The Triggerman Dance Page 35

  John felt a low voltage buzz through his bones. Fargo missed it, he thought. He must have missed the hole. If he had found the hole I'd be a dead informant right now.

  "Maybe he did something really wild, like walked back down," he said.

  "No prints leading back down."

  "None you found. Maybe he prowled around a bit, looking for me, then headed down another way."

  "Then you did make it to the fence."

  "I didn't see any fence."

  "It's only eight feet high and six fuckin' miles long."

  John did not stifle his yawn. "I had better things to think about. Besides, I'm unobservant, like you said."

  "You sized up those bikers in Anza pretty quick, for being unobservant. So you don't notice the fence, but how'd you ever miss Snakey? Boot marks everywhere out there, Menden. Yours."

  "Pit your hefty IQ against this one, Lane. Marks don't put us there at the same time, do they? I probably got there first, and Snakey probably watched me from a bush or something. That seems about like Snakey's speed—I can see him watching from a bush, hunkered right down in the middle of it like a big tick. When I left—which was after about twenty minutes—he came up and crabbed around and wandered back down the house some other way. There's enough brush and rocks and sandstone up there, he could pick a way down an Apache couldn't track."

  John stood up and looked at his watch. "I hate to be rude and imply that you're wasting my time, but you are."

  Fargo stared at John, all his reigned menance concentrated in his gleaming, recessive eyes. "I just saw Val on my way over. Looked kind of shook up. Hardly even looked at me. I don't like to see her that way. She'll see through you before very long. She's bright."

  "What's she going to see, Lane?"

  "I don't know, yet. And it frosts my balls not to know."

  "Sorry to keep disappointing you. Keep trying and you'll be able to bust me for something, but it won't be for disappearing Snakey. By the way, I want my wallet, guns and truck keys back."

  "Right here," he said, looking at the grocery bag. "Not the gun, though. Won't need it. Mr. Holt's orders."

  "He tell you when to pee, too?"

  "He'll tell me when I can bust your head."

  "Bring help."

  Fargo studied John again, his ugly little smile breaking mustache. "I don't think you appreciated that slap on the ear he gave you last week. I think you're just cool enough to pop a man for that if you could get away with it. You're ulterior."

  John held out his hand toward the door, palm up. "Must get tiring, being wrong all the time."

  "I hardly ever am, about people's characters. You and Adam getting kind of cozy? Touchy-feely through the e-mail?"

  "Print them out and read them."

  "Have."

  "Happy trails, then."

  "That's not a bad idea."

  The door shut and John cursed himself for the stupid invitation. What if Fargo did go back up the trail and take another look around for Snakey?

  He downed the beer and cracked another. He fed the dogs on the deck, then stood there for a while and watched them eat. He watched Fargo disappear into the rough packing plant that was his home. He felt the wind beginning to move in off the desert now, warm, dry and with a hint of the great power behind it.

  In the shower his knees felt rickety, his hands shook and he felt again that something terrible was gaining on him.

  His dreams were filled Rebecca and Valerie. Both women opened their mouths to talk but he couldn't hear their words. So he just took off, flying over them with a bed sheet stretched between his hands, riding the wind up off the earth and into dark heavens.

  Chapter 37

  By Saturday night the wind was strong. It folded the blades o: meadow grass and exposed their paler sides, washing Liberty Ridge with the astringent smell of the desert. John walked to ware the Big House. Holt had invited him to dinner, "big doings." He looked out at the ocean where a yellow sun sank toward bronze water. There were too many things to think about so he picked the most important: Don't rock the boat now. By noon tomorrow, you will be finished.

  He was surprised to see the dining table set up on the expanse of lawn that fronted the Big House. A green-and-white striped canopy rocked in the wind, its rounded edges flapping against the poles. Two servers—Liberty Ops trainees, John guessed—moved across the lawn with large chafing dishes on wheeled carts. Behind them came Carolyn in her wheelchair, pushed strenuously across the grass by her evening nurse. He could see Laura and Thurmond Messinger standing at the wet bar with Lane Fargo and an older couple John had never seen before. Adam Sexton waved at him.

  He crossed the lawn, stepped under the snapping canvas canopy and onto the parquet flooring, then headed toward the bar. Laura greeted him with a handshake and a peck on the cheek, surrounding John in a brief front of perfume. She had on a pair of jeans, a low-necked white blouse and a black jacket that showed off her ample front and ample suntan. Thurmond nodded to him over the rim of a cocktail glass, and extended his hand when his wife was finished. He was a balding man who wore the oversized black-framed eyeglasses John associated with eccentrics, clothing designers and old-time talent agents.

  The wind yanked the cocktail napkin from Thurmond's hand. "Heck of a night for outdoor dining, I'd say."

  His wife untangled a strand of long dark hair that had blown into her lipstick. "Damn Vann doesn't have the brains he was born with."

  "What makes you think he was born with any?" asked Fargo, his smile putrid as always and his short black hair peaking down over his forehead. He wore a black silk jacket, adorned with images of shrunken heads, over his invariable black t-shirt.

  "He is keeping you around," said Laura, solicitously.

  "Why wouldn't he?" asked Fargo. He acted affronted at first, then John saw it was not an act at all. Fargo caught him noticing this, then covered up by sipping his beer.

  "John," said Laura, taking his arm, "I'd like you to meet Scott and Mary Holt of Salt Lake City. Scott is Vann's older brother."

  Scott offered John a grave smile and a gentle handshake. He was a shorter, leaner version of his brother, with the same prying gray eyes, stubborn jaw and abundant gray hair. He looked to be ten years Holt's senior. His wife was broad-faced and handsome and smiled at John as if he had done great things in life. They both held glasses of what looked like sparkling water, with lime wedges afloat on the ice.

  "Just in for a visit?" John asked.

  "Well, quite frankly, we don't quite know why we're here," said Scott.

  "Vann practically had to beg him," said Mary.

  "That's not true, Mary."

  "I mean . . . L.A.'s not our favorite place."

  "Pat! Pat!"

  John caught the aghast expressions on Scott's and Mary's faces as he listened to Carolyn's voice, hesitated, then turned to greet her.

  "Hello, Mrs. Holt."

  "Oh, don't you Mrs. Holt me, my clever little prince. Kiss, my son?"

  John bent over and kissed her, then stood and awkwardly shook her hand.

  She looked up from her wheelchair at Scott and Mary, an expression of confusion on her face. "I'm so sorry, but we haven't met, have we?"

  "Scott," said Scott. "We just—"

  "—and I'm Mary, Carolyn. Nice to meet you, again."

  "Oh, of course. The Ides of March. How could I be so forgetful? You remember my son Patrick, of course? Back from the White House?"

  "Well, sure we do," said Scott, casting John a look of profound doubt. "Um-hm. The White House?"

  "Well, you know," said John.

  "Top secret," said Carolyn. "Where on earth has my president gone?"

  "He'll be right out, Mrs. Holt," said Joni, putting her hands on Carolyn's shoulders. "Here he comes, right now!"

  Grateful for the diversion, John turned to watch. Holt walked across the lawn buttoning his blue blazer, looking out toward the ocean, lifting his nose like a dog to smell the air coming in from miles away. He moved del
iberately, like a man willing to learn something with every step. He looked positive and alert, but preoccupied. John could see the worry lines in his forehead and the inward cast of his eyes as he stepped under the canopy, nodded to Fargo and Laura, then came toward the bar.

  John moved to the edge of the canopy away from the house and watched the flat-bottomed crescent of a sun evaporate into the ocean. As always he waited for the flash of green; as always it failed to show. He walked out onto the lawn. To the north he could see the Valencia groves shimmering in the wind and the fading light. The western hillsides were autumn yellow with patches of green in the tight, shaded folds. The lake was buffed to a dull silver patina by the wind and the big Norfolk Island pine on the beach swayed with each gust. John imagined the wind whistling through Rebecca's bones, and then he unimagined it.

  Adam Sexton walked up with a lovely blond woman he introduced as his wife, Odessa. She offered her hand and John shook it.

  "Did you get my message?" Sexton asked.

  John nodded. "Not sure what you were after."

  Sexton looked at Odessa, then took John's arm and guided him outside the shade of the awning and into the sun. His voice was confidential now with none of his usual swagger.

  "All I'm hearing is good things about you from Vann. He's taken. I think his daughter might be, too. I just want you to know that you've got a friend in court. I want you to know I believe you'd be good here. Whatever you're doing, you have my endorsement."

  "What do you mean, doing?"

  "Everybody's doing something. It's all a game. Everything. That's just a fact of life."

  Sexton looked at him with an odd expression, a mixture of acknowledgment and acceptance. "So, whatever your game is, keep it up and play it well. There's room on Liberty Ridge for good people. People like you."

  "Thanks, Adam."

  "Keep your eye on Fargo, if you aren't already." With that, he clasped John's arm and returned to Odessa.

  Valerie was coming across the emerald lawn. He watched her walk on the grass, her red high heels in her right hand. Her red dress with the white polka dots looked fifty years out of date, and unmeasurably beautiful on her. Her hair was up. When she saw him, she raised the hand with her shoes in it in greeting. Then she smiled and ran across the lawn to him, threw her arms around his neck and swung him around, kissing him on the mouth. Everyone under the canopy was watching.

  "Hello, Mr. Menden."

  "Miss Holt."

  "Happy Saturday night."

  "Back at you, young lady. Disengage. We're creating a scandal."

  "I love a scandal. What's to drink?"

  "More than enough to put you on your butt."

  She looked at him sternly. "I can hold my liquor, young man. That runs in the family. Shall we join the party?"

  John offered his arm in a formal angle and Valerie responded, running the bottom of her forearm against his, touching him very lightly. At the edge of the canopy she steadied herself against him and slipped on her shoes. He felt her weight tilt and her fingers dig hard into his arm.

  Fargo was there. "You look really pretty tonight, Val."

  "Oh thanks, Laney-Poo. What's that, your shrunken-head jacket?"

  "This is it."

  "You're a dark man, Lane Fargo, but I like you anyway, Against all my better instincts."

  "Get the lady a drink," he said to John.

  "What'll it be?"

  "Gin and tonic, John. And double up on it, would you?"

  When John came back with the cocktails, Fargo had just said something into Valerie's ear and Valerie had just started faking her laugh.

  "Lane called you P-Boy," she said. "Because of your coat. Can't tell if you're a private eye or a cowboy."

  "Stop it, Lane. I might bust a gut."

  "No, really, I mean, what's that coat all about?"

  "Warm in the winter, cool in the summer."

  "Oh, I'm just teasin', John-Boy." He smiled his small-toothed smile and leaned in close to Valerie. "John's always got his panties in a bunch because I'm following up on him for your Dad. You know, verifying his character. Think he's got something to hide?"

  Valerie eyed John playfully. "Everything."

  "Me too! See, John-Boy, I'm not alone in suspecting that you're a character of low moral value."

  "Oh, now I didn't say that," Valerie offered. "I think he's hiding . . . hiding . . . genius, advanced moral development, and a big . . . heart."

  "Doing one hell of a good job of it," said Lane.

  "Some people are easy to fool," she said.

  "Then I rest my case," said Fargo, kissing Valerie's cheek. "Watch this guy, now. And I'll see you later, gorgeous."

  "Okay, Laney."

  "You too, P-Boy."

  "Fargone Lane," whispered Valerie, as Fargo attached himself to Scott and Mary Holt. "I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. Dad does."

  Her dark eyes flashed and a mean little smile came to her lips. "I must learn to forgive and forget. We all should."

  "Best advice I've heard lately. By the way, you look absolutely beautiful tonight."

  "I like these clothes that are out of style. Don't know why that idea appeals to me so much."

  Two hours later they were finished with dinner.

  "Everyone have a drink?" Holt asked. "Then lift it to the United States of America and the freedoms that we have left."

  Murmured agreements, clinking cocktail glasses.

  "Here, here," he continued. "Lend me your kind ears for a bit. I've got some things to say."

  John saw the young Holt Men step inside the canopy with dessert trays, then turn back toward the house at the wave of Vann Holt's hand.

  "We're eating outside in the wind tonight because this is my favorite weather," he said. "Feels like God's own breath to me, but that's probably just me. Hell on the hair and skin, I know. Wouldn't want it blowing every day but you've got to enjoy it while it's here. One of my themes tonight—enjoy it while it's here."

  Another round of mumbled assent, another meeting of glasses and nods. Holt stood.

  "I want to start out by welcoming Scott and Mary from Utah. It's been exactly four years, eight months and two weeks since Scott and I have spoken. I know I disappointed you, brother. I was trying my best not to disappoint myself. That God of yours that I turned my back on is none the less supreme for my lapse. Stick with him. I don't expect his forgiveness. Would love to have yours, though. Don't say anything now. I'm not asking anyone for anything tonight. Except to hear me out."

  John looked over at Scott and Mary, both statue-still and erect, both crimson in the face. Fargo was staring at him. Carolyn's gaze seemed infinite as the cosmos. Laura Messinger aimed a brittle smile up at Holt while her husband tried to study Scott and Mary as he sipped his drink. Valerie in her polka dot dress looked at John, then back at her father.

  "It's important to me that we be together tonight," he continued. "You are my family. Both literal and extended. You are the people I love. You're my life. Carolyn—I love you the most. You were my beginning. You'll be my end. Thanks, girl."

  "Oh, Hercules."

  The laughter was immeasurably polite and John could feel the anguish behind it. He tried to imagine Carolyn whole. He also saw a darkness pass behind Holt's gray eyes, a darkness that seemed familiar and known, a part of him.

  "I had something funny happen down in Texas a few months back. Didn't tell any of you about it. Wanted to mull it over. Well, it's been mulled. They found a spot on a scan, then a bunch more. No reason to get into detail. Biopsy, all that. The upshot is it's been in there a while, in the system, doing what life does. I'll be pushing up weeds here on Liberty Ridge inside a year, if the doctors are right. Feel pretty good all around, actually."

  Carolyn clutched John's arm with surprising strength. He looked at Valerie, whose powerful glow diminished while he watched. Her mouth parted just slightly.

  "No," Holt said. "Don't say a word. Nobody. We've got months until good-bye and I
hate good-byes. You all know that. I'm just getting out the facts. No use hiding them. I don't want tears and I don't want special treatment. Least of all I want is pity. It's insulting. Anybody can't handle this can get up and leave the table now. I mean it."