Burt looked at me.
“I have to tell Lark what we found,” I said. “But I’m not done with Natalie. It’s better we retrieve her than our overworked and sometimes reckless bureau.”
“Certainly.”
“Time kills, Burt. Natalie Strait is a valuable captive and these people will exploit her any way they can.”
“Sounds to me like she was dressed for combat last night,” Burt said. “Stockholm syndrome? Or maybe another psychotic break? More than enough has happened to her in the last two weeks to bring one on. But don’t forget that they expect a ransom. What kind, I don’t know.”
“Is Holland still in Ramona?”
I checked the Vigilant and nodded.
* * *
An hour later, Brock Holland’s Ramona GPS coordinates led us to a dirt shoulder of Pine Street, from which we stared through a chain link fence to the empty lot beyond.
No Suburban.
No Harris Broadman, Brock Holland, Gretchen Deuzler, or Natalie Strait.
Just weeds going brown and ground squirrels leading their squirrely lives. Trash flapped against the windward side of the fence, from which hung a collection of campaign posters.
Dalton Strait
Assembly
Straight for California
Something flashed red in the empty lot.
I used my binoculars to find the Vigilant 4000 blinking from atop a boulder in the afternoon sun. Passed them to Burt just as the Suburban came up fast behind us, someone spraying three-round bursts that sent us scrambling under the truck and returning fire from the ground. Dirt and gravel kicked up in my face, rattled off my sunglasses. Bullets twanged above. I heard the lead punching through the truck body and the windows as I squeezed off rounds at the driver. Burt fired away beside me. The Suburban’s windshield blossomed and the vehicle swerved suddenly onto two tires—hovered a perilous second—then righted itself and roared back onto the street and away.
“We can run them down but we can’t match the firepower,” said Burt.
“I hate calling cops,” I said.
“Me too.”
I called 911.
THIRTY-SIX
That night, the Irregulars, Tola Strait, and I watched a San Diego News special titled “Chaos in California” on the big TV in the palapa. My phone sat on the table for updates from Proetto. Silence. The white Suburban had so far vanished into the highways of Southern California, Proetto speculating that The Chaos Committee might have many sympathizers and safe havens.
Burt and I had been lucky. I had a bandaged shrapnel cut on one cheek and Burt’s right knuckles were wrapped in gauze.
Here at Rancho de los Robles, Wednesday is known as Catfish Wednesday. Which means that Grandpa Dick deep fries his favorite dish and all participants bring something at least vaguely Southern to complement the fried fish.
We all try to be thankful and contrite on Catfish Wednesdays, no matter what strife, rancor, or disappointment might be piling up inside us or in the world around us. We agree to let the day be more than the sum of its problems.
And try we did: ice-cold prosecco or lemonade at cocktail hour; social Ping-Pong with evenly matched teams; an upbeat “I-Ching” consult for each of us from Odile; much sympathy for and genuine interest in Tola, her business, and her bereaved family; improved guitar from Frank on his native Salvadoran folk songs; reduced squabbling between Grandpa Dick and Grandma Liz; Burt garrulously refilling drinks and offering bacon-wrapped devil dogs from Fallbrook’s Oink and Moo restaurant; even the mongrel Triunfo napped under the picnic table rather than chasing and crunching the Ping-Pong balls.
For a while I felt the blessing of surviving machine-gun fire, the goodness of our world and the people in it, the comfort of kindness and respect, the hope that comes from belief that the next day can be better and the day after that better still. Why not? In Tola’s occasional looks I felt the optimism of love, how it takes you over and makes you want to be better. I remembered her tearful words after the slaughter on Palomar, the way she blamed it all on herself. This is my lowest valley. My bottom. I’m going to do better with everything I touch in life.
But as I turned on the gigantic-screen TV to watch “Chaos in California” I felt cold dread wash over me, knowing that the show would flood our little campfire of human decency like an icy river.
Cohosting “Chaos in California” were familiar San Diego News anchors Loren Clement and Amber Hunt.
Over a video backdrop of burning cars jamming a street in San Bernardino, Clement led off:
“Never in history has California experienced the willful taking of life and destruction of property of the last two weeks. This unprecedented violence is being inspired by the self-proclaimed Chaos Committee, a group of masked terrorists as mysterious as it is deadly . . .
“But first, the facts,” he said.
Clement’s affable mug was replaced by a street brawl in Oakland, over which Clement narrated offscreen:
“CC-claimed victims” were three—a small-town police chief, one U.S. congressman, and his aide—all killed by mail bombs. But murders “directed or inspired” by the CC were thirteen across the state, and included six sworn officers, four of whom were shot in the back from long distances.
“CC-inspired destruction of property” statewide was estimated at $675 million and consisted mostly of arson-set fires of government buildings, schools, and places of worship. Scores of retail businesses had been set on fire, hundreds of cars had been torched, thousands of windows smashed. Emergency rooms across the state were experiencing record numbers of gunshot injuries and violently broken bones.
“Over half of California’s public schools have experienced shutdowns of three or more days,” said Amber Hunt, whose usually pleasant face now appeared tense and determined.
“Most hard hit are high school students, teenagers who have grown up with classroom killings and active-shooter drills and who seem almost unanimously to have expected this terrible violence. And then, there are elementary school children who have little understanding at all of what is happening in their world. Let’s let some of these terrified people speak for themselves . . .”
Faithful ministers, firm rabbis, beseeching imams.
Sobbing children, fierce mothers, stoic dads.
“I don’t know how much more of this we can stand,” said Liz. “As a people.”
“It will end when they kill The Chaos Committee,” said Dick. “And America can get back to baseball.”
“This is no time for jock humor, dear.”
“But then what comes next?” asked Odile.
“Civil war,” said Frank.
Triunfo perked up at his master’s words, then clunked his head back down to the flagstone.
Tola gave me an absent look. Checked her phone under the table and away from me. Took my hand.
Loren Clement:
“Who are and what is The Chaos Committee? We’re going to replay the Local Live! takeover video again. But rather than try to speculate on the philosophy of this deadly band—perhaps much larger in numbers than a mere band, according to the FBI—we’ll let them explain their beliefs in their own words.”
I watched the studio invasion commence anew—the grotesque masks, the clumsy violence, the pistols held to the heads of two terrified reporters—and wondered again that it hadn’t ended in blood. I tried to tell who was behind each mask. It looked like Broadman was the Iroquois and Holland the WWI splatter mask. Gretchen very possibly the female Hannya. Leaving the two ninjas. The voice of the Iroquois came as before, digitally augmented, Vaderesque.
“Allow us to introduce ourselves. We are representatives of The Chaos Committee . . . We wanted to give you a chance to meet us. Face-to-mask . . .”
I half listened to the doomsday voice coming from behind the grinning Iroquois tribal mask. The other hal
f of my attention roamed the underground tunnels and The Chaos Committee “headquarters.” I expected Lark had raided the Bighorn and its warrens by now. I hoped they would treat Cassy Weisberg with care. I doubted that Broadman, Holland, and Deuzler would be found anywhere near Borrego Springs. All the while I wondered, too, if Natalie—after being stolen by these people, body, heart, and mind—had finally fallen in with them. And like everyone else, I wondered where the next bomb would explode.
I watched the screen as anchorman Dwayne Swift fainted and his ninja attacker tried to drag him back up into his seat.
Looked out across the pond as I listened to the Iroquois mask, so pompous and proud of his stupid ideas.
“My brothers and sisters in arms. As proof of our power and the power of our ideas, witness the Encinitas office of Representative Clark Nisson. Good night!”
Again the masks advanced on the cameras and again the picture went dark.
“Why have these calls to anarchy taken hold in the most prosperous nation on earth?” asked Amber Hunt. “To answer this, we’ll talk to experts—all of whom agree that a ‘perfect storm’ of economics, politics, religion, and race has been brewing in our country for years. Later in the show, we’ll talk to American voters and see just how this sudden jump in American terror will influence their decisions in November.”
November seemed far away.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Tola lay against me, damp and big pupiled, her hair dark on the pillow and her eyes pale green in the minor light.
She rose on one elbow, checked her phone, then put it back under the pillow. “Things,” she whispered.
“What things?”
“Don’t worry.”
“Why would I worry on a night like this?”
“You’re my rock. And my roll. I wish you were mine.”
I stroked her hair and listened to her breathing. Through the window I could see the same waxing crescent of moon that had led me to Natalie Strait the night prior in the dark, wind-rattled desert. Natalie in camouflage, part of the gang. The tunnels. The wall of masks. Where did they make the bombs? Who was mailing them? Where was Jackie O?
Even making love to Tola Strait couldn’t prevent the riptides of the last weeks from pulling me back out to sea with them. Dread and darkness, treading through the undertow.
While she slept I went to the kitchen, got a roll of duct tape from a drawer and tore off two short strips.
Outside I stood for a moment beside my bullet-riddled F-150, which stood alone in the chill spring air, as beloved a vehicle as I’ve ever owned. I felt her pain. The bullet holes were dull silver against the black paint. The divots were mild, due to the velocity of the 5.56mm rounds from the M4. The bullet-resistant glass—$50 per square foot—and the angle of attack had left the windshield intact and without holes. It had only been a few months since I’d had six bullet wounds operated on by the body shop. A long story. Today’s miracle was no damage under the hood other than a punctured radiator hose, and two ruined tires. I’d limped my baby to the nearest tire store in Ramona, Burt riding shotgun, literally. An hour later we were on our way.
Standing beside my truck I touched the driver’s door, mumbled thanks and a short promise of vengeance. Thought I should name the truck after all we’d been through. My first idea was Vivian and I liked it. Sprightly and unusual. Of or related to life.
I pasted the tape over the rear left taillight of Tola’s Jeep. All night I’d sensed her departure, but I had no idea to where or why.
When I got back into bed she was awake.
“Wanna hear the story of Kirby and the baby gorilla?” she asked.
How do you say no to that?
“He was fifteen and some of his older friends were animal breeders and dealers. You know, exotic stuff for the pet trade, mostly from Mexico and Central America. Well, Kirby loved creatures of any kind, so he’d clean cages and run errands for these jaspers, get to hang with the animals and make a little pocket money. So, the dealers take a baby western lowland gorilla in payment for something. No brains, no headaches for the dealers, right? She’d been delivered by cesarean section and weighed less than five pounds. Name of Tumaini, which is Swahili for hope. Of course she stopped drinking her formula around strangers, so they sold her to Kirby for a hundred dollars and he snuck her into his room.”
Tola kissed me lightly on the lips, checked her phone again.
“That gorilla was cute as a bug, Roland, had this soulful little face and beautiful eyes and this straight-up black hair like she was surprised or something. She looked so old! Little white diapers. Kirby cleaned out a bottom dresser drawer and made a bed for her. The first day he showed her to me she was clinging to him like Kirby was her mom. Animals always loved him. She started drinking from the bottle again. He bought her a big plush gorilla that cost him a fortune but Tumaini really liked it.
“This was when Mom was off and wandering and before Kirby’s fight that ruined Dad. So, Dad being distracted by Mom’s adventures and gone all the time running Better Burger, everything was cool for a week. He couldn’t figure why Kirb spent so much time in his room. The truancy calls from the school got Dad riled enough to raid the bedroom and find the gorilla. Dad laid waste to Kirby and raided his exotic-animal friends. Charged them a grand for his trouble and the gorilla’s room and board. Gave them some Better Burger discount coupons. Gave Tumaini to the San Diego Zoo and made a publicity stunt out of it. So Dad.”
Feeling her breath on my chest, I said, “Amber Hunt covered it for San Diego News. Your dad got permission to use Tumaini’s image for advertising and named a veggie burger after her.”
“The Gorilla Gobble. It never took off. Ahead of its time.”
Tola’s warm breath turned liquid on my skin and I felt her hard-fought sobs.
“It’s good to remember,” she said. “Even when you want to forget.”
No more truthful words than those, I thought.
Family stories.
I told her about my sister, who was still traveling the world as a professional surfer. Janine is one of the few female big-wave riders and to watch her compete at Mavericks or Cloudbreak puts my heart in my throat until she comes striding up the beach with her board under one arm and that dazed smile on her face.
I went on and on about my brother, Jack—a bright and troubled man—who travels with Janine as an assistant, trainer, companion, and fellow surfer after his grueling years as a SEAL.
Tola recounted brother Dalton’s run for high school junior class president, his defeat and his bitter protest of rigged ballot counting. He’d made such a big issue of it with a local paper that the principal had duly questioned the election committee students and found that one of them had in fact counted her own vote for Dalton’s opponent twice because Dalton had passed over her in favor of Natalie Galland of Ramona. One vote being enough to change the outcome. She’d had no idea it was that close. Dalton had happily taken office. And, not long after, taken his baseball bat to older brother Kirby, staking his claim to Natalie once and for all.
Then the stories tailed into silence and I listened to the heartbeat of my home and the woman in my bed. Moon and a breeze through the window screen. Thought nothing about anything. Amazing grace.
We made strong love and in the afterglow Tola’s phone buzzed. She listened and hung up.
“I don’t need you on this,” she said.
“I’ll help.”
“I don’t need it.”
She carried her overnight back into the bathroom and emerged shortly in a trim black business suit, a tastefully low-cut black blouse, low-heeled leather boots, the elegant chartreuse satin duster I’d seen that night in Sacramento draped over one shoulder. Hair in a ponytail, tight and out of her way.
We walked to her Jeep in heavy silence.
“Sure you don’t need me?” I asked.
“I got this one.”
She kissed me hard, then tossed the duster onto the front seat, climbed in and rolled down the window.
“Roland, I love you like a twister loves a trailer. But don’t follow me and don’t wait up.”
“I’ll leave a light on for you.”
Down the drive. I waited a moment, then got into sweet, battle-scarred Vivian and followed.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Tola’s red Jeep was easy enough to track with the blacked-out taillight. South down the interstate. I didn’t really care if she saw me or not. I was bent to do what I could for her. The PI Roland—knight-errant, by love inspired, the tools of his trade within easy reach. Steering down Interstate 15 south in the service of his queen.
To the 8 East and into the mountains of Cleveland National Forest, down the long grade past Virgil Strait’s rocky stronghold and on into Imperial Valley. Wind and blowing sand and big rigs bound for Arizona. Off at Bonds Corner, then into Buena Vista.
She parked on the U.S. side, on a potholed boulevard in the restaurant and bar district. Turned off her lights and called me.
“I knew you’d pull this,” she said.
“You didn’t fight it very hard.”
“I made a specific request.”
“I don’t work for you,” I said. “What is this?”
“Calderon told New Generation about my appointment at the Buena Vista Credit Union. Providing an opportunity on Palomar in my absence and the skeleton crew at the grow. My own trusting stupidity failed to foresee and prevent what happened. His unhappy notary is an acquaintance of mine.”
“They should have taken us out at the credit union,” I said. “Or the Hotel Casa Grande. Easy target, easy money.”
“Kirby meant nothing to them except a warning to me,” she said. “New Generation wants everything I’ve worked for. My money, my plants, my retail, my savings and loan. My mail-order start-up and my California regulator you told me not to trust and by the way you were right. That craggy sonofabitch I trusted is FBI. The cleanest way for New Generation to get all that is to get me on their payroll. I’ve turned down some awfully lucrative advances. Leading to what happened. But I’m coming to the table tonight at the Casa Grande at their invitation. We’re going to clear it all up.”
Then She Vanished Page 23
