The Triggerman Dance (36 page)

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Win.

Mag.

500 gr.

Silver tip

He notes that the engraving looks very much like the engraving on the shells Joshua showed him, with the cursive script so similar to the Declaration of Independence.

Leaning in with his camera, John shoots several of the gleaming, textual brass casings.

Finished and sweating harder now, he presses the red button again.

But when the last diorama rotates, he's not looking at wildlife at all.

Now, to John's continuing astonishment, he is staring at the front of what might be a pub. In fact, John can see a bar, a long mirror and a row of empty barstools through one of the mullioned windows. The front door is wooden also, with a large window in its center. Green curtains hang on brass rods inside. He thinks of the alcohol he's drunk this night and rubs his eyes. No, the pub remains, and it is inviting.

John steps up to the door and opens it. He feels as lost and curious as Alice herself. The lights go on automatically as he enters. It is indeed a little pub. There are three stools at the burnished bar, and plenty of bottles lined along the opposite wall mirror. There are three thick cardboard coasters on the counter and three clean ashtrays, each with a boxes of matches in it. John leans across the wood of the bar and sees the duckboard behind it, the small refrigerator, the ice bin with a folded hand towel on top of it, the little overhead glass rack. It is all genuine and real. It is neither facade nor mock-up. John feels almost dazed, pulled between the illusion of wildlife—animal and human—"outside" and the reality of the "civilization" in which he now stands. He feels as if he is in some last outpost.

To his right and down a step is a comfortable little room arranged around a big screen television set in a cabinet along the far wall. There are half a dozen chairs set up, all facing the screen. In the midst of the chairs is an electronics control console so the viewer doesn't have to get up to change channel or volume, start or stop tape,
etc.

John wonders why Holt has lavished so much attention on his home entertainment system. Somehow it disappoints him. He tries to image Wayfarer sitting around at night watching
Seinfeld.
Suddenly, though, John feels stupid, because he realizes that this pub and its big screen theater are not for commercial entertainment, but rather for something very different. A look at the bookshelves, built eye-high along two walls, confirms his idea.

This is where Vann Holt relives the hunt.

The hunts. Of course. Holt takes trophies, but he also records his hunts. John stands before one shelf and scans the titles: Afghanistan Ram, 1966; Africa Kudu, 1988; Africa Lion, 1990; Africa Lion, 1977; Alaska Brown Bear 1989; Alaska Elk, Brown Bear, 197^ Alaska Caribou
1993 ..

John wonders: where would Baum be?

Not under "B", he sees. And not under "S".

Nowhere, he thinks, nowhere I would find it.

He goes to the end of the second shelf and studies the miscellany, but there is no indication on the labels that Holt might have recorded the death of Rebecca Harris in the
Journal
parking lot He backtracks to "R" and "H", but finds nothing. He tries "C for columnist; "W" for writer; "J" for
Journal.
Nothing.

He wouldn't label it, John thinks, and he wouldn't leave
it
here.

Or would he? Where could it call less attention to itself? The needle in the haystack.

He looks at his watch now, and it is 5:20 a.m. Only forty minutes, he thinks, to get all this—and the sketch and photograph in his refrigerator—to the box.

There are drawers under the shelves of video tapes, six to each wall. In the first three he finds predictable odds and ends blank tapes, spare cases, pens for marking, instruction manual for the tape player, monitor, speaker system, remotes. There are dozens of photo albums.

Next time in, he thinks.

CHAPTER 24

John made his cottage in five minutes. He tried to walk with a casual, up-with-the-sun contentedness, but he could feel his deceit in every step. What he wanted to do was sprint, to outrun the feeling somehow.

He let out the dogs, brewed some coffee, poured a cup, and got his walking stick from the deck outside. With the penlight full of film in his pants pocket and the plastic bag inside his shirt, he set out with his dogs along the lake again. He headed for his box of toys, his tunnel, his reason for being.

As soon as the trail led off into the brush, John broke into a run. A few minutes later he stopped to listen and look, but the morning was quiet—just the songbirds in the bushes, the shuffling of Boomer, Bonnie and Belle out ahead of him and the cadence of Rebecca's name in his head.

Re-bec-ca-pause. Re-bec-ca-pause. Re-bec-ca.

Near the halfway point he stopped again. The sun was creeping over the eastern hilltops, round and bright as a ripe orange. He waited, watched and listened. Just me and the last half to go, he thought. I've got the goods. Everything is going to be all right.

He shot up the narrow trail, gravel loosening under his shoes. He pictured Valerie. But he thought of Rebecca.

Re-bec-ca-pause. Re-bec-ca-pause.

But thoughts of Valerie and Rebecca dissipated as he neared the fence, and all John could think about was what he had found in the trophy room. Joshua would be pleased. They were getting closer.

Re-bec-ca-pause.

He stumbled, then regained his balance. His head felt crowded and his legs heavy. Rebecca in the rain.

A few hundred yards short of the fence, John stopped again and tried to still his pounding heart. He looked down the trail and saw nothing but dense brush. He could feel the warm plastic of the bag against his stomach.

Then he was off again, chased by the images of Rebecca. He sped up, jumping across a deep rut in the trail, pushing harder as he climbed. Outrun the pictures, he thought. Just outrun them all.

Re-bec-ca-pause.

But the pictures stayed with him as he neared the fence. Other sensations entered his memory. He remembered the smell of his mother's jacket on the day of her maiden voyage in the yellow airplane. He remembered the smell of Rebecca the first time they'd made love. He remembered the overwhelming presence of Valerie the night before, the way she looked and felt and the way her skin gave way under the touch of his fingers.

A small smile crossed John's face as an odd feeling began to spill into him. It was a humble feeling, not a loud nor demanding one. He could hear it over the pounding of his shoes on the earth and the thumping of his heart. It said to him: you could love this woman and let her love you back, and have everything a man could want.

Impossible, he thought. Never.

Not after I do what I'm going to do.

He almost laughed at himself.

Was Valerie a way back to Rebecca? Was Rebecca a way toward Valerie?

Who cared?

You have a purpose here, he thought. Fulfill it.

Then he was in the clearing, with the fence nearby and the stump, and the young oak tree pruned away from the electric chain links. He circled the area, breathing hard, dodging the wooden cover of the tunnel. Calm, he thought: be calm now.

When his breathing and heart had slowed, he sat on the stump and lit a smoke. The dogs had sprawled around him, tongues in the dirt, panting rapidly. All three suddenly perked up and looked back down the path as Boomer rose lazily and snapped at a fly. The others lay back down, sides heaving. John listened. Nothing. The cigarette tasted bad so he stamped it out and put the butt in his pocket.

He stood and went to the spot, two yards from the fence, toward the oak tree, and uncovered his box from its leafy grave.

He slipped a fresh penlight into his pocket and set the used one in the box. He unbuttoned his shirt and took out the bag, setting it into the box too.

Then he removed the telephone, stood and was just about to hail Joshua when he heard the dogs scramble upright in the dirt and start to growl.

Snakey stepped from the path, tossed some biscuits toward the dogs, but stared at John. His clothes were covered with thorns and brambles, and sweat dripped from his sharp triangle of a face. He had a little machine pistol in his right hand, with the short black barrel pointed at John's chest. The dogs ate the biscuits and lined up in front of Snakey, tails wagging.

"Drop the phone," he said.

What will the abort button get me, thought John. Answer: an FBI escort to the morgue.

He dropped the phone.

"Open your hands, and lift them."

John put up his hands, fingers out.

"Walk to the tree and stand in front of it. If you run, or if you move quick, or maybe even think about it, I'll kill you. Slow
now ...
to the tree. And when you get there, you put your hands way up on that branch and you don't move."

John took an uncertain, leg-heavy step toward the tree. "Mind telling me what in hell you're doing"

"Shut up. Lean against that tree. You keep your hands on that branch or you get this clip. I mean it, Bubba. I'd like to do that. It'd make my whole year."

Think.

He felt Snakey up close behind him now, then cool hard steel between his neck and his skull. A hand crossed his chest, jammed under his arms, moved around his belt and crotch, slapped down each leg.

Think.

"Mr. Holt won't appreciate this," said John.

He heard Snakey retreat through the leaves.

"I don't work for Mr. Holt, cuntlips. I don't want to be a boy scout suckass Holt Man. I work for Lane Fargo and he works for Holt. Press up against that tree now, like you're fuckin' it. Like you wanted to do to Val last night out on the island, and in her room. Yeah, I saw it all. Didn't really get any, did you?"

"Lane didn't tell you?"

"Shut up. You squeak again I might shoot you in the leg just for the fun of it."

John clamped his hands over the big oak branch. Snakey was behind him, maybe twenty feet back. John heard him pick up the box, rummage through the penlights and video tape.

"These little lights got mikes in 'em?"