The Triggerman Dance Page 21

  Most interesting is the copy of yesterday's Journal, featuring the pictures of Mark Foster on the front page, and the story that the FBI is seeking him for questioning in the murder of Rebecca Harris. The edition is folded neatly in the middle, with the masthead and the headline:

  FBI PROBES NEO-NAZI GROUP IN JOURNALIST'S MURDER

  Joshua's diversion, he thinks: the trail that leads nowhere.

  John looks out over Liberty Ridge and pretends that he is Vann Holt, surveying his kingdom, making his plans. Fifteen hundred Holt Men scurry about the county beneath him. Another thousand represent him around the globe. They are trained loyal, vigilant. They have their own networks of friends, acquaintances and sources. They have their own spheres of influence And the networks spiral back to a common point, just as the spheres all intersect a common plane. The point and the plane are Vann Holt. And this desk is where Vann Holt sits. So, where would he put the drawings of the Journal complex, the notes or Susan Baum?

  Nowhere—why keep them? Where would he put the rifle? At the bottom of Liberty Lake. What about the engraving tools used on the cartridges? Back in the tool kit. What else does he need to destroy? Everything that can link him to Susan Baum.

  John turns and looks at the massive stainless steel safe. He stands, takes the penlight from his pocket and shoots four exposures of the box. After each shot, he rotates the penlight head to advance the tiny spool of film inside. On the back of the stainless cabinet he finds the manufacturer's number and takes two pictures of it. Maybe Joshua has a way of getting the combination from the number, he thinks. Wouldn't the manufacturer cooperate with the FBI? Of course they wouldn't. He tries the shining circular handle but it hardly moves. He wipes off the handle with a tissue from his pocket, then sits back down at the desk. He checks his watch—five minutes until three.

  The top left drawer of the desk slides open on near silent rollers. Inside are two metal rods running perpendicular to the drawer face, over which rest the metal hooks of perhaps ten green cardboard files. John pulls out the second and third drawers on the left side of the desk, and finds another ten or so cardboard files in each. Every file folder is labeled inside a raised plastic window.

  As an agent, Wayfarer committed little to paper, less to disc. He was hyper-organized, exceedingly neat. When I think of his desk, I see a large blotter pad of graph paper with not a single mark on it except for the grids. He kept his tapes and interview transcripts in the Bureau safe.

  The labels are perfunctory and uninformative. In the three left-side drawers are a total of only thirty file folders, the first twenty-six labeled A through Z, in alphabetical order. The remaining four are all labeled MISC. Some appear to have substantial contents, some appear empty.

  John pulls the C folder and sets it on the empty blotter. It contains a single sheet of good quality, high-rag writing paper, 8V2 by 11 inches, and one newspaper clipping. The sheet of paper has a date handwritten near the upper left corner, and below the date only one word, also handwritten:

  Anita

  Across from the name is what looks like a seven-digit telephone number.

  The newspaper article is from the Journal and is dated roughly one year ago. It is a large, "County Section" story about an 18-year old girl found murdered. The girl's mother is named Anita. The family's last name is Carpenter.

  John returns the folder and pulls another, then another. Each contains a similar sheet of high quality paper with sparse, handwritten notes, but no news clips. The "S" folder holds ten pages of notes—mostly just first names, and an occasional phrase:

  "Hus. Karl capped . . ."

  "Locate Sean, son ... Mex surf?"

  "Help in I.D., location and ? of perp."

  John closes them and returns them to their rod holders. Sparks, he thinks, just little jump-starters for Wayfarer's closed-system memory. Access codes is what they are, like PIN's for an automated teller. Anything vital is in his head. Anything incriminating. Anything private. Everything secret. He pulls the B file and searches it for any hint of Baum. He replaces it, then scans the H file for some scintilla of information about Rebecca. It is a waste of time and he knows it.

  John sets the folders back in place, then looks at his watch. It is three o'clock. He can still hear the muted trills of Valerie's whistle from down in the meadow, between the dull pounding in his ear.

  In the right-side drawers he finds more files, but they are brown and more conclusively labeled: Banking, Insurance, Citrus, Guns. Some are fat with material. He pulls the Boone &c Crockett folder and scans the club's letter of congratulations to Vann Holt, upon completion of his third "Grand Slam"—ram trophies on four continents. The Kreel file is dedicated Kreel, Dr. Alfred J., whom John sees led the surgical team treating Carolyn's gunshot wound. John looks in vain for a file labeled Baum. He sees none, and knows he will see none.

  So John is shocked to find the "Harris" file pregnant with clippings on the death of his secret lover. The infamous picture in which John forms part of the tragic chorus is collected from the Journal, Time, the Wall Street Journal, and several other papers.

  Wayfarer's usual reading list? John wonders.

  There are articles about her death, follow-up articles, follow-ups to the follow-up articles; op-ed pieces; magazine features. At least half of the clippings are not about Rebecca at all, but about Susan Baum.

  John feels the sweat and the shirt on his back.

  The last clip is an entire page of the Journal. John looks it over twice before he finds the relevant article, which is a simple notice in the "Listings" calendar under Lectures, which reads:

  —November 22, "From John Kennedy to Rebecca Harris— The Assassination of the Spirit," syndicated columnist Susan Baum, presenter.

  John photographs it. He spreads a few of the representative clips across the blotter, and shoots them, too. His hands are so tense and sweaty he can hardly grasp the little penlight head well enough to advance the film. He knows he's taking too many exposures, but he doesn't want to lose anything. No accidents.

  It seems to take an hour to shoot four pictures. He is wondering if what he has found is good or not as he picks up the cordless phone and leaves the library. He is surprised to be so nervous. He feels a thousand eyes on him as he descends the stairs, puts the handset back in its cradle and walks across the cool foyer toward the front door.

  He feels a big breath of relief coming, until, through the glass he sees Valerie stepping onto the porch.

  He backs out of her line of sight and eases into the kitchen again, again taking up the phone. He tries to wipe the sweat off his forehead but his palm is sweaty, too. He hears the door open and slam. He hears the soft pad of her boots on the tiles, then he feels the kitchen fill with her presence.

  John is standing with the phone in his left hand, his right hand poised above the keypad, a puzzled expression on his face.

  He hears her gasp.

  "Can you please tell me how to make a simple phone call on this thing?" he asks. His voice sounds thin, starved of truthfulness.

  "John. Jesus, you scared me."

  "I'm sorry. I knocked and rang and called for you."

  "We had a three o'clock date, didn't we?"

  "I've spent the last five minutes trying to have thirty seconds of conversation with my editor. Sorry I'm late, but this is the most complex piece of home communication equipment I've ever seen."

  She looks at him with an odd expression now, partly suspicious, partly surprised, and partly hurt. She looks like she's just been slapped.

  "Well, you do have to be smarter than the phone, John. Try pushing three-nine-nine."

  "Is this okay? I mean—"

  "—It's okay. Make your call."

  "Thank you." He smiles. But his nerves are scalding and his scalp is oozing sweat. At this moment, John loathes himself. It is the first time in his life he has detested his own being so intensely. But he keeps the duplicitous smile in place, like a shield. The penlight in his pants pocket seems to
weigh five pounds.

  "Well, what do you know—a dial tone.”

  Five minutes later they are in the meadow. It is flat and carpeted with wild fescue, soft cheat and bluegrass, all nourished by a spring that flows from the center and makes the ground damp under John's feet. The meadow is behind the Big House and Liberty Ops buildings. Beyond it rise the hills and scrub that roll for a mile toward the electric fence. There is just a touch of sweetness in the air because the Santa Ana’s are almost gone, and the smell of moist earth and grass can now waver up in the heat.

  Valerie leads him to the edge of the meadow, where her dogs are still waiting on a "stay" command. Their little springer tails vibrate when they see her. She's wearing khaki shorts, a faded red plaid shirt with the sleeves cut out and a red wool cycling cap under which her hair is loosely bunched and falling out.

  "Here," says Valerie, pointing to a burlap bag left in the shade. "Dizzy a bird and hide him over there by that clump of razor grass. I'll keep Lewis and Clark distracted. When I do this alone, they just watch."

  "Can do."

  Valerie holds open the bag. John looks down at the pigeons waiting in feathered plumpness at the bottom. He lifts one out with both hands and Valerie ties the bag and places it back in the shade. The bird is warm and heavy and looks at John with alert but unfrightened eyes.

  "So, are you enjoying your stay?" she asks.

  "It's a beautiful place, but I'd like to get back to work soon."

  "Dad wants you around for a while longer."

  "He's overly generous."

  Valerie lifts a little Remington 28 gauge from where it leans against a small oak tree. "I think he might offer you some work."

  John tucks the bird against his chest with his arm, like a football, but gently. He strokes its smooth back.

  "Something with Vietnamese home invaders."

  She looks at him. "Really? What did you say?"

  "I said yes. He took me up to meet your mother, then handed me over to Fargo, who grilled the living hell out of me for an hour with two idiot goons by his side. It was weird."

  Valerie cradles the gun and looks at John. To him, she seems so odd a sight, this young, bright, beautiful woman standing golden-skinned in a meadow with a shotgun in her arms. He watches her dark eyes watching him, a wholly analytical expression on her face.

  "Lane's a . . . riddle. But as for Dad, he's taken a liking to you."

  "Well..."

  "No, really. You remind him of my brother. Did he tell you about Patrick?"

  John nods. "Your mother thought I was Patrick."

  "Oh, I'm sorry."

  "No, she was just fine, but. . . well, it's hard to know what to say. I ended up kind of playing along. At least that's what your father seemed to be doing."

  "He's been forging letters from Patrick for four years now. Mom just wouldn't accept that he was dead, kept on wanting to believe he's away at college. Dad finally broke down and started feeding that illusion. You should see how happy she is to get a postcard or letter from her . . . son."

  "Isn't there anything at all they can do for her?"

  Valerie shakes her head and looks away for a moment. "No, there isn't. Okay, go set that bird, John."

  John walks across the meadow toward the razor grass. He holds the bird in both hands again, head down, swinging it in a wide circle. As he walks he tightens the circle and accelerates the rotation until the bird's head relaxes and the animal is unconscious. At the razor grass he rights the animal and gives it a moment to recover a little. Dazed now, the pigeon will sit still on the ground until its head is clear—five or ten minutes, maybe—or until something as frightening as a dog scares it into the sky. He sets it behind the clump of grass with a final stroke to its feathers and mutters "good luck."

  John sees that Valerie has been diverting Lewis and Clark, with food treats, making them do simple sits and stays for bits of kibble. When John approaches, she looks at him and smiles. Beneath the dull throbbing in his ear, courtesy of Snakey and Lane Fargo, John hears the ringing again, and he feels that giddy little shiver in his stomach.

  You're very beautiful, he thinks, but this settles nothing. He has been around beautiful women many times and only once felt as if his body was receiving a constant, subtle, electrical prod. The first—and last time he felt that way—was with Rebecca. It must be the pressure, he decides. It must be circumstance.

  There will be times, John, when you will long for a friend, a confidant, a lover. You will know a loneliness you cannot imagine. The desire to confess will grow inside you. You don't have a friend. You are alone. You must contain yourself—you must stay within your own skin.

  I will try, he thinks. For Rebecca.

  "What kind of a look is that, Mr. Menden?"

  "Admiration," he says, before he can stop himself.

  "Of what?"

  "Your dog skills,"

  "Why thank you. Coming from a dog man, that's nice to hear."

  "Pigeon ready," he says with a grin, his ears a banging cacophony now, the throb and ring, surge and flow, rush and eddy of blood.

  "You're perspiring, John."

  "It's only about eighty-five out."

  "Wasn't eighty-five in the house, and you were sweating there, too."

  She's still smiling. It is a prying thing, her smile, but not ungentle.

  "Sweat is sweat," he says.

  "Can I ask you something? Is it only my dog skills you admire?"

  "Mainly."

  No.

  She studies him, then looks toward the bird.

  "There's a funny taste in my throat right now," she says.

  "Then maybe you should work the dogs."

  She takes up her gun again and starts the search with a wave of her arm. She walks into the meadow, dogs ahead of her. She sends them left with two short blasts of her whistle, then right with one. Left again, right again. John is aware of them, but all he can focus on is Valerie as she traverses the green meadow grass. On their first pass by the razor grass, neither dog picks up the scent. But on the second, both get it at once and their bodies snap back toward the clump in unison and their tails blur. Even from so far away, John can see the change in musculature the bird dogs undergo when they're on game—the dogs seem to condense in size and their movements are reduced to pure efficiency. Then the pigeon flutters into the air, unsteady at first, but still rising and gaining speed. It lifts off over the meadow. It is in perfect shotgun range. But Valerie never lifts her gun, she just lets the bird fly, then issues one long loud blast from her whistle. The toughest thing for a young dog to do, thinks John: come back when they've just put up a bird. Neither Lewis nor Clark seem to hear. They bound across the meadow after the diminishing pigeon, yapping skyward, utterly fried with frustration. They disappear into the hillside scrub, still ignoring Valerie's third and most adamant whistle command. The bird is just a fleck in the blue now, bearing south.

  A few moments later, Valerie returns with two penitent springers. She has slapped them smartly, then marched them back. John sees no anger in her, no impatience—just a clear and guiding discipline.

  "Mission was a failure," she says. "Back to the lead lines."

  "Good call. That's always the toughest thing for my dogs. Youth and all that. Pure energy."

  She nods and wipes her forehead, tilting back the cap. John notes, furtively, the darkened plaid of her shirt beneath her armpit where the sweat has soaked in.

  For the next hour, both springers come on command, encouraged by long lead lines that John pulls in when the whistle blows. At first the dogs tumble ass-over-teakettle when the lines are drawn, then they get the idea. By the end of the session they're coming back without John's help.

  "End of class," Valerie says. "They're tired and I'm hot. How about a jump in the lake?"

  "Perfect."

  The afternoon continues with the easy, weightless atmosphere of a dream.

  They swim in the lake, then sun themselves dry on the

  wo
oden dock. The dogs—John's three plus Lewis and Clark— splash in and out of the water like kids on a hot beach.

  They walk the groves in the first cool of the evening, an evening drenched in the smell of oranges.

  They leave each other to shower and primp. Valerie says she can meet him on the dock in one hour. She wants to take a boat over to Liberty Island to have a picnic dinner she made up earlier in the day.

  John walks to his cabin and tries to put a clamp on the giddy beating of his heart.

  CHAPTER 23

  He stands inside his cabin and looks out the window to the lake. The dogs on the deck stare through the window back at him.