The Triggerman Dance (50 page)

John hung up, slipped the phone into his coat pocket where the videotape of Rebecca had been, and set his box of toys back into the ground.

CHAPTER 33

John rows toward Liberty Island, watching the shore in front of his cottage graduate into the distance. The dogs prowl the receding beach, ordered to stay and yelping with frustration. Boomer finally dives into the lake and swims a few yards before turning around and paddling back to shore where he shakes himself out in a nose-to-tailtip shiver, then starts barking again. It is morning of the next day and John's heart is sick with memory.

But his senses are attuned to Valerie. She sits astern in the little rowboat, side-saddle on the bench so she can look forward at John, backward to the shore, or to her right, where the western parcels of Liberty Ridge stretch over the hills toward the sea. The picnic basket sits at her feet. She wears a big black straw hat that sweeps up in front to form a white rose-studded wave that tapers dramatically back to a flow of white ribbon and a spray of red gladiola that dangle over the back of the rim. Her dress is loose and sleeveless, white, with lace around the neck and a wide shiny black belt. John suspects it is out-of-date. He suspects she wears sleeveless dresses to complement her smooth brown arms. Beneath the hat, her hair is free and falls over her shoulders. She is barefoot and her ankles cross as she turns and looks back at the dogs. To John she is a riddle of the known and the unknowable, familiar as a sister but exotic as an orchid.

"Where's your six-gun?"

"Hanging on my bed post. Like my dress?"

"It's nice."

"It's the one my mother wore the day you saw her. It took a while, but I found it."

"Why would she keep it?"

"She's always been sentimental about things she wore when she was happy. Has closets full of clothes. A couple of months ago she cut her wedding dress up the back with pinking shears and put it on for dinner. Anyway, I thought you might like to see this one again."

"It's becoming."

The blush again. The smile. "It's becoming difficult to take my eyes off of you, John Menden."

"Then it's good I'm the one rowing. What's for breakfast?"

"A surprise."

"Do you use the computer in your room much?"

She looks at him quizzically, her brown eyes seeming to take in, then release him. "Not since I graduated. I talk to Dad or the Ops guys, if I'm doing work for him. I did my vet school applications on it. Why?"

"I've been getting some odd mail. Little taunts and jabs. Things to let me know I'm being watched. No sender, of course."

"Dad's a prankster, believe it or not."

"Doesn't sound like him."

"Lane would pester you because that's his job and his character. Could be Snakey or Partch—one of Lane's goons. Snakey's supposed to be MIA but I don't believe it."

"What about Sexton?"

"Well, he's linked up. Works from home, mostly. It's not me, if that's what you're asking."

John feels the sand sliding up under the hull, then the abrupt stop. The stern drifts as he climbs out, pulls the rowboat in a little farther and helps Valerie unload the basket, then herself. With one hand she bunches her dress up over her knees and with the other she reaches to John. He leads her through the ankle-deep water to the beach.

"Let's walk around the island," she says. "Work up an appetite. Find a good spot to eat.

"She hangs onto his hand—and he hangs onto hers—as they set out around this inner shore. Emerging from the shade of the giant Norfolk Island pine, John feels the thin warm sunlight on his back and smells the rare Orange County aroma of sagebrush and fresh water. John has the basket. The rim of Valerie's hat touches John's neck when they get close, so she takes it off an carries it. She walks closer to him and he can feel the heat and softness of her bare arm as it presses against his own.

"You seem tired."

"Your dad kept me up late."

"How did it go?"

"We cuffed six home invaders in about thirty seconds. You father blew a kid's hand off, then one of the Men blasted the rest of them with twelve-gauge beach sand. When the lights went on the Bolsa Cobras looked like gophers caught above ground."

"Do you find that impressive?"

"The kid with no hand did. How involved are you?"

"Well . . . Dad's been trying to get me on board for about; year now. He supported my college, but he's less enthused about me practicing veterinary than helping him run the Ops. He': made no secret of it—he'd like me to run the business when he': too old."

When the final bills come due, John thinks. Sooner than she knows?

"You're not tempted?"

"Tempted, maybe. I'd like to please him. But I can't say that security and privatized law enforcement really turn this girl on It would be years before he really needed me. I could practice veterinary, think about it. More to the point is, I don't approve of blowing off people's hands."

"There's that."

"And that's why I'm taking my time."

"He must make lots of money."

"It's unbelievable. The Ops is international, you know. We just inked a deal with the Ugandan Development Ministry. What they're developing is a SWAT team to kick tribal butt fast and hard. It's a three-million dollar deal over time. But the foreign stuff is just kind of glamorous. The high-tech industrial accounts we have in Irvine alone account for a million a year. That's not including personal security and investigations."

"He told me that the Ops does vengeance. For money."

Valerie shrugged. John could feel her fingers tighten against his own. "That's not really true. Dad exaggerates."

"He sounded serious."

"There were a couple of creeps let go on legal technicalities. Real flagrant miscarriages. One was a stalker with a former for forcible rape. The other one a thug hired by an ex-hubby. They walked before trial. Both of their victims had contracts with us. Well, the pay-per-mug just plain disappeared. The stalker got squashed in a hit-and-run. I won't say anything more about them because that's all I know. I've heard a few things spoken, but nothing really said, if you get the drift."

They round the western shore. With the Big House and all its subordinate buildings now invisible behind the island, John feels the expansive privacy of a world of nature without men.

"Goodness, it's nice out here," says Valerie. "So, dad sees me as the front-woman for Liberty Ops, and Lane wants to head up day-to-day stuff. I'm not sure if Dad wants Lane in that position. I know he's trying to vett Sexton's worth. Adam's great with people but he doesn't know much about the day-to-day things. Does he want to put you to work, too?"

"I sense that. I, uh . . . participated last night. Tangentially. He gave me a little task for today."

"What?"

"Contact Susan Baum of the
Journal
and set up a meeting with her."

John feels Valerie's hand go stiff now, and the sudden tension in her arm. For a long while she says nothing, but John still feels the strong energy inside her.

"What?" he finally asks.

"I hate that self-righteous cunt. Dad does, too. She crucified Pat for no reason, then went after Dad. Dragged up a bunch of crap that wasn't true, published it to a million-and-a-half Orange Countians. No apologies when Teresa Descanso
finally
couldn't positively identify Patrick. Patrick, with the 'innocent certitude of a Mormon zealot.' Baum never even
met
my brother. Hardly a mention in the
Journal
when Liberty Ops turned over the real rapist to the cops a year later. Not hot. Not news. I can't imagine one reason on earth why he'd want you to contact her now, except maybe to . . ."

"What?"

"Nothing. I was going to say put a bullet between her eyes, but I'm a little peeved. I wouldn't have really meant it."

"Someone already tried that."

"That skinhead dweeb from Alamo West, according to the FBI and the
Journal."

She looks at him, the smooth skin of her face flushed pink and her dark brown eyes aglitter. The tensile strength of her grip recedes and she squeezes his hand gently.

"I know. I have a bad temper sometimes. When it comes to the people I love—or hate."

"Do you think he'd really want her dead?"

Valerie looks up at him again as they walk. "No. Not any more."

"He did, once?"

"Sure. I did, too. It's over now. Pat's gone and the rage abates."

"He said he wants to talk to her."

"That might be hard, given that she's paranoid now. Paralyzed by fear that someone will try her again. By her own profitable, unparalyzed confession, that is."

"I think that's where I'd come in."

Valerie looks at him, then out at the water, then to the little stand of toyon trees ahead of them. "Here," she says, pulling him along. "Here's where we should eat."

They find a clearing. They each hold two corners of a soft white acrylic blanket and set it on the ground amidst the toyon trees. A little cluster of the red berries falls to the blanket, tiny red apples in ultraminiature.

Valerie reaches into the basket and pulls out a gas lantern.

"For later," she says, setting it aside.

Out come two perfect oranges, a bottle of Zinfandel, a loaf of bread wrapped in foil, a triangle of cheese and a large plastic bag filled with chunks of white meat.

"No wonder that thing was so heavy," says John.

His first long sip of the wine is a communion with Rebecca that ends in a shudder as he pictures her image from the night before.
To you
. His second drink is to the woman beside him.

"Cold?"

"No."