The Triggerman Dance (34 page)

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

wooden 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.

His body starts to buzz inside, a delayed reaction to his first covert mission into Holt's office. He sees the "view messages" light on the computer blinking, and presses command F2, which, as Valerie has told him, will show him what's in his basket. He is confident there is a little note from her.

Two messages appear on the monitor

:
STOCKED FRIG WHILE YOU WERE OUT. EAT A CARROT. HOW' S LIFE ON THE RIDGE? JUST KEEPING IN TOUCH-

A. SEX

John smiles. His nerves are still brittle but he smiles anyway. He wonders if this is some kind of game, so he goes to the frig— freshly stocked, all right—and pulls out the vegetable drawer. He and Rebecca used to play little games on the
Journal
e-mail system, and he has the same anticipatory jitters he had back then, that lifetime ago, reading her innocent messages on the screen at his work station.

Enjoyed flyfishing piece. Never had a barbecued trout. . . . The secret's not to overcook them.

The carrots are in the crisper. But he can see that just beside them is something not vegetable at all.

He looks at it for a long beat, then reaches down, slides away the carrots and lifts up a freezer bag. Through the clear plastic he can see paper, bent over but not firmly folded.

He pulls it open and shakes the papers onto the tile. The pages land face-up, curving slightly from the chilled confinement of the bag. There are two.

The first is a plain white sheet with sketch of the
Journal
buildings and parking lot on it. It is an aerial view. It is not highly detailed, but Susan Baum's parking place is marked by a drawing of the "Baum" sign, with her name lightly penciled upon it. Fairway Boulevard is clearly marked, and the chain link fence that runs along the parking lot is identified as such. In the upper right hand corner is a notation:

4 to 5 Mon. Wed.

3 to 4 Tue. Thu.

noon Fri.

Baum's hours of departure from work, John thinks, including her inviolable half-days on Fridays.

John recognizes the neat, forward-slanting print that he saw in the files in Vann Holt's office desk.

The second sheet of paper is a black-and-white aerial photograph of a home somewhere in the foothills. Grease-penciled onto the fat bottom border of white are the words, "B. Residence—Newport Beach—3:15 p.m.—1/2 12."

Again, it is easy to see that the controlled, almost mechanically perfect printing on the photograph comes from the same hand that kept the notes in Vann Holt's desk files.

John stares down at these things as if they were a burning bush, or a huge nugget of gold. He turns away and goes back to the dining room table, walking with his head down, as if deep in thought, in the hope that no one will see him.

He sits down at the table and stares at his electronic in-basket, now empty, the message consumed by the software.

He feels the cold shudder in the muscles of his back.

He looks out the window to Holt's mission home, to Fargo's orange-packing plant house, to the Messingers' residence, once a church. Falsehood. Facade. Illusion.

John remembers that Joshua had warned him this might happen. That there might come a time when all their planning is not enough, when all their caution is insufficient.

If you're blown, run. If you can't run, deny. When you can't deny, confess. It will either get you out, get you turned or get you killed.

Fargo's voice darkens his mind like a cloud over the sun:

He went somewhere with Snakey and Snakey came back.

He looks out toward the hills, in the direction of his box and his telephone. One hour.

Patience, he tells himself.

Calm.

He takes the sketch and photograph into the bathroom, pulls the penlight from his pocket and shoots three exposures of each document. He uses tissue to handle them. When he's put them inside the bag he wipes down the bag and puts it back where he found it.

He sets out with his dogs again, around the lake, drawn by the cellular umbilical cord to Joshua, sure that every eye in heaven and on earth is watching.

Joshua is silent for a long while, as he digests John's story. He asks John to repeat it all, twice. When he finally speaks his voice is deep and hushed and oddly formal.

"You have been baited. The question is by whom, and what with. Put the penlight in the box now, and get a fresh one. You were thoughtful to leave the package in the vegetable cooler, but I need it by six tomorrow morning, safe in our box of toys with your film. We have two days to analyze it, determine if it's counterfeit, and return it if it is. We know that someone deeply suspects your motives. We don't know who. If it's Holt, you are being tested in his absence. The handwriting will not be his and the photograph will be somehow fraudulent. He'll expect you to take them to him."

"You can tell it's Holt's writing."

"No, Owl,
you
cannot. Forgery is an acquired skill, and plenty of people have it."

"What if it wasn't Holt?"

"If it wasn't, and the material is genuine, then there's another spy on Liberty Ridge."

"Am I going to get killed?"

"Not if you listen, and do everything I say. Continue. "John told him about his trip to Top of the World, Holt's proposal of "work" with Liberty Ops, the Holt family vaults and statues, the golden doors stamped with birds shining in the sun "They were unforgettably beautiful," he said.

"And the girl, Valerie. Is she beautiful, also?"

"I don't think you need an answer to that question, Joshua.'

"I think I have one."

They meet up again just at sunset, loading the picnic basket that Valerie has made into a little skiff and motoring out to the island in the middle of Liberty Lake. She wears a long loose summer dress of pale gray, with birds of paradise on it, and a pair of rubber thongs. John can smell the lotion she put on after the shower.

The beach on the island is clean and sandy. Valerie points out that her father dumped eighty tons of beach sand to create such a place. The beach is shaded by an immense Norfolk Islam pine tree airlifted by helicopter five years ago when Holt began to refurbish the property. They sit on a large bedsheet with the corners held down by rocks. From the sheet John can see the meadow, the top story of the Big House, the backsides of a few of the Liberty Operations buildings, then the expanse of Valencia groves.

They drink wine and eat the cold barbecued quail that Valerie shot on the opener.

"Have you ever been in love?" she asks.

Not this, he thinks. Not now. "Yes," he answers curtly.

She looks nervous, avoiding his eyes. "What happened?"

And because it is his duty, he tells her the story of Jillian. Ii his heart, he tells her the story of Rebecca. John is more than little amazed that a lie can contain so much truth. When he i finished all he can hear is the breeze hissing through the needle of the pine tree above, and the buzz in his ears, starting to get louder.

"When did it happen?"

"Twelve years ago."

Valerie says nothing for a long while.

Then, "Never felt the same way again?"

"No."

"Try to?"

"It's not something you create, or even search out. It just happens."

"It arrives."

"Or, it doesn't."

"Things are always in the last place you look for them."

"That's not exactly profound."

"No."

"What about you?"

She looks at him then quickly away.

"Oh, you know, I've had crushes. One time, it was more than that, but he . . . well, didn't fit in very well. That was my first year at UCI. Dad detested him. So for most of college I just read a lot, rode horses and played tennis, but didn't have much luck, boy-wise. I always thought you should feel something special about someone. But I never did. I really
wanted
to. Nice enough boys, I guess, but not special. I didn't experiment with things—men, women, drugs. I'm not the experimenting kind. I'm the kind who waits for the right thing then takes it. Found myself kind of outside things, the Mormon prude, the Federal dweeb. Had a sharp tongue so I got the rep as a ballbusters, even though I wasn't. The guys, they seemed so . . . tiny. Made a few good friends, though. Outsiders, too, I guess."