But there are so many methods of control that don’t require powerful narcotics or physical force at all. I remembered Daley’s apparent familiarity with the two SNR men as they boarded the silver Expedition at Nick’s condo and drove away. I thought of her ignoring two SNR escorts as she talked with surfer Jake at the San Onofre Surfing Club. And of her arguing with two SNR men in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven in San Clemente — arguing but not resisting — then willingly getting into their vehicle.
As I pictured that scene playing over and over again, I believed that at that moment in the 7-Eleven parking lot, under the bored but curious gaze of Yash Chowdhury, the clerk, the balance of power between Daley and her not-quite-abductors had changed. They wouldn’t lose her again. No. And the easiest way to control her? Take her phone, put her in a remote house or building, lock the doors, and post some guards. SNR had plenty of those to choose from.
On my desk, Dale Clevenger’s big red laptop suddenly jumped to motion-activated life. Camera three: Two adults I’d seen earlier — Tattooed Forearms and Flat-Top Woman, both of them with guns on their hips — came from the house with two young boys and a girl. I guessed them at seven, five, and three years old. The boys wore white shorts, black canvas sneakers, and plaid shirts buttoned all the way up. The girl wore a pink dress and shiny pink shoes. Her hair was pulled into a yellow ponytail and she carried in both hands a baby doll easily half her own size.
They stood around the flagpole and the boys lowered the flag that Adam Revell had raised early that morning. They were careful with it, stretching it out for the long folds, then gradually stepping closer as the triangle of stars and stripes thickened.
The older boy presented the flag to the woman and the five walked in loose cadence back into the house, boys first, adults next, girl trailing behind, all of them just steps ahead of the dark.
An hour later I was driving back up the coast to San Clemente, headed for the last place I knew for certain that Daley Rideout had been seen.
I could sense her out there, this girl I’d never met. Both a moral duty and a paycheck. She was close, but drifting from my reach. One moment I felt puzzled but hopeful, like a dog returning for a buried bone that had disappeared just hours ago: I will now dig again. The next moment I felt only foolish and beat-up.
I pondered what Penelope Rideout had said about my willingness to dig to the bottom of things. And that she had chosen me for this labor because of it. It had made me proud, the choosing. I will now dig again. I wanted to do it well and show her the quality of man I was. I wanted her to truly see me. And here it came again, the forbidden jump of my heart. Forbidden why? Justine? Enter the cave of your past, and ask the ghosts that sleep there.
Light fog clung to the coast. Just off Interstate 5 the new Camp Pendleton Navy Hospital loomed in lighted glory like an immense barge floating on a wide black river. I’ve never set foot in it. My brethren were treated in other VA hospitals, and I had visited three of them and sat beside their beds and slowly walked the halls of rehab with them. Waited for appointments with them. San Diego. Long Beach. Phoenix. Separate but related hells. Two are doing just fine now. One is not and never will be. There is nothing sadder or more infuriating to see than a once strong young man or woman surrendering their desire to live. We warriors kill ourselves off at roughly twice the rate of the rest of you.
I pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot, saw Yash Chowdhury behind the counter. Parked around the dark side of the building, where I wouldn’t take up a prime spot.
Got a big cup of coffee and paid Yash. He hadn’t seen Daley again, though her sister had been in earlier this evening. And two hours before her, a man who looked somewhat like the man who had dropped Daley off here that late morning had been here, too. He had told Penelope about seeing this man, but wasn’t sure enough to call me or the police.
“Daley is very popular,” said Yash.
“The van driver,” I said.
“Yes. He came in, bought a hot pepperoni stick and a thirty-two-ounce beer. He said he was looking for a girl. She had been here very early last Thursday morning. I told him I was working then. He described her. And the hoodie that she wore, with the humorous question on it. He said he was her uncle.”
Late forties, said Yash. Short, stocky, medium brown hair, wearing shorts, a light blue Hawaiian shirt with outriggers and coconuts on it, and leather flip-flops. Needed a shave. Runny blue eyes.
Yash didn’t like his attitude. He told the man he didn’t remember such a girl. The man left. Didn’t give a name or leave a number.
“And the sister?” I asked.
“We talked and talked,” said Yash. “She was nothing like the first time I saw her. When a customer needed to pay, she stepped aside and drank her Slurpee. The Raspberry Blast stained her gums red, so we laughed. What a positive spirit she has. But so worried. She’s very conflicted.”
I was still trying to figure her out, but at least I had to agree with Yash’s assessment of her.
20
I worked the city of San Clemente from north to south, on both sides of I-5. A searcher, all motion and hungry eyes. Drifting fog and stars. Good strong coffee from Yash. Camino de Estrella, Pico, Palizada. Nice neighborhoods, homes built close together down by the ocean, not so close up in the hills. Light retail. Not much traffic. A sleepy beach town.
I was fooling no one, not even myself. I knew my chances of spotting Daley Rideout were too small to matter. But just big enough to create hope. So I drove, looking for that tiny dot of hope, smaller than a taillight but big enough to see. I studied the pedestrians. The faces in cars, briefly lit, then gone. Kept my eyes out for silver Expeditions and old white panel vans. Because Roland Ford digs to the bottom of things.
South all the way to the city limit. San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station loomed half-lit in the middle distance, its spent fuel rods cooling in their casks. Cooling for the next hundred thousand years. Protected from earthquake, tsunami, thieves, and terrorists by SNR Security, who would not be interviewed for this story. Who had jumped me near a desert date farm for mentioning a girl’s name. As the pain faded, my thirst for vengeance grew.
Downtown. Avenida del Mar. Pedestrians out on this summer night. Not as many as in Laguna or Newport to the north, or La Jolla or Encinitas to the south. Here in downtown San Clemente you don’t even have to pay for parking. I cruised past the restaurants and cafés and the folksy little shops, half of them already closed. Backed into a parking space for a good view of the street. Right in front of the Mongkut Thai restaurant, and through my cracked window the air smelled very, very good. Salt air and spices.
Thought I’d sit for a minute before I left my truck, hit the street, and made my long-shot rounds with pictures of missing Daley.
That was when I saw Penelope Rideout’s bright yellow Beetle parked across the street and ahead, ragtop up, a light slick of fog on the windows.
Well, now.
What brings you here on this late-summer night?
A few minutes later she came around the corner of El Camino Real. Opposite side of Del Mar, slowly walking toward her car, hugging herself against the cool, looking through the storefront windows. Skinny jeans and white sneakers, a black cowl-neck sweater, hair loose and curled by the damp. The small white purse over her shoulder.
She stopped in front of the first store she came to, put both hands to the glass, and pressed her face up close. It was a touristy T-shirt shop, closed. She spent some time looking into the dark store. More than I would have. Maybe she liked the humorous shirts.