The Last Good Guy

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “No,” I said. “You told me you met a youth minister who ‘came at’ Daley.”

  “He did.”

  “The youth minister is a woman.”

  “Maybe my youth minister was her assistant.”

  “Maybe he’s related to your ex-husband.”

  “In what possible way?”

  “As another character you’ve made up.”

  Silence between us then. She turned to me with her knife thrower’s stare.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s try this again. Do you know Atlas, Penelope?”

  “What did you see and hear tonight?”

  “Short answer? Everything.”

  “Hiding in the hills with some fancy military scope?”

  “Zeiss night-vision binoculars. Good ones.”

  “I will not take the name of the Lord in vain. Much as I’d like to right now.”

  “Let it rip, Penelope. I do it all the time.”

  “Then goddamn you.”

  “Say it like you mean it.”

  “I mean it, all right.”

  But I saw the anger angling away from her. Before it had really even gotten started. Wasn’t sure what had come in to replace it. She gave me a long, empty look.

  Then sighed and stood, walked to the window. Twisted a wand and let the floodlight in.

  “I met Reggie Atlas twenty years ago. I was eight. Mobile, Alabama. He was a guest preacher at the Pentecostal and he visited our Sunday school. Led a prayer and talked to us about growing up in Jesus. Twice a year, he’d come guest-preach. The rest of the time he was touring in his van. He had named the van ‘Four Wheels for Jesus’ He ministered all over the South. He was starting to draw good crowds.”

  She gave me a slack look, rare from her. The door-to-door search for Daley and the run-in with Atlas had taken something out.

  “We got to be really good friends,” she said. “Wrote letters, and emails, and talked on the phone. Wrote Bible essays and poetry to each other. Lots of poems. We both loved dogs and horses. Talked about everything. His family and mine. Jesus and His plans for us. He came through Mobile six years running. Always led a Sunday-school prayer for us kids. The van became a bus. Always had a nicer bus. Bigger and fancier.”

  She sat back down on the couch and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

  “One year, he let me see his new bus. Just me. We prayed and talked and read scripture, and he gave me a beautiful red rose and asked if I’d like to drink the blood of Jesus with him. And I said yes. I would have said yes to almost anything. I was fourteen. Brave. Foolish. And Reggie was the warmest, strongest, best-looking, funniest man I knew except for Jesus and Dad. I felt wild when I was around him. He said the pills would relax me. He said that we could never experience a love like ours again. That it was a gift from God to us. That the love I felt for him was real. The blood was sweet red fruit juice with a funny taste at the end. We talked and prayed. I got dizzy. He touched my face. Baptized me from a beautiful silver bowl. Led me to his bed. I went of my own free will. Shall I keep going, Roland? I know you get to the bottom of things. But how much truth is good for you?”

  “Go on.”

  “I remember some details. Trying to escape him. His hands. I was numb. My fists were light as cotton and he was heavy. Very hard to move or even breathe. Pain. Fear. Wondering what Jesus thought of me. Wondering what the world outside would look like later. I slept for hours after.”

  In our silence I heard a car pass down the street outside. Distant voices on the sidewalk. Penelope addressed her entwined hands.

  “Later, he told me the pills were morning-after pills. A double dose. So it all could be our secret. We could love each other like this whenever we wanted. And there would be no more pain, only pleasure. Forever. Us. Amen.”

  The voices from outside grew a little louder. Figures on the sidewalk, footsteps. A soft laugh. Penelope waited for them to pass by before she spoke again.

  “But they failed. The pills.”

  Then the consequences, raining down.

  “Daley,” I said.

  “My beautiful daughter.”

  I hadn’t noted a strong resemblance between images of Daley Rideout and Pastor Reggie Atlas, but I hadn’t been looking for that. Maybe I’d only missed the obvious.

  “Does she know?”

  “Oh, no, Roland. She’s been my little sister for as long as she’s had memories. Dad and Mom and I made her world that way. At first they wanted to give her away. I wouldn’t do that. I prevailed. I had ten times their power of will. It’s been my only weapon.”

  “Does Atlas know?”

  “He was the only one who knows. Now you.”

  It took me a while to fit these pieces together. They were huge and almost unbearably heavy. But they fit.

  “Reggie has followed us since Daley was born,” said Penelope.

  “Followed?”

  “He, or sometimes people who work for him. They found us in Colorado, right after she was born. Found us in Salt Lake, Boise, Reno. In Eugene with Mom and Dad. Everywhere we went. Now here at the end of the continent.”

  “What does he want?”

  “At first, my silence. Which I was willing to give to keep him away. He knew that I could destroy his marriage and his career. A simple paternity test of Daley would ruin him.”

  “Why didn’t you talk? Tell your story?”

  “For Daley. For Mom and Dad. For me. He took pictures of me that night. After.”

  “Did he offer you money?”

  “Often. I declined. He threatened to kill me if I told. Four times he threatened to kill me, to be exact. And as Daley grew, Reggie changed. She’s my age now. The age I was.”

  I let that idea sink in for a long moment. “Your age now. And?”

  “He wants to make her believe in him like he made me believe. I know this.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I stared into his soul as he raped me, Roland. He wants her also. He’s more evil than you understand.”

  It hit me like a fist to a kidney.

  “You think he’s got her.”

  “That’s why I went to the Cathedral by the Sea,” she said, wiping an eye with her sleeve. “That’s why I hired you. That’s why I wander around a town I don’t know, opening doors and looking through windows. I pray every second that she’s simply run away because she’s young and spirited and capable of bad judgment. That Reggie is not behind it.”

  She rose and closed the blinds and turned to me, cheeks slick in the weak light. That hard blue stare. Judgment and anger returned. Shame, too. Pupils tight and black as peep sights, aimed inward. Not at the world. Not at me.

  “I hate pity, Roland. But thank you for having my back tonight. I felt that someone was watching me. I honestly didn’t think it was you.”

  “You’ve never gone to the police?” I asked.

  “I tried to, in Denver and Eugene,” she said. “But I couldn’t tell them the whole truth. And they couldn’t do anything with harassment and stalking accusations I couldn’t prove. I sensed intense suspicion of me. One detective was different. He informally interviewed Reggie. The detective ended up apologizing to him. Late that night, Reggie threatened to kill me if I did that again.”

  “When and how did he threaten you?”

  “Four times over the years. As I said. Exactly four. The first time was Denver. The most recent was Prescott.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “No,” she said. “Always by phone. One time he heard me trying to record a conversation with a digital recorder. It was loud and obvious. After that, he would just listen and breathe. I knew what it meant. The four times don’t include the breathing calls.”

  “Does he still call?”

  “Often. He offers money.”

 
“What did he tell you tonight, at the cathedral?”

  “That I was insane, as always, and he’d call the police on me if I trespassed there again. I thought you were listening to us with some fancy gadget.”

  “I watched. I didn’t hear.”

  I stood. Somehow the occasion required it. Like swearing an oath. Or paying last respects.

  I was suddenly aware of how alone in her world Penelope Rideout was. A stranded creature born of a violent past, buoyed only by her own deceptions. And I felt my own aloneness, too—just a man in a small house beside a great sea, drawn by the simple need to earn a living.

  “Please sit, Roland.”

  She sat back down on the couch, turned off the lamp. We waited in the near dark for a good long time. I didn’t know for what. Part of me couldn’t wait to get away from this once broken girl. But part of me wanted to stay with the woman she had become. Help beat back her demons. Be there for her. I could do just that. I wanted to.

  Minutes, an hour, more. A night bird in the palm with a voice like knocking wood. Another car on the street. Always another car on the street in these crowded California beach towns.

  “I’ll pay extra if you stay here tonight,” she said. “I want you nearby. This couch pulls out. I’ll get you sheets and a pillow. Booze in the cabinet, ice in the fridge.”

  She disappeared into the dark hall and a light went on and I heard a closet open.

  I looked at the front door, the easily thrown deadbolt. Saw the glint of my truck. Saw in my mind’s eye the interior of that truck, with its familiar dash lights on and its gauges gauging and its headlights showing me the road home. Home. The Irregulars, if I wanted company. Privacy, if I wanted to be alone. The hills, if I wanted nature. All presided over by the welcome ghost of Justine. But . . .

  I went into the kitchen, poured a long-night bourbon, and leaned against the counter with it. Fluorescent lights shivering overhead. Felt the terrible weight bearing down on the woman of this house, but couldn’t think of one useful thing to do for her or her daughter. Her daughter. Of course. Under my nose the whole time. Under everyone’s. Plain sight. You want to believe. You want to trust. You have things to do and people to deal with. So you see what you want to see. Until you don’t.

  And what if she’d made it all up?

  Again.

  She looked in from the living room, set an armful of bedding on the couch, and turned to me.

  “Thank you.”

  She waved, awkwardly, as if unsure what type of wave this circumstance called for. Part “Hi” and part “See you later.” Then headed back down the hall.

  I sat up late. Sipped that drink. Thought about many things past and present. How one thing leads to another, then back again. Sometimes. And other times not at all. Remembered meeting Justine Timmerman, Esq., at a holiday party in the Grand Hyatt Hotel downtown one stormy winter night. One look and a few words. The acceleration of life. Felt that acceleration again, now.

  I moved the bedding to the coffee table, took the pillow, and dozed uncomfortably. Dreams vague and meaningless. Up with sunrise, rib aching. Death’s sparring partner looking back at me from the bathroom mirror.

  My next move had to be Detective Darrel Walker.

  22

  ////////////////////////

  I AM actively disliked by most San Diego sheriff’s deputies because of a shooting death I was party to ten years ago. I didn’t fire, but my partner did. When the smoke cleared on that cool December afternoon, we deputies were alive, and an unarmed nineteen-year-old black man lay dead in an alley behind a strip mall. His name was Titus Miller. We knew him in the way that cops know citizens with histories of derangement, homelessness, and occasional violence.

  I still replay that scene, frame by frame, though I try hard not to. It plays me. The sunlight streaming through the clouds above us like a graphic on a sympathy card. Titus combative that day, cussing our orders to stop and raise his hands. Screams and bright sun. Titus backpedaling away from us in his oversized coat and his scavenged athletic shoes, one red and one blue. Pulling something from his waistband and dropping into a one-knee shooter’s stance. This black object glinting in the sunlight in both hands and five shots from Jason punching the life straight out of him. Titus probably dead before he hit the ground. The wallet in his hands, still chained to his belt.

  My partner’s name was Jason Bayless. A good enough guy, though hard to figure. Never gave up much of himself before the shooting. Nothing since. A family man. We’d worked together only a few times. Most SDSD deputies patrol solo, due to modest budgets and large territories to cover.

  Jason had seen a gun in Titus’s hands and I had seen a wallet and that was the very gist of it. The complications came later, during the internal investigation. He honestly believed he was defending his life. And mine. I honestly believed Titus was brandishing his wallet, likely as a prelude to showing ID. My words damned Jason. Excessive force. He quit the department within the year and went into practice as a private investigator. Same as I did. We crossed paths just last year on a difficult case, and Jason did me a solid that helped save some lives. I owe him. We tried to talk out Titus but accomplished little. He told me that if he’s ever in the same spot again, he’ll do the same thing. I told him I would, too. Some mountains will not be climbed.

  * * *

  —

  SO, AS A black man and a San Diego sheriff’s detective, Darrel Walker listened dubiously to me that hot, humid September morning as I told him about Alchemy 101, SNR Security, my still obvious licking at Paradise Date Farm, Reggie Atlas, and Penelope Rideout’s ugly story.

  He entered something on his desktop keyboard, glanced at the monitor. All I could see from where I sat were the back-end cables and connectors of his electronics, and Darrel’s somber face studying the screen.

  That screen had his full attention, interrupted by brief looks down at the keyboard. Tap. Tap. As I mentioned before, Darrel is bigger than I am. Hands like catcher’s mitts. They should make XXL keyboards for guys like us.

  “What was your takeaway on Atlas?” he asked.

  “Convincing,” I said. “Seemed concerned for this missing girl. Said he didn’t remember her visiting his church. He was aware of Nick Moreno, a semiregular. He wondered if my ‘car accident’ was really an accident. He asked me if he should be worried about his own well-being.”

  “Big of him,” said Walker. Tap. Tap. Dark eyes moving back and forth across the screen.

  “Reggie Lee Atlas,” Darrel read. “Evangelical minister, Georgia born. Married, four children. Board of Western Evangelical Alliance. Honorary degrees. Got the calling at eighteen. Drove a bus around the South. Name of the bus and his ministry was Four Wheels for Jesus. Guest appearances and his own programs. Actually used a tent early on. Grew his followers. Things took off in 2005 when smartphones boomed. Lots of social media. Four Wheels for Jesus went online about a year ago—sermons from Pastor Reggie Atlas. Reggie picked to lead White House prayer breakfast. Bought the Encinitas property two years back, tore down the old meditation center, built the cathedral, and opened for business a year ago. Plans to expand. Plans for Four Wheels for Jesus cathedrals in Texas, Florida, and Georgia. Forbes guessed Four Wheels for Jesus Ministry assets at twenty-two million last year.”

  Darrel looked at me over the top of the screen. “I had no idea he’s raking it in like that. You figure his nonprofit tax exemptions must be good as—well, gold. The church buildings and real estate alone are worth twelve million. No complaints against Reggie Atlas. No civil or criminal filings. No lawsuits. Not a whiff of sexual misconduct, harassment, anything. Squeaky-clean, Roland.”

  “Do you doubt my client?” I asked.

  “I doubt everyone. Including this pastor man who thinks he hangs out with Jesus.”

  “Has anyone seen Daley since San Clemente?” I asked.

  Darrel’s eyes
found me over the top of his monitor again. “Not yet.”

  I didn’t quite believe him and he didn’t quite care. Later, I’d ask that question again. He sat back, put his hands behind his head.

  “After I talked to her last week, I did some digging on Penelope Rideout,” he said. “The sister—or now, possibly, the mother. She came up clean. Good family, public schools. She was appointed legal guardian of her sister after the death of their parents. A car accident. I got the ODOT report on that accident. Used to do those myself, accident fatality investigations. Nothing suspicious about it. Penelope managed to finish college. An aerospace technical writer. Job shops. Moved around a lot. Stayed single. But just exactly how Penelope managed to pass her daughter off as her sister for fourteen years isn’t clear to me, Ford. Maybe you know something I don’t.”

  I’d been thinking about that, too. The key was, Penelope hadn’t done it alone.

  “Her mom and dad engineered it,” I said. “They were conservative southerners. Churchgoers. No abortions, especially not for their girl. Adoption? Well, why give away what you already love, sight unseen? Keep the child. Start the coverup early and move fast. Keep ahead of the gossip. Daley gets a normal-appearing girlhood. Penelope gets to help raise her daughter. It would account for all the family moves after Daley was born. The new neighbors didn’t have time or reason to question things. Nothing to question, by the look of things. June Rideout was only thirty-five when Penelope had Daley. I saw a picture of her. June looked young for her age. Easily a mother of two. You wouldn’t even stop to think about it.”

  Darrel leaned his elbows on his desk and worried a yellow pencil in his large black hands. Stared at me. “And what was Atlas doing all this time?”

  “Building his ministry and tracking Penelope and his daughter,” I said. “Demanding Penelope’s silence.”

  “And she?”

  “Trying to dodge him,” I said.

  “Penelope thinks he’s after the girl now?”