around and sank. They both died. There, the forehead’s done.”
Her face up close. Eyes bright and analytical, in assessment, as they often seemed to be. Then her hands came at me and I closed my eyes again. Felt her fingers on my brow, applying the dressing.
“As soon as the troopers told us what had happened, that’s when the fog set in. I could hardly even see through it. Way later, it got better. But it never lifted all the way. I still look at things through the fog sometimes. I tell you this unhappy story so you know what it was like to be me. Penelope Jane Rideout, eighteen. I got a good lawyer, a lot of insurance money, legal custody of Daley, the house, the cars, the investments, everything. All through the fog. I didn’t know how to do what I was doing. But I did it anyway. And the vultures started circling.”
And I understood. Things got quiet again. I felt the sting of alcohol on my right eyebrow, and the warmth of her breath on my face. “That’s an awful cut, Roland.”
“Awful people.”
“Let’s try an easy-change dressing.”
“We’ll show them.”
“You make fun of things when they hurt. I like that about you.”
“You invented the husband to scare off the vultures.”
“I had to. You can’t imagine how craven some of them were. Men who were married but unhappy. Men who were happy but willing to leave their wives and children. Men who were already grandfathers. Men who cried. Men who became violent. Men who unzipped. Men who would not go away. There were good men, too. More than a few. But they didn’t understand me at all. I was just a girl sleeping with her little sister, chewing on my nightgown sleeve when the fog came in and the tears wouldn’t stop.”
The Last Good Guy Page 9