The Triggerman Dance

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.