The Triggerman Dance (59 page)

John awoke at five a.m. after a dream in which Joshua, a six-gun in each hand, simultaneously blew away Vann Holt and John Menden. He was drenched in sweat. He listened to the sound of the wind rattling the windowpanes of his cottage. Valerie was huddled to the far end of the bed so he reached out and set his hand on her shoulder—so warm, so smooth. And now, he thought, it's time to betray you. In his state of half-consciousness he tried to let his mind find a way to take down Holt without breaking Valerie's heart. But the more he tried to find one, the more he awakened and the more impossible it became to even imagine such a way. It was the deal I made for you, dear woman, he thought, right from the beginning. Now comes the follow through.

So again his thoughts returned to Joshua, and the perilous course the agent had chosen. He had long understood that Joshua would risk everything he had to avenge Rebecca—this was the motor behind all that had happened in the last months. But not until last night had he realized that Joshua was willing to risk Baum, John himself, and even Sharon, in his unilateral charge of revenge. Everyone else would come second. John realized that on a primal level, Joshua needed to see him dead. John's death would be the purest retribution for what John had done with Rebecca, the purest defeat of a rival. Why not? Love and hate are always beyond control, and Joshua was clearly consumed. It was a gut-tightening idea, and John tried to purge it. But it was there just the same, along with the image of Joshua's face on the deck of his Laguna Canyon house last summer, when the agent pulled his gun and told him that he'd been looking for a way to contest John for Rebecca's long-cold heart.

With everything on the line at noon, John thought, Joshua's loyalties will finally lie with himself.

I'll be there.

But when? How? And to accomplish what?

John thought of Holt, and the possibility that Holt would dispose of him along with Baum, if he should fail in this assignment. What would Holt really like to give him, the keys to his kingdom or a bullet in the head?

With these realities in mind, John rose quietly from the bed, dressed and slipped out the door with his dogs. From the oak tree by the electric fence he retrieved the .45, and stashed it in the center console of his truck. When he got back into bed forty minutes later, Valerie hadn't moved.

CHAPTER 40

John guides his truck up the last steep incline at Top of the World. He's glad to be rid of Fargo, who frisked him twice before letting him through the main gate, then blatantly followed him all the way to Newport Beach and back. Baum sits beside him, dressed in a flowing bright green silk ensemble with a loose vest and oversized cuffs, huge sunglasses, heavy faux-emerald earrings and white high-top athletic shoes. At first, she took John's change of plan—we're going to Liberty Ridge—with a giddy acceptance. She'd silently evaluated the long, palm-lined drive up from the frontage road, the magnificent house and grounds, the windswept hills and Valencia groves. But now, as they climb the last few yards toward the vaults, John can feel her fingers digging into the flesh of his arm.

"He's actually going to be here?"

"Actually."

"And what about Josh? And Sharon?"

John slows the truck, then stops completely. He turns to Baum and lowers her sunglasses so he can look into her pale green eyes. "They'll be there. And Susan, if you much as imagine their names, it will get both of us killed instantly. That's the deal we have. Do you understand?"

"What I
don't
understand is why—"

He reaches out and takes her arm, hard. "—Then shut up and play along. It'll be over with soon."

"Oh, Gosh, as if that's supposed to console me. Who are you really working for, anyway? You're hurting
my—"

"—I
said shut up and play along. Act pissed off that I tricked you into this. That's all you need to do."

"I really
am
pissed off."

"Run with it."

He leaves the brakes, punches the gas and mounts the crest. His truck levels off and he pulls it over next to one of Holt's Rovers.

"I'll get the door," he says.

Baum gathers up her big leather bag from the floorboard and, of course, starts trying to find the door handle that Fargo removed. John uses this time to retrieve his .45 from the console and slip it into the pocket of his duster. Then he hops out and goes around to the passenger side to let Baum out. She slides out of the big truck, cursing under her breath.

Together they walk across the gravel toward the stone table and benches. John feels loose and alert, but his heart takes a little downward twirl when he sees the wedge-shaped figure of Partch, standing, with his arms crossed, behind the table area. He wears the same golf shirt and slacks that he wore the last time John saw him, the same sunglasses, and a short leather jacket to cover his sidearm.

Holt comes from the table, nodding to John, then smiling at Baum. He offers her his hand.

"I'm Vann Holt."

"You know who I am. Just what in hell is going on here?"

"Lunch. Bring an appetite?"

"Not really."

"I made some special dishes."

"I'm dieting."

"Come over here to the edge with me, will you? I wanted you to see Liberty Ridge from above."

He takes her arm and guides her past the silent Partch, over to the edge of the summit.

"I can stand up on my own," she says.

"It's a simple courtesy. John? Why don't you join us?"

They stand three abreast—Baum in the middle—and look down at the Ridge. The wind is dying down, the bulk of its fury spent during the night, but it gathers now to a steady howl that lasts a few seconds, then dies.

"When did you come to Orange County from New Jersey, Susan?"

"Eight years ago."

"Ever seen anything quite like this?"

"Sure I have. Orange County's all the same unless it's the beach or got streets and houses on it—just hills and vultures and plants that don't get flowers on them. I always thought the houses looked better than oak trees and cactus. I don't see why people like you get in such a snit about other people wanting to live where you do. Or maybe I just answered my own question— you just want it for yourself."

Holt laughs. "I certainly do. It's been in the family three generations now. What you say is exactly what I'd expect from a Jersey Jew."

"Predictably ugly words. I happen to think a vibrant community of people is more interesting than something like this. The rancho days petered out about two decades ago. Haven't you heard?"

"There's more than just nostalgia here. There's the community you mentioned—there's family and blood and business and production. There's shared culture, religion and language. There's regular people trying to live on the land, take something from it and give something back."

"Privileged white people," says Baum. "And their magnificent playthings. A helicopter next to your mansion? Get real. Nobody can afford to live like this any longer."

John inwardly winces at Susan's words; she isn't just standing up to Holt, as Joshua had no doubt coached her, she's right straight in his face. How could they have expected less from her?

"I can," Holt answers. "And I intend to. And I've done it without dragging innocent people through mud. I've done it without slandering people for profit."

Baum looks at Holt now, and sets her sunglasses atop her swirl of hair. "Mr. Holt? Let's cut the bullshit and maybe get to some kind of point. What in hell are we doing here right now?"

"I brought you up here to tell you about Patrick. There was a time I wanted an apology from you. But not now. I just want you to understand."

"Apologize for what? Everything I wrote was true."

"What you didn't write was more true. When the real rapist was caught, you didn't retract a word that you'd written about Pat."

"It was in the paper. On the news side. I can't apologize every time I rub somebody the wrong way."

"I'm no longer expecting one."

"Okay. I'm sorry. There. Make you feel better?"

John watches Holt look down on Baum with an expression of pure bitterness.

"I suppose you want it in the paper?"

Easy, thinks John.

"It's amazing to me how little you know."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

Holt smiles. "
Understand
. Join me for lunch. This way. Your place is right here. John, you're at the head."

John looks at the fancified table: three settings—two facing each other from each of the long sides of the rectangular stone, and a third at the head of the table, facing the two others and the Holt vaults. There is a linen cloth, a small vase of wildflowers as a centerpiece, place settings, cloth napkins, wine and water glasses and plates at each place. The plates are covered by shiny silver domes. The wind buffets the little flowers.

John sits. Baum is to his left, and beyond her, still fastened in his silence, stands Partch. Holt is on his right, directly across from Baum. He wonders why he is at the head of the table, knowing it's not an accident. For one thing, Partch has a clean line of fire at him.

He looks up at the blue. He wonders how they'll arrive—by land or sky. He pulls the long side of his coat up onto his leg so the .45 rests on his thigh. He unrolls his napkin and scrunches it out of the way between his legs. He feels to make sure the coal pocket slit is up and convenient and the flap is tucked inside.

John watches Baum look up at the figure of Patrick and his books, then to Vann and Carolyn in a wedding-cake pose, then to Valerie with her dog.

"Susan, take off your sunglasses," says Holt.

"It's bright out."

"I want to see your expressions while we talk."

"I choose to leave them on."

Holt leans forward and reaches out to her like an optician, slowly and deliberately, with both hands open. He's smiling. Then he takes her lips between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and sharply yanks her face toward him. She whinnies, raising both hands helplessly beside her face. She wiggles but her face can't move. With his left hand he pulls off the glasses and sets them next to him.