The Triggerman Dance Page 14

She reached across the truck with both hands, grabbed her father's face and kissed him once on each cheek, then once on his forehead.

  Then, with all assumptions made but not another word, she got out of the truck and walked toward John, the man who had, at great price, saved her life. Vann Holt watched her approach him, his heart pounding not only from the punishment of the chase, but from colliding emotions of gratitude, impotence, jealousy and shame. He watched her place her hand on John's arm.

  "Not like that, we won't," he said. "Not like that, girl of mine."

  CHAPTER 16

  Josh Weinstein and Sharon Dumars watched the scene unfold from the privacy of a 1986 Dodge van parked across the highway at a feed and tack store. The van featured one-way windows, an antenna tuned to the transmission frequency of a beeper-cum- radio attached to John's belt, a parabolic microphone mounted on top, a reel-to-reel tape recorder, and large magnetic signs on each side that said "Empire Cable Services." Anyone calling that number would find it disconnected and no longer in use.

  They sat on two stools in the oven-like heat, peering through the windows with binoculars.

  When Rusty met his double-barreled end, Sharon gasped and tightened, and though Weinstein found himself profoundly shaken by the sight of a perfectly good Bureau dog blown to smithereens by Bureau part-timers, he told himself that Rusty did not die in vain.

  The stunt-packs of blood had gone off perfectly, assuaging Weinstein's second-biggest worry. They'd worked hard on the choreography, but he knew that a lucky, unanticipated move from Valerie could dislodge the wiring duct-taped to Sam's shoulder beneath the t-shirt and denim vest. They'd been thorough enough to use a half pint of Sam's own blood, on the off chance that a suspicious Holt, or, more likely, Lane Fargo, might try to run some lab work on what would surely splatter all over Valerie's body and clothes. Weinstein's greatest fear, though—that some genuine innocent bystander would come by and skew the whole delicate charade—never materialized. The Riverside County Sheriff was a worry, too. So Weinstein, Dumars and all four of their teammates had flooded the Indio Sheriff's Substation with calls just before noon. Posing as property owners, they reported hunters trespassing onto posted property many miles from Anza Valley—a common enough occurrence in many parts of the desert on any October Not a deputy was seen.

  Watching through the binoculars while the sweat ran down his back, hearing the soundtrack projected wonderfully by John's transmitter, Weinstein had been anguished at how slowly the whole thing seemed to take place. But later when he checked the time it was almost exactly as they'd planned: one minute and thirty-three seconds from the bikers' surprise encore to their final departure. Josh had taken a deep breath as he watched the war party roar away, and noticed the high-pitched, anxious smell of his own body.

  Weinstein could only hope that Mickey—the giant—and Sam would make it to John's trailer undelayed, open the propane valves and toss in the flare without interference from Tim, the groundskeeper at the High Desert Rod and Gun Club. If necessary, Mickey would engage the groundskeeper. But twenty minutes after he'd set the fire, Mickey called on the cellular phone—stashed in the toolbox of his Harley—to say that all had gone well. He reported that Tim had looked on from a few hundred yards away as the two bikers did their biker thing on John Menden's helpless domicile. The four men and three bikes had zoomed up the lowered ramp and into the back of a "State-to- State" moving trailer waiting at a turnout on Highway 371, which is where Mickey had placed the call.

  Of course, the best laid plans didn't amount to much without luck, and luck was what Weinstein had been praying for ever since Norton had green-lighted him after lunch that afternoon in Santa Ana. They could lead Wayfarer to water, but they couldn't make him drink. And all John could do was save the day, be polite and a little recalcitrant, and use his native likeability to sway Wayfarer toward meaningful gestures. Josh had told John to "aw-shucks the sonofabitch to death."

  An invitation to stay at the Lake Riverside Estates home would be the best they could reasonably hope for. If Holt went even this far, however, there was at least a small chance that John's generous refusal ("They'd find me here pretty easy, Mr. Holt—then we'd both be out of a home.") could lead to the ultimate goal: Liberty Ridge. It was the kind of common sense pessimism that would appeal to Vann Holt.

  The backup plan, if Holt offered John no sanctuary whatsoever, was to let John appeal directly to Wayfarer—at some point—for work, shelter, perhaps a little start-up loan to get a new trailer. Burning down the trailer was John's idea, and Weinstein was impressed by his informant's sense of follow-through. Weinstein also saw that John was profoundly moved by the thought of losing the trailer, nasty little piece of aluminum that it was.

  Things were out of Joshua's hands now, and luck was what he needed. He had always been a lucky man, except with Rebecca Harris, and, by extension, John Menden. Guiding the van from the feed and tack parking lot after the pickup and Land Rovers had caravanned away, Josh Weinstein could not deny the faint nausea he felt at so brazenly tempting the Fates.

  But one hour later, after John's mock chase of his tormentors through the Anza Valley desert, Josh's nausea was banished by pure elation. Josh parked the van two houses away from Holt's Riverside Estates home, assuming that, after the fire, this would be the logical place for Holt and his party to take John. He watched as the two Land Rovers pulled into the wide, semi-circle of a driveway, and John's Ford lumbered up behind them. Weinstein's ears roared with blood.

  "God, I'm good, he whispered to Sharon.

  "Yes, I am."

  "We're good. We're just too damn good, Sharon. We get done with this, they'll want us to run the whole country."

  "You're really not worried about that radio on his belt?"

  "He's a newspaper editor, and the only full-time reporter. He's always on call. If Wayfarer has an allergic reaction to a beeper at this point, we're sunk. But we're not sunk. What we are is damned good."

  The transmission came through clearly, even when John and his benefactors disappeared into the large ranch-style home.

  holt: Get comfortable everybody, make calls if you want. There's bathrooms all over this damned place.

  titisi: Not what I expected for a hunting lodge.

  valerie: We've got everything to drink. John?

  john: Not for me, thanks. valerie: Some cold water at least? john: That might hit the spot.

  "Listen to him," said Weinstein, actually rubbing his long-fingered hands together in a parody of enthusiasm. "My Joe. My man. My secret agent. My handsome little goy-boy nobody can resist."

  "I think he's scared," said Sharon.

  "I hope so."

  The transmitted conversation followed John, of course, and for ten minutes amounted to little more than polite mundanities. At one point Titisi said that he could use a few hundred men like John in Uganda. The reel-to-reel took it all. Then the moment of revelation that Weinstein had been careful not to expect, was thrown at him like a firecracker:

  Holt: I was thinking we could put you up at my home in Orange County for the night. It's comfortable. I realize it would be a long commute out here to work, but I don't see any sense in stranding you here with those scum on the prowl.

  John: That's really nice of you to offer, but it wouldn't sit well with me.

  Holt: Relatives around here? Friends? John: Well, not exactly. I've only been in Anza Valley for a few months.

  Valerie: Then what doesn't sit well? John: Well, it's an imposition for one thing. valerie: You ought to see Dad's house. He's got enough room for Juma's army, then some. Really, it could work out jus fine. It would give you a chance to let the trouble blow over, then set up a new trailer. If you plan on staying out here, that is.

  Holt: He saved your life, Valerie, that doesn't mean you can run his.

  John: (laughter) You know, that's really a generous offer but I don't know. It's—

  Holt: It's our way of saying thank you. A small way. Please let us be generous. What
you did today was beyond generosity It still hasn't really sunk in.

  valerie: Please?

  John: Well, I really would be grateful for a place to stay tonight.

  Holt: Then it's settled. You'll be comfortable with us for a night, John. We've got plenty of comfort on Liberty Ridge. John: Liberty Bridge?

  Valerie: Ridge. Dad names everything. Can't even have a house without making it a proper noun. You'll like it, though— and of course your dog is welcome. I've got fourteen springers and Dad's got another six, so there's plenty of kennel run.

  John: Well, there might be a problem there, because I've got two more out on the property. I left them with the groundskeeper when I went hunting this morning.

  Valerie: Are you kidding? Three more dogs won't even be noticed.

  Holt: She's right.

  John: At some point I need to go back to the trailer and see if anything's left. I mean, I don't want to burden you with that.

  Holt: Understood. We'll do it before we leave, give you a hand if you want.

  John: I'd like to bury Rusty out there, too.

  Holt: With honors.

  John: That would be great.

  "That would be just one-hundred percent totally fucking great," Weinstein whispered. "I'd scream right now, but I'm afraid they'd hear me."

  "You can bellow all the way back to Orange County." "Maybe I will."

  But he didn't. Instead, while Dumars drove, Josh called Norton in Washington and told him that Wayfarer was now the proud owner of Owl, Joshua's chosen code name for John.

  "All the Hollywood stuff, go down okay?" Norton asked.

  "One take."

  "How'd it look?" "Rated X for violence."

  "You didn't get the live rounds and blanks mixed up? The girl didn't rip Sammy's blood bag off his shoulder?"

  "It was perfect."

  "Rusty die nobly?"

  "Yeah, he was great."

  "Fast?"

  "Instantly."

  "You know that dog cost us seven thousand, four hundred dollars? That's room, board and training for three years. Club and Fang actually let us amortize him because we wouldn't be sending him back. Those wags."

  "Club and Fang sent us one perfect dog."

  "True. Things here are odd, Josh. Frazee can't get enough of Wayfarer and Owl. He's old enough to confuse one with the other half the time—you know how Crazy could never keep the code names straight? Anyway, he's riding this one like a jockey. He's good for the money, so long as I let him feel involved. It's like having a banker involved in your remodel. You need the loan but you wish he wouldn't hang around the job site."

  "How bad could he jam us?"

  "He holds the Hate Crimes purse. You know that."

  "I also know he goes all the way back to Quantico with Wayfarer. Student and professor, by way of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints."

  "He believes his ongoing interest is atonement for Wayfarer's lapse. Frazee is atoning vigorously. He actually mentioned ATF—some crack about letting them storm the walls of Liberty Ridge once and for all. A joke, of course. But I think it's obvious he doesn't just want to bust Wayfarer—he wants to humiliate the living shit out of him too."

  "If Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms gets within one mile of this case you'll have my resignation."

  "What could that possibly matter to Walker Frazee?"

  "Christ, Norton, we can't let ATF into this! It's—"

  "—We're not letting ATF into this, we're just letting Crazy Frazee pass gas. Now, next we put Owl's toys in place, right?"

  "Goddamn, Norton. Don't say things like that to me."

  "It doesn't hurt for you to know where the wind's blowing back here."

  "From a windbag. I just can't believe he'd even joke about—"

  "—Hush, son. I said I'd take care of Walker and I'll take care of Walker. Now, do we put Owl's toys in place?"

  "Yeah, if Frazee keeps the Bat Boys off the walls long enough to—"

  "—Joshua, comport yourself professionally, please."

  "Yes, we deliver the toys. And we start to leak news of our prime suspect."

  "Blow the smoke, young man."

  "Sharon will actually do the blowing, sir."

  "Well, tell her I could say something that would get me disciplined as a sexual predator."

  Weinstein told her.

  "You're a dirty old lecher," Dumars piped across the car toward the phone, smiling but her face quite red.

  "Tell her thank you, Joshua."

  He told her.

  Back in the Tech Services yard, Weinstein collected his tape and binoculars and checked the van with the services clerk. The billet was already stamped with a direct Washington charge number, the Bureau version of a credit line. The clerk nodded reverently to Joshua as he accepted the keys, and Weinstein nodded back at him.

  Then he did something he had never done before. Without stating a business-related reason, without pulling rank, without even asking her to do the driving, Joshua asked Sharon Dumars to an early dinner—his treat.

  Sharon noted his flushed face, the tightened bobbing of his Adam's apple.

  "I wish I could, Josh, but I've got plans tonight. Another time?"

  He blushed even more deeply, but smiled. It was the non-smile of Joshua's, she saw—mirthless, forced and false.

  "Sure," he said. "Whatever."

  CHAPTER 17

  Early the winter when John was nine, his parents flew their new plane to visit friends in Oregon.

  John stood beside the dinner table one evening as his father traced their itinerary on a map—air route in red, ground stops shown by black circles. He listened to them talk about the flight; he helped them pack.

  A few weeks before their departure, he made an amulet from a fossilized sea shell, three redtailed hawk feathers, a dried thistle pod and a strip of wild gourd tendril he gathered with some forethought in a local wilderness now called Liberty Ridge. John prayed that God would instill the amulet with protective properties and not come apart.

  He and his uncle Stan watched the little Piper lift off from the Martin Aviation strip and groan into the air. John could smell his mother's perfume, still on his cheek from her lengthy parting kisses. She had worn the amulet around her neck, holding it to her breast as she knelt to kiss him to keep it from getting crushed He could still see his father's ramrod straight back as he walked across the tarmac in his silk flight jacket, heading for the plan The weather was cool and clear. They would be gone one week

  That night, Stan and his wife, Dorrie, were expansive, gracious, amusing. But Stan took a phone call midway through dinner, and when he came back to the table he was preoccupied and subdued. Later, John watched some television and saw them the kitchen, talking intently. Dorrie's face was resolutely tragic.

  Stan seemed to be trying to talk her out of something, imploring her, palms up, head shaking, ending his plea with a thumb hooked out toward John. Then Stan joined him in the den with a massive amber cocktail.

  The next day around noon, Stan and Dorrie broke the news: John's parents had lost radio contact late the afternoon before, and had not been seen or heard from since. It could mean a hundred things, Stan told him. Most likely, his impulsive father simply set down early to wait out the storm. Yes, a fairly good sized storm had blown down from Alaska. With all the interference, radio contact is first to go, anyway. Just a matter of sitting tight and waiting to hear. You know how your father can be.

  The plane was listed as missing and presumed down. Search and rescue aircraft couldn't penetrate the storm front, which was all the way south to Fresno by then. That evening, as the first gale-driven drops of rain roared against Uncle Stan's roof, John stood at a window and realized—with a huge wave of relief— that no amount of raindrops could foul his father's plans. He hadn't called because the phone lines were down, too. It was reassuring, almost amusing, to watch Stan and Dorrie fret like hens. John had seen the truth already. He could clearly imagine the yellow Piper emergin
g through a black wall of clouds, guided by the amulet.

  For the next eight weeks, through the heart of winter, storms pounded the state. Even the local mountains were buried in snow. John was treated with all the privilege and dignity of the bereaved. He met with relatives he'd hardly known. He was asked about plans. Everything fine with Stan and Dorrie? You are courageous and we're proud of you.

  His schoolmates, as if all coached by the same powerful figure, offered a sort of quiet respect to John. They kept away from him. One day on the playground when a little plane flew over, John stopped to watch it and the noon-duty supervisor, unbidden, wrapped a huge perfumed arm around his shoulders and started to weep. He told the woman "hold your mud"—a favorite expression of his father's—then walked off to the far corner of the school yard to get away from all these lugubrious, presuming fools.