The Triggerman Dance (41 page)

"Six days is the best I could do. Believe me, the Attorney General was
this
close to shutting us down right there, over lunch—redlining about ten of my operations. She pointed out with unfortunate accuracy that the murder of Rebecca Harris—a heterosexual WASP—does not, in fact, even constitute a hate crime."

"We all know who the target was!" yelled Joshua.

"That doesn't change the outcome," said Frazee.

"And if we don't have the arrest in six days?"

"She cannot guarantee us all six days. Six, maximum."

"If we don't have an arrest
in time?''''

"ATF takes over."

"Would you excuse me for just one moment, sir?"

"Of course."

Joshua went into the men's room and vomited. Then he wiped his face with a soaked paper towel, brushed the hair back on his sweating scalp and smashed his foot into the aluminum waste receptacle. He looked down at it: shiny angles now all converging toward the huge pockmark of a center. Round Two, he thought. This fucker will not defeat me.

Back in the conference room, he stood somewhat formally behind his chair, like a party guest waiting to be seated. He buttoned his coat and looked at Walker Frazee, trying to mute the fury from his eyes.

"Sir," he said calmly. "I believe this is the worst decision that can be made at this time. Our informer has performed splendidly, quickly, intelligently. We are on the verge of a clean arrest. I can guarantee you one thing, sir—if ATF storms the walls at Liberty Ridge, Wayfarer will destroy everything that might implicate him in the murder of Rebecca Harris. We will be left with nothing. Nothing. ATF won't even get their ninety-six bodies. It will be an unqualified defeat, and Wayfarer will walk. He'll never offer us another chance again. Ever. You know him, sir. You know I'm right."

It was Frazee's turn to posture. He extricated himself from his chair with meaningful slowness, then walked to the window. He stared out. Then he turned and looked at Joshua. His eyes had that glimmer of conviction in them again."

“I object to your cynicism and irony, Mr. Weinstein. You have been given control. You have had your man inside for nine days. At the most, he will have six more. I can do nothing more for you. And if ATF takes over I'll be happy to see this go. I've never believed in this kind of hugger-mugger, anyway. I believe in bold, broad, decisive action. Take it, or ATF will."

Joshua stared back at Frazee, both drawn to and repelled b the Gleam. It was such a pure, unexamined thing. But when Frazee smiled now, Joshua saw it in a new way. Gone was the boy behind the face, and in his place was the serene sadness o the supplicant. Joshua realized it then: Frazee's onetime friend and ally within the Bureau was now his lamb of atonement. Frazee could not be clean until baptized in the blood of Wayfarer, and blood, Joshua understood, is exactly what Frazee was hoping the Bat Boys would spill for him. For free.

"Sir," said Weinstein. "I guarantee you that we will bring in Wayfarer on a clean arrest. Owl will produce. And I humbly implore you to keep those fucking apes out of my case."

"Go back to California," snapped Frazee.

"We're on our way, Walker!" exclaimed Norton, taking Joshua by the arm and leading him from the room.

They huddled in the far corner of a terminal lounge at Dulles International. Joshua stirred sugar and milk into his third cup of coffee. His ears were still bright red from a bitter confrontation with the airline desk, from which Joshua finally emerged victorious with two tickets for an earlier flight, no extra charge. He had only saved three hours time, but something in his gut told him he would need them.

"Can we shift Owl into overdrive?" asked Norton.

"He's been working as fast as he can," said Joshua. "Now we'll work him even faster. The Bat Boys will not crash my party; Norton."

Norton nodded without spirit. "Frazee is just a blade of grass in a Storm."

"He's a waste of skin."

"It isn't his fault."

"Norton," said Joshua, "that is completely beside the point."

Josh looked at his boss. There was no way he could tell him of Snakey now—it would be certain suicide. Norton would simply enjoy the protection of innocence until someone on Joshua team leaked the news. Someone would, he knew, but he prayed it wouldn't happen in the next six days. Six days—maybe less.

Knowing Frazee, maybe a whole lot less. If and when Frazee got wind of Snakey, the whole investigation would be completely and forever over. So, he knew, would his career with the FBI. This concept sat inside him without valence, neither positive nor negative, just a stable actuality he had never considered before. With regard to his future, he thought: small business. I've always liked dry cleaning, the way things go in dirty and come out clean.

He turned his thoughts to Liberty Ridge. What a botch, he thought, what a mess. But still, Owl was in there, right where they needed him, and the pearl of great price was in there too, waiting to be discovered. The cellular phone waited on his belt, a silent oracle. The relays and patches and satellites could put Owl through to him almost anywhere in the Western Hemisphere, but there it sat, black and mute on his hip. Ring, bastard, he thought.

"How come you missed the morning flight yesterday?" asked Norton.

"I told you, the Bureau car broke down. It took Tech Services over an hour to get the damn thing to a garage. Too late for the flight, by then."

Norton looked at him with unsatisfied eyes.

"Fuel line," said Joshua.

He felt Norton's big hand brush his shoulder as his boss stood, then plodded through the empty bar toward the exit.

Josh waited until Norton was out of sight before he spoke. "Sharon, I feel betrayed. Six days."

"Better than two."

Josh thought, then gulped down half his coffee. "The sketch of the
Journal
and the photo of Baum's house should be enough. They were in Wayfarer's possession. It is evidence of planning a murder. Why can't Frazee cut us loose with it, at least let a judge decide? We're after a search warrant for God's sake, not the gas chamber. Who in hell made that sketch, took those notes, if it wasn't Wayfarer?"

"That doesn't really worry me, Joshua. What worries me is John. How is he going to take this? He's packed and ready to come out. He's weak and he's vulnerable."

Joshua shook his head. "Fuck him. He's got the training and the ability to find what we sent him in to find."

"He just killed a man to get something to us, and it wasn't enough, Josh.

"He looked at Sharon Dumars for a long moment. He could feel the first rush of outrage and adrenaline leaving him, and approaching in its wake the grand fatigue of doubt and waiting.

"Six days," he said again. His voice sounded hollow an ungenuine.

Dumars set a hand over his. When he looked at her, she held his gaze with a look that seemed ready to dissolve, but did no Her dark eyes expressed the strength and tenderness that Joshua had long thought of as the essence of the feminine. How could they feel both at the same time? He wanted to cry.

"The other day you asked me something, and I answered you with a lie," she said.

He waited. He felt stuffed with information now, overloaded with emotion, and he could hardly believe that Dumars was apparently about to add to his burden. He searched his memory for the conversation in question. Something about the documents? The gun they hadn't found yet? The safe that Owl had photographed?

"You asked me to dinner and I said I had plans. I didn't."

That, he thought. Funny what a good job he'd done of forgetting.

"Oh. Well, that's okay."

Sharon blushed then. It surprised Joshua to see this intrusion onto Sharon's tanned, always composed, always prepared face. Her hand tightened and she smiled.

"Josh, you should have seen the look on Crazy's face when you told him to keep those apes out of your case. It was just to die for."

He allowed himself an uncertain grin.

She grinned, too, looked around, then leaned in closer l him. "I have to tell you, watching you go up against those o farts really made me proud. You're just a babe in their wood Josh, but you made a sound. You registered. No matter what happens here, you're the future of this Bureau, not Frazee and not Norton. You kicked a little butt in there, partner, and I loved it."

"What, exactly, did Frazee look like when I said that?"

"Like a nun finding a dildo in a Christmas package. Pardon my graphics."

"I missed it, I was so wound up."

"Well, I'll never forget it."

He smiled back at her now, and felt a massive draining of amperage from his nerves. He took a very deep breath.

"Thanks, Sharon."

He felt her hand tighten on his.

"Joshua, for cryin' out loud, will you just ask me to dinner again tonight? What does a girl have to do?"

"Would you?"

"My place. We'll go through Wayfarer files until we can't hold our eyes open any longer. After that, well, we'll just do whatever we need to."

Joshua's smile continued for just a moment, then his eyes took on a look of great reluctance as he reached down to the telephone pulsing against his waist.

CHAPTER 27

John moves through the Big House like a ghost, past the kitchen and dining room to the stairway where his moccasin boots are all but soundless on the steps. On the second floor he walks purposefully down the hallway to Vann Holt's suite of private rooms and lets himself in. He moves to his right and leans his back against the cool adobe wall. He feels both exposed and invisible. He wonders what arrogance ever led him to believe that he could accomplish this mission, and questions whether Rebecca would understand what he has done. He knows she would not, and he feels tainted, foolish and cursed.

He looks down at his right hand, still flabbergasted that just a few hours ago, it took a human life. He looks at the lines in his palm, then at the tendons on the other side. How could you have done that? he wonders. I am a murderer now. He scrolls through his memory of the Ten Commandments, realizing that, if you count an engaged woman as a married one, he has actually broken every divine order except for the first two. Eight out of ten he thinks: I'm hellbound.