The Triggerman Dance

On the third Saturday of his training, John was to meet Evan. Evan was critical to their purpose, Weinstein said, and Evan had to be reassured by what he saw. This was all that Weinstein said, but John easily gathered that Evan was a superior, perhaps one of those difficult Washington bureaucrats that Joshua had had to convince in order to get a green light for what they were doing. For three days before the meeting with Evan, Joshua was even more humorless than usual, rigidly focused, withdrawn. Dumars was, too.

They drove up to Orange County early that Saturday morning in Dumars' Bureau Ford. It was the first time in three months that John had been in the place where he was born and raised. To enter the county from neighboring Riverside was no great transition—just an older freeway guardrail and the gradual disappearance of the car pool lane. But even this undramatic border was loaded with meaning for John. The second they passed the Orange County sign he saw Rebecca again and heard, quite clearly, her voice and his own:

"I want to tell him. I need to tell him. It's a sin not to tell him. John, I'm having trouble telling him."

"It will happen in time."

"There's been time. I feel like I'm torturing the poor man. He's so ... so ... he understands. I know he knows. But he won't make the first move. He's leaving it to me."

"He's hoping you'll change your mind."

"Any fool can change her mind. But I can't change my heart. This hurts me, too, John. Oh, hold me for a minute, just hold me."

And he holds her, there in the kitchen of his Laguna Canyon home, with the blinds drawn and the stew heating on the stove. He strokes her golden, wavy hair. He runs his open hand down the length of her back, then up again to the bunched and shuddering shoulders. Her tears smell like rain and John feels the dampness on his shirt.

Sitting in the cramped rear seat of the Bureau sedan, John looked at the profile of the man Rebecca needed to tell, the man to whom she had engaged herself, the man who knew but out of pride, or perhaps consideration, would not speak first. John studied Joshua Weinstein's features, the tight mouth and proud nose, the slightly large ears, the black wavy hair and the acute understanding in his dark eyes. Yes, John thought, Joshua would have known. Joshua knew. Joshua knows.

They took the freeway down to Irvine Boulevard in Tustin and made a right. John assumed they were heading to downtown Santa Ana and the FBI office again, but Sharon turned left onto a side street, then made another left. They were in a forties suburban tract, notable for its lack of notability. The neighborhood was neat and quiet, and the street was lined with liquidambar trees riotous with dying red leaves. Four doors down, an older gentleman pushed a lawn mower on a wavering course.

"You'll have to wear this for just a minute," said Joshua. He had been rummaging in his briefcase, but now turned and handed John a small cloth item.

Menden unfolded it. It was a hood made of heavy material, with a loose drawstring around the open end.

"Put it on and lie down on the seat. Procedure."

"Up yours," said John.

"Put it on," said Joshua.

John lay on the warm upholstery and felt the car making more turns. To the best of his figuring they had backtracked, and Sharon Dumars was now setting a fresh course from the boulevard. A few minutes was all it took. Then he felt the bump of the car passing into a driveway, followed by a coolness. The garage, he thought. After the car engine was shut off, he heard the garage door clunking into place behind him.

"Rise and shine," said Joshua.