The Triggerman Dance (42 page)

But he has already begun to embrace his new station. He feels a fraternity with the darker side of his race; he knows sin as a participant rather than a spectator. He senses connection with that great body of offenders, past and present, who have live with the mark of Cain burned into their souls. He knows their secret, and they know his. He has done something that sets him apart from goodness and light, something that the good and the light might not even see in him. But his brothers, his fellow dark agents, they see and they know. With the Fallen, at least he can be honest. Maybe he can learn from them. Shared burdens make strength.

The entryway opens into a room that is clearly a man's. Its furnishings are functional, with little attention to style or harmony. The blinds and carpet are gray. There are three heavy cowhide sofas set around a very large Kodiak brown bear rug. There are bookshelves along two walls, and one corner of the room is piled high with African drums, weapons and carvings. Facing the window is a long heavy bench set up with Holt's reloading equipment. John can see the long-handled machines of three distinct reloading stations: handgun, rifle, shotgun.

John steps to the table. A covey of stuffed quail make their way from right to left, around the boxes of shells, following a handsome sentry male who hustles along, his head and topknot forward. There are paper boxes at the shotgun station, clear plastic for the rifle cartridges and yellow plastic for handgun loads. Each is labeled with the cartridge gauge or caliber, the shot size or bullet weight and the powder type and charge. John notes again Vann Holt's graceful, forward-leaning draftsman's writing. The table is orderly. John can see that the bulk components are stored underneath. He bends down and pokes a heavy bag of lead shot, then looks into a powder canister to find, unshockingly, powder.

He takes four exposures of the table, following the quail, right to left.

The bedroom is larger than the reloading room but emptier, too. John stands in the double-doorway and views the neatly made bed with a Pendleton blanket for a cover, the nightstand with lamp, small bookcase and stack of magazines on the near side. His eye follows the sunlight to the tall window. There are no blinds here, but a heavy purple curtain that has been tied open on either side of the glass. The curtain strikes John as a sad dramatic flourish in an otherwise forsaken space. Two worn leather recliners sit at opposing sides of the window, facing outward where a perfect tall rectangle of hills and ocean is framed by the glass.

He kneels, pulls open the top drawer of the nightstand and takes out a loose pile of occasion cards. He sees, for the first time, Valerie's handwriting. It is composed, unadorned and pleasing. There are cards for Father's Day, birthday, Easter and Just Thinking of You. Mixed in with these are cards from Carolyn, whose script is sweet chaos with occasional blurbs of lucidity. Like her mind, John thinks: what does she dream about?

Beneath the cards are four yellow legal pads, all dense wit Holt's
writing.
Unlike the cryptic notes of his business files, the legal pads show a more expansive and personal Holt:

Still don't know if Valerie can be persuaded to take over Liberty Operations. Either that, or she'll go on to veterinary school and heal animals all her life. I'll be pleased with either decision, but Liberty Operations could use her and she'd make potfuls of money. I don't want to go outside the organization, but choices seem limited. Laura? She'd lose interest over time. Thurmond? Too old. Lane? He's loyal as a pit bull but I don't think he has the kind of character that builds trust. He'd be bitterly disappointed not to have a shot at it, I know. Must make some decisions before the last good nap.

Can disconnected people be free? When the U.S. Government wanted to solve the 'Indian problem' in the west, they made tribal language, custom and religion illegal. The idea was to destroy the tribes without killing
off
all of the individuals. Without the tribal connections the Indians were defenseless. In place of the tribe, the white man offered the concepts of private property, agriculture, Christianity and the importance of individual freedoms. Once the unity of the tribes was ruined, so were the individuals within them.

John flipped back a few pages and read again:

More cops make more nuts and more nuts make more cops. No end to the widening spiral until we find a common enemy. Oklahoma City only the iceberg tip. If I could only have Patrick back I could look into the dark future and see some light. There he would be, my eyes, my seed, my pride and my love going forward into the days. When Pat died it was like losing two futures— his and mine. What to do? Valerie is all that's left, but will she want Liberty Ridge as her own, or will she need to separate, follow a husband, and begin her own life somewhere?

Under the legal pads John finds a small stack of medical bills. They are all from M.D. Anderson Clinic in Houston, and none are stamped or cancelled by the Post Office. Carried home personally, John thinks: why? He can't make much sense of the billings codes or charges, but recognizes the scans: X-Ray, CT, MRI and PET.

Must make some decisions before the last good nap.

He realizes what nobody seems to know, or at least what nobody has bothered to tell him: Holt is dying. Yes, he thinks. Holt brought the bills home himself so Valerie, or Fargo, or whomever, wouldn't find them in the mail. They don't know. Josh doesn't know. Does anyone?

He arranges the billing statements, open, in a loose square, then shoots them with this penlight camera. Then he replaces the bills, the pads and the cards very carefully, in the same order he found them. He checks his watch and looks out the window for a moment.

The bathroom is spare and clean. Hoping for a clue to Holt's ailment, he opens the medicine cabinet, but finds nothing but over-the-counter remedies, shave gear and ChapStick.

The last room is a kitchen, which appears only partially stocked at best. In the frig, is some fruit, milk, soda and a full ice-maker bucket. There is, of course, a container of fresh-squeezed orange juice. There are crackers and a half-used loaf of bread on the counter, beside the toaster. The cabinets contain the usual condiments and spices, and, much to John's surprise a box of peanut-butter flavored Cap'n Crunch cereal. He can hardly picture Holt sitting down to a breakfast of this kind. A liquor cabinet has two fifths of Scotch and several bottles of old California wine—Zinfandels, Carignanes, Cabernets. John stands in the kitchen for a long moment, trying to acquire a sense of the man who, at least on some mornings, begins his day here. He wonders, given Carolyn's condition, does Holt make love with her?

Ten minutes later he sits at his own dining table in the cottage, watching through the big picture window as Valerie and her dog come across the meadow toward him. She is dressed in hiking boots and shorts, a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and her red wool cap. The springers twist with patternles logic out in front of her, noses to the ground for birds. She wears a holster and pistol on her hip, slung down low like a gunfighter He decides that Valerie Anne Holt is one of the oddest women he's ever met.

John's heart leaps, then plummets. It aches. It aches to soar. It aches for company other than the dead, their murderers and their memories.

There she is, he thinks, a woman I can deny, mislead and betray.

There she is, a tool I can use.

There she is, a beautiful young woman coming to see
me.

The light of her approach brings out only the darkness in his own killer's soul. He goes out to the shaded cool of the porch to welcome her. He smiles but it feels like a grimace. He watches as Boomer, Bonnie and Belle charge into the meadow and commence an assault upon the springers. Valerie stops to watch, then joins John in the shade. She smiles.

"Dad wants us to have dinner with him tonight."

"He's back?"

"Called from the jet. He'll be here by six."

"Everything okay?"

"He sounds elated. I suspect Titisi has signed on."

"That's good news."

She turns and looks back at the meadow to the dogs. Her hair is stacked up under the cap and coming loose like it always seems to be. "Whatcha been doin'?"

"Making a list of editors to call. I'm thinking I might not want to live out in that desert anymore."

"Be nice to have you closer. Help me with the dogs."

"That would be nice."

"You don't have a crush on me, do you?"

"No.

"She tries to smile, but her smile is buried by the sudden redness of her face. "Lane says you do. And that you're trustworthy as a rattlesnake. That's what this revolver here is for—rattlers."

"Thought you were going to say for me."

"Naw. I couldn't shoot the guy who
saved
my virginity. Not until I properly thanked him, anyway."

She pauses and looks at him with a half-grin on her face, the kind where the bottom teeth show just a little and give her a look of mischief. Then she blushes again, washing the smile away.

"Just a little crush, maybe?"

"Maybe."

She takes a deep breath. "I'm going for a walk. Wanna come?"

"Sure."

They start out around the lake. The dogs thunder past them and crash into the water, fighting over a stick. Boomer has it and all the others appear to be tearing him to shreds to get it away. The sun is warm on John's face and for a moment, the cold dead feeling inside him is in abeyance. When they reach the place where he had seen Vann, Carolyn and Pat Holt some twenty-three years ago, he tells her the story of Carlos and the cave and how her mother looked with Valerie inside.

Valerie stops. "Right here?"

"Yeah. About here is where they were.
You
were."

"I'm kind of moved by that."

"It's just a story."

"No. It's more. I think you're
somebody.
Somebody who was sent here for a reason. Sent you then, and sends you now. God, maybe, or the devil."

Her unwitting accuracy corners John into silence. He nods. "She was wearing a white dress."

"Mom always wore white. Did you see the spring in the cave?"

"I slept beside it."

"It's still there, you know. I mean, I haven't been to the cave in years, but the spring's still there or the lake wouldn't be. We should go see it sometimes. How about tomorrow afternoon? I'll pack more food and we'll call it a picnic. Sick of my cooking yet?"

"That quail was world class."

"Settled, then.

"They continue on for a while without talking. John feels the jitters leaving his nerves, replaced by the mild happiness of knowing one's body is alive, of feeling it move, of being in the company of someone it is drawn to.