We came into San Diego on an inland route, sweeping through the edge of Balboa Park, under the Cabrillo Bridge, spilling into downtown on Eleventh Avenue, then Ash to Front to F to Union to the federal jail.
“Abel said this’ll take an hour or two and I’ll be on my way.”
“Nothing federal takes an hour or two.”
“Thanks, Daniel Downer,” said Tola.
“Call me when you’re ready and I’ll pick you up.”
“Sure you don’t want to stay?”
“I’ll stay until we hit the cameras,” I said. “Abel can take over from there. I’m kind of sick of me.”
“In the news, you mean?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“They say that Abel tries his cases in the media,” she said. “All that hair and bluster.”
“If you ever get to trial, it’s going to be a circus, Tola.”
“I love the circus. And I love you, Roland. Really a lot. I’m sorry I’m just a murderous lowlife, but I try to be a good person.”
“You acted according to your nature.”
A courtroom silence. She stared straight ahead. The bump of tires on the downtown streets.
“I’ll call you as soon as I get myself free,” she said.
I pulled into the parking structure, found a ten-minute space. Gave her a hand down.
In a big bright rectangle beyond the dark structure I could see the crowd of reporters and camera operators, all their mics and baffles, booms, lights, and logos. Some of the people I recognized. Along with Abel Cruzon, Mike Lark and two of Lark’s agents, and two uniformed marshals. And two hard-hatted, orange-vested workers puzzling over the concrete near the curb as pigeons bobbed around. All of this tableau in a panoramic sun-shot theater toward which I escorted Tola, her hand firm on my upper arm.
“I’ll take what I deserve,” she said. “What the law says I deserve. That’s okay. It’s my responsibility as a citizen.”
I had the thought that if Tola had been arrested for a premeditated triple murder in Buena Vista, Mexico, instead of attempted bribery of a federal officer in San Diego, she would quite possibly never see the outside of a prison again.
“You’ve got the best lawyer in the city,” I said. “You’ll surrender and post bail today, plea down later, and probably do a few months of federal time.”
“Attempted bribery of a federal agent can carry five years,” she said, squeezing my arm. “But I can run the Nectar Barns from the slammer. I could see you every other day. That’s the policy. I’ve looked into it. The rules say, when you come see me, we can shake hands, embrace lightly, and kiss briefly upon arrival and departure. Visitors’ behavior is considered to be the responsibility of the inmate. So if you go all mating dance on me, I’m the one they dock. You’ll need to show some self-control.”
We walked toward the knot of people gathered in the sunlight.
Then Tola stopped and turned to me. Her eyes searched my face and I felt the pain in them.
“I really don’t expect to see much of you in or out of prison, Roland. You’re better than me. But I’m harder. You can take the Straits out of East County . . . and we’ll be fine wherever we land. What’s left of the Straits, anyway.”
“You and Virgil will carry the flame,” I said.
“We absolutely will.”
Lark turned to us as Abel Cruzon raised a hand and started our way. Currents of movement through the reporters, the marshals hemming them in. The hard hats still looking down at their projects. Tola let go of my arm and the pigeons fluttered up as she walked into the sunlight.
FORTY-FOUR
Natalie and her two sons arrived on time for the morning appointment in my Main Avenue office.
She’d lost some weight as a captive of The Chaos Committee—compared to the robust BMW pitchwoman whom half the county had seen on TV—and there was a dark calm about her.
She came in on the arm of the older son Lee, who seated her brusquely and bypassed my hand to hug and clap me on the back. He was in his NROTC uniform, hair cut high and tight in the marine manner.
“Thanks for everything you’ve done,” he said.
Younger Terrell, who’d made the admiring and insightful film about his mother, gave me a polite handshake, then sat down on the other side of his mother.
Natalie pulled a white envelope from her purse and set it on my desk.
“I think I figured this up right,” she said. “Based on your contract and counting the days on the calendar. I put in some extra.”
“Thank you,” I said. In fact, Dalton had paid me nothing so whatever the envelope contained was a plus.
“No,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Ford. If you hadn’t found the Borrego compound you wouldn’t have found me. And if you hadn’t found me right then, I don’t know what kind of woman you would have discovered later. I’m not sure I could have found my way back.”
“You did a great job, Mom,” said Lee. He gave her, then me, his father’s eager, open-faced smile.
“Yes,” said Terrell. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Ford.”
Lee sat forward, set his hands on his knees. I thought of Dalton sitting right there not long ago, getting ready to toss his prosthesis at me.
“Mr. Ford,” said Lee, “I’m going to cut to the chase here. “Mom and us wanted to thank you and to pay up. But we have a larger mission. I’m going to run for Dad’s assembly seat in November and we’d like to have you in some TV ads with Mom. Everybody knows what The Chaos Committee did to her. And how you came to the rescue. You can’t find a Republican in the county who won’t vote for me in Dad’s honor. And plenty of Dems, too, what with the terror scandal around Ms. Safar. The money is pouring in. The media is all over me. I’m a write-in because of the filing deadlines, but I’ve got a shot at it.”
My surprise was swift but short-lived. Of course Dalton’s son would try to turn his father’s death into an opportunity. Pure Strait.
“I’ll be creating the TV ads,” said Terrell. “But you’ll have editorial freedom to say what you want.”
“You’ve only got a hundred and thirty-some days,” I said.
“Not a problem,” said Lee.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty. But you only have to be eighteen for the California Assembly. So, I feel that destiny has handed me a Big Mac, and I’d be a fool to hand it back.”
Terrell closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.
Their mother smiled. Almost the same smile she’d always had. Almost the same sweet spirit behind the same sweet face. But less light now. Reduced wattage. Purposefully withheld or frightened out of her? Temporary or permanent? Impossible to tell.
“We’d like to shoot a spot this evening,” said Lee. “Right, Terrell?”
“Ideally,” his brother said. “Some establishing scenes at Dad’s grave out at Rosecrans. We’d like you to be standing there, looking down with the markers all around you while you talk in voice-over. Remembering Dad’s character and courage. All like that. You can write that part.”
“No, but thank you.”
“Why not?” asked Lee.
“I have my privacy to protect and a business to run.”
A puzzled stare from Lee. “Fine, Mr. Ford. But don’t forget that Dalton Strait is a true American hero.”
“Mr. Ford is a hero, too,” said Natalie. “I wouldn’t be here if not for him.”
“Then how about a heroic campaign contribution?” Lee asked. “I really hope to continue Dad’s work, and improve on his record. I want to get student debt under control. I think I can get things done across the aisle.”
I picked up the envelope that Natalie had set on my desk. Stood and handed it to Lee.
“Good luck,” I said.
“Thanks again for everything you did. You’ll remember this day when they sw
ear me in.”
An awkward silence.
Natalie was the last to leave. She stopped in the doorway and turned around. I heard the boys clomping down the old wooden stairs.
“I owe my life to you,” she said.
“Mainly to Dalton.”
She looked out at me from within her substantial hauntings.
“Why did you go to the San Diego FBI?” I asked.
“To talk about the finances. Early on they tried to turn me against Dalton.”
“And Asclepia headquarters?”
A soft flinch. “McKenzie Doyle. I saw one of her texts to Dalton. Wanted to have a look at her. Why?”
“Just filling in the details,” I said. “I like your boys, especially Terrell. He showed me A Day in a Life and it lit a fire under me to locate you. I saw how much you are loved and needed.”
“He’s another one of my heroes. Terrell.”
“Hold on to the good memories you have of Dalton,” I said. “They’re your friends. They can help you find your way.”
“You’ve had experience at that.”
“We all will.”
She gave me a long stare and a short smile. So many storms. I heard Lee’s voice booming from down in the foyer. Reminded me of Dalton when he’d finally learned that Natalie was still alive.
“I won’t be going back to the dealership,” she said. “Or running Lee’s campaign. It’s time to fix some of the things that got this family into our financial mess in the first place. I can take full-time work when I’m ready. We’ll be okay. Dalton had a small life insurance policy he’d kept secret, and there’s some veterans money for his death and disability. I pled down to one count from the feds, in return for telling the truth about what happened. I’m really looking forward to better days. For all of us.”
Lee, shouting up again.
“You’ll get some better days, Natalie.”
“Goodbye, Roland.”
After dinner with the Irregulars that night I excused myself for a walk around the pond. Triunfo led the way. The sun hung low in the west, over a layer of dark clouds gliding in from the Pacific.
I found my usual boulder and the dog scratched his way up beside me. We watched the sun go down and I waited for the flash of green, which I have never seen but some people say exists. Something to do with gasses and refracted sunlight, though perhaps only an optical illusion. No flash of green on this June night.
I sat awhile and let the last of the light dissolve around me. Felt the cool creeping up from the earth. Let the good thoughts in. Turned the bad ones back. Finally got rid of thoughts altogether.
After being knocked out in that fight and carried to my stool, I sat there and watched myself, but from above, disembodied, and I understood that there are two of us, one who does and one who watches. Understood that I had been beaten but would fight again.
Sitting on that rock in the dark I watched my thoughtless self for a while, then got up and walked home.
Later I drove to a ballroom dance club downtown where you can always find a willing partner. Saturdays are Latin Madness there, so I was all of that, late into the night.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
T. Jefferson Parker is the author of numerous novels and short stories, the winner of three Edgar Awards, and the recipient of a Los Angeles Times Book Prize for best mystery. Before becoming a full-time novelist, he was an award-winning reporter. He lives in Fallbrook, California, and can be found at TJeffersonParker.com.
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Then She Vanished Page 27