The Last Good Guy

by T. Jefferson Parker

  Mike skipped another rock. Went three hops into the mouth of an oncoming wave. “This is what we do . . .”

  “. . . and this is where we do it,” I said.

  One of Joan’s favorite lines.

  She made it sound comprehensive and sufficient. A simple reason for being. I’m not sure how it sounded from Mike and me. My mind is a looser thing. Private First Class Avalos died in a Fallujah doorway holding a small plastic cross in one hand. Titus Miller died pointing his wallet at me. My wife, Justine, told me once that she was not afraid of dying, but she was afraid of being forgotten. And I will not forget her. Nor the others. Taucher among them. This is what I do, in addition. Not forget. My private promise. Nonverifiably of use to anyone. Maybe Joan was expecting us to fill in the details. According to our own needs. How could she have not? If I’m not making sense, it’s because I sometimes can’t.

  “SNR has four freezers full of wooden crates at Paradise Date Farm,” I said. “People coming and going all the time who have nothing to do with growing dates. They’re running a children’s school of some kind. Silver SNR vehicles everywhere. They beat me senseless just for being there and asking about the girl.”

  “Slow down, Roland,” said Mike. “Start at the beginning. Crates in freezers? Crates of what?”

  By the time we got back to my truck I’d told Lark almost everything I knew about Paradise Date Farm. I could see the concentration on his face as he tried to collate the strange intelligence.

  “Can you feed that video live to me?” he asked.

  “Can you give me what you have on Atlas?”

  “FBI property is . . .”

  “And call me immediately if Daley Rideout pops onto your radar?”

  Mike frowned, following a squad of pelicans as they V-ed through the sky. “Joan said you always tried to get more than you gave.”

  “I’m a sole proprietor.”

  Lark considered me for a beat, then nodded. “Deal.”

  “Thank you. I miss her.”

  Lark inhaled deeply, looked toward the diminishing pelicans, then to me. Again, that moment we’d shared once before, at Joan Taucher’s funeral. He didn’t have to say the words for me to hear them: You were with her and I wasn’t and she didn’t make it but you did.

  “I do, too, Roland,” he said. “I hope you find the girl. And I hope you get some payback from those guys who dinged you up like this.”

  Nodded and smiled my anguishing little stitch-lipped smile. “Me too,” I said.

  I sat in my truck and checked messages. Watched Lark pick his way out of the crowded parking lot in his assigned Bureau take-home, an unmarked white Chrysler with a not-quite-hidden light package built into the roof. Younger agents get the hand-me-downs. He stopped for a family of four scuttling from the lot toward the sand, bristling with beach chairs, towels, and toys.

  Then a buzz of phone, and Penelope Rideout’s name on the screen.

  “I found something of Daley’s that might help us,” she said. “When can you be here?”

  28

  ////////////////////////

  SHE opened the door before I could knock, let me in with an appraiser’s squint and an air of conspiracy.

  Her living room floor was strewn with school papers and art projects, girls’ clothes and toys and precarious stacks of CDs. Plastic horses. A plastic castle. The ceiling fan jostled papers and doll hair.

  Two open toy chests—a pink Cinderella and a yellow Beauty and the Beast—sat on the coffee table in front of the plaid couch, some of their treasures relocated to the floor.

  The boom box was now on the half-wall that separated the small living room from the kitchen. Penelope nodded me to the couch, sat in one of the director’s chairs, and aimed a remote at the player.

  I sat as a young girl’s whisper came from the speakers:

  This is a very dangerous thing to do. Penny is the world’s greatest sister, but she wants to know everything I do and say and even think. I need something that is just mine. She would totally destroy this CD if she found it. Penny’s always afraid. Of, like, everything, but especially men. I wish I had a mom and a dad. Alive, I mean. But I have only my sister. She loves me, but she smothercates me. I think she misses Mom and Dad more than I do because she was older. I was four. I remember the police and the woman coming to our door. It was raining.

  Penny totally shut down my Twitter and Facebook. Which means I have to, like, make new accounts, but then she’ll sneak in and shut me down. Again. I tried to get my own credit card a bunch of times, but I always make a mistake and get busted. I should not have said I was a neurosurgeon, probably.

  This CD is like an old-fashioned diary, but I talk it instead of write it. My teachers all say I’m a very good writer for my age, but talking is faster and I can hide a CD easier than a notebook. I can even make a copy in case Penny finds the original. Hide the copy in the attic where Penny hates to go. Because of mice.

  I’m outta here.

  After a few seconds’ pause, the recording clicked off.

  Then on again. A shuffle of what sounded like papers, a quick patch of static, then Daley Rideout’s clear, articulate voice again:

  I’m back!

  So, the reason I’m making this CD is because I don’t have anyone to talk to about certain. Very. Personal. Subjects.

  I mean, Bellamy and I are best friends forever, but I’ve moved a lot so I know that forever isn’t long since Penny keeps blocking my social media. And there are some things I don’t want Bellamy to know. We are, like, the two different sides of one coin. She can be very judgmental, especially about boys.

  For example? James, who I want to talk to but he’s always got other girls with him. He’s older. I don’t know why I like some boys, but I do. Not all. But the ones I like, they make me feel happy when they’re around. Powerful, too. One thing that I know about boys? They’re faster and stronger than girls, but inside they’re weak. So, when I look at James, I like him even more. Today? I pulled a small leaf out of his hair. His hair is brown, and wavy. I didn’t actually touch him—I did not—only his hair. But it made me feel good and, like, fizzy, and this is an example of why I can’t tell Bellamy, who is against boys. Or my sister, who is afraid of everything. So I will tell my secrets only to you, my little CD. My compact diary.

  I’m outta here.

  Penelope stopped the player with the remote and looked at me. Hair back in a clip, a black tank top and capris, bare feet.

  “First of all, Roland,” she said. “You can believe what you want about me. But the facts will always be facts and your beliefs don’t change them. I’m a fact.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re a hard and immovable man.”

  “But upgraded from ox.”

  “That didn’t really bother you. Did it?”

  “It was funny.”

  “You win, Roland. I’m done apologizing.”

  I looked at her with all the impartiality I could muster. I earnestly tried to view her as she was. Only as she was. A subject to be identified. All fact; no fiction. Get to the truth of her.

  “Where did you find this CD?” I asked.

  “I was going through her room, looking for some clue, anything that might lead me to her. I flipped through her music, thought I’d like to hear the Jewel album I gave her. No Jewel in that jewel case, though—just sixty minutes of Daley. I opened every last case and found another disk she’d made. Recent. From last year, when she was thirteen.”

  “Have you contacted Bellamy?” I asked.

  “Yes. She hasn’t communicated with Daley since the move. Since just after that recording was made.”

  “Why did you leave Phoenix?”

  “Pastor Atlas had found us again,” said Penelope. “He drove past our house. I saw him five times. Once in his bus, the fancy big one.
The Silver Eagle. The other times in one of his cars. He loves cars.”

  I thought again of Penelope’s story about Reggie Atlas. Its plausible and implausible horrors. I thought again of the preacher’s story about Penelope Rideout. And I recalled the cliché about clashing stories: her version, his version, and the truth.

  And of course I thought of Daley’s secret sharer, courtesy of Carrie Calhoun and Alanis Tervalua.

  A man old enough to be Daley’s grandfather, to whom she felt a spiritual connection. Who had told her that they were like ghosts flying through each other.

  Whom Daley had known for years, “off and on.”

  And with whom Daley had started to talk in earnest a few months ago.

  I thought of Daley feeling like a puppet in the rain.

  And how talking to her secret man was like turning off the rain so she could turn into a woman.

  I remembered what Penelope had said about Atlas, her alleged tormentor: “He’s more evil than you understand.”

  “Here she is again,” said Penelope. “Age twelve.”

  She pointed the remote control at the boom box. Stood and began circling her way around the toys and CDs and clutter as Daley’s voice took over.

  I’m back!

  I’ve got a few minutes before Penny comes home from work. I think it’s smart to hide my CD in the Jewel CD case, because that means Pen has to look through every single case if she suspects something. Why should she suspect me of this? Because she suspects me of pretty much everything! But what if she finds the actual Jewel CD between my bed and the springs? She’ll go see what’s in the Jewel CD case, and I’ll be cooked! So I’ll just take the Jewel disc to school and throw it away. Tomorrow. Not a problem.

  Penny says she got a better job in California. I looked up Oceanside and it looks like a really great place. It’s on the water, duh, and it’s got a surfing museum, a super-cool library, and it’s, like, always in the seventies. Degrees, that is. Pen says her technical editing job there will pay two dollars an hour more than here in Phoenix. And there’ll be the beach and good schools.

  When I’m doing my homework at the dinner table, Penny pretends she’s reading on the couch and she looks out at the street and parking lot every few seconds. This is totally not unusual. This is what she always does, every place we’ve lived. But we’re in a condo complex now, so there’s cars coming and going a lot, so Pen looks up from her book all the time. Here I am trying to figure out a math problem or read something but I have to look up at her looking out at the car. I don’t know what she’s expecting to see. Why look at every passing car? All I know is that she’s afraid. And I get afraid, too. And, like, totally distracted. Not that I care about my grades. So I go in my room. But I know she’s there, looking out that window.

  So it’s goodbye to Phoenix and Bellamy. Goodbye to Mrs. Herron, who for a teacher is pretty cool. Goodbye to the Yogurt Yurt and the extra sprinkles.

  I saw Pastor Atlas yesterday. He’s in Phoenix to preach at a convention. He always lets me know his schedule when he’s going to be nearby. He sends a postcard with his picture and the info on it. Drives Penny insane that Reggie always has our address. With her taking away my Facebook, it’s harder for him to communicate, so sometimes he just calls. Of course I can’t tell Pen, and the pastor and I talk even though I’m like totally banned from talking to him because there’s an illness in him, she says, but when I ask her what illness is that—like a heart or gallbladder problem—she just says he has cancer of the soul.

  Which is strange because, like, everybody loves Pastor Reggie. And he’s got his podcasts and his streaming Four Wheels for Jesus sermons that Penny won’t let me watch or listen to. But I do. There are ways. Bellamy loves him. Her mom does, too. And when Pastor Atlas is preaching near home, I always seem to run into him somewhere. Really funny how that happens. Small world! He’s usually with his wife and kids. He smiles and stops and we talk. He’s always got fans around him, but when he talks to me I can feel all of his attention totally one hundred percent on me. One time when we were alone for a minute at the mall he said that we were like ghosts flying through each other, which I thought was so beautiful. And when he said we could fly together sometime, side by side in Jesus, I said okay, Pastor Reggie, get me a ticket! And he said he had a ticket for me and I just had to pick it up. Whatever he meant by that. He does have a way of making you feel good inside. And that you’re close to Jesus.

  Gotta go.

  “That’s how he got to me when I was young,” said Penelope, pausing the CD, a faraway look on her face. “Back when I was eleven, he was still coming through Mobile twice a year. He didn’t have a church yet. Just his van or motor home. But he always made sure my family was invited to his guest appearances, and his special tent programs. We were a very religious family. Fundamentalists. We went to anything Pastor Atlas did, if it was in driving distance. Reggie paid special attention to my mother and father. But just like with Daley, his private attention was aimed at me. I came to believe that he was truly holy. When he looked at me, he must have seen an adoring little angel. And a willing victim. I had no real idea what he was doing. Neither did my parents.”

  Penelope still had the remote, worrying it in both hands, the force of her memories showing through. She accidentally hit the play button, flinching when Daley said, “I’m back!” Found the pause, then looked at me.

  “But I know exactly what he’s doing to Daley,” she said. “Reggie Atlas is going to have to go through me first. I taught her from an early age that most men are wicked at best, and some are evil. And I was able to shape that thought into the person of Pastor Reggie Atlas. When she became old enough to understand. To be aware of him. To watch out for him. Should he approach. As I knew he would. We moved and moved and moved. My daughter. My sister. My legal charge. The first time I saw him near her was at one of her soccer games. She was nine. I was walking her back to the car after the game, and he was watching us from behind the wheel of a black truck. I acted like I hadn’t seen him. Pulled the pepper spray out of my purse, then charged him. He sped out of the lot. His engine had been running, just in case. Cagey Reggie. And guess what I did?”

  “You moved again.”

  “You bet we did. By the time we got to Phoenix I had to admit that Reggie could find us no matter where we went. He was big. He was rich. He had people to keep track of us. We were easy. I was getting very tired. I picked out Oceanside because it sounded so good. Beside an ocean. And it was close to San Diego and lots of technical writing for me to do. And just after I sign the lease on this place and get Daley enrolled at Monarch, guess what?”

  “Reggie Atlas breaks ground on his Cathedral by the Sea,” I said. “Pretty much right next door.”

  A strange expression from Penelope then, hostility, with notes of mayhem. “At which time I decided to stop running. But he began to close his net around her. And I can’t control her anymore, and she has no fear of me or anyone. No fear of her teachers or Chancellor Stahl, or her sometimes much-older friends, or of ill-tempered Nick Moreno. No fear of Reggie Atlas, certainly. She told me a couple of weeks ago that she felt like running away with him just to get away from me. He would divorce his wife and she’d marry him and have hundreds of his children. Be free of me and my silly rules forever. Get her damned Snapchat and Instagram back.”

  I watched the anger recede from her face, replaced by a blank long-distance stare at the window and the street. Without breaking that stare, she pointed the remote at the boom box again.

  29

  ////////////////////////

  DALEY’S diary wasn’t all about Reggie Atlas. She talked about her “really cool little house in Oceanside,” and her new school, and the strict Chancellor Stahl, and two friends she’d already made. And an interesting guy named Nick who drove a van and had a mobile dog-walking business.

  I’m back!

 
So Max is kind of a friend, and this guy Nick and Max’s mom picked up Max after school today and Nick smiled at me when he saw me looking at the picture of the dog on his van. And he tells me the dog is called a papillon, which is French for butterfly because of the ears, and I said duh, everybody knows that. And I could see this made Nick feel dumb and a little bit angry, too, and I thought, well, there’s your basic boy stuck inside an older man’s body. Great face, though, Nick’s—alluring eyes and a beautiful smile. Told me Max’s mom’s car was in the shop so he was helping her out, and did I need a ride home, too? So I said yeah, why not, because Alanis was sick that day and Carrie was going to this club called Alchemy 101 and I just wanted to go home and kick it, maybe play some guitar and have some cookies. And that’s what I did.

  I’m outta here.

  I looked up and caught Penelope studying me. She had known Nick. She understood Daley’s proximity to his violent death, how close she had come to brushing up against it. I thought of Nick, too, and the gruesome end that Connor Donald and Eric Glassen had provided him.