The Triggerman Dance

Valerie smiled then, a wide-mouthed, honest, forthright smile. It was just a little more open on one side, which revealed some back teeth and gave it a shade of mischief. She looked down at her menu again, with an odd expression of satisfaction on her face. The wind blew a strand of golden brown hair over her round girlish forehead and she caught it without looking up then fingered it back behind her ear.

John felt an odd shifting inside, and a very slight, very clear ringing in his ears.

He spent the rest of the afternoon writing his account of the incident at Olie's Saloon for the Anza Valley News. He used the computer on the dining room table. It ran a brief fifty-five lines. John concentrated on dispelling rumors: the woman was not raped or even hurt; his trailer was the only one burned out; he had in fact shot only once, giving the woman's assailant a minor flesh wound that made her escape possible. He refused to give any names because they had asked him not to. He hoped the whole incident would be forgotten soon and that the citizens of Anza Valley would not worry about a vengeful motorcycle gang overrunning their town. He asked anyone with information about the bikers to call the Sheriff's substation in Indio. He also admitted that the single worst thing about the whole affair was the loss of Rusty—the day's true hero. That evening he walked along the lake with his dogs. He stopped to look at the marina and boathouse, the lovely Hatteras, Carolyn, docked there, the little covey of Boston Whalers tarped against the sun. He could see the beach on the island in the center of the lake and the dark oaks and conifers beyond. On the far shore he made out a row of small cabanas and scaffolding of what looked like a sporting clays tower. He thought back twenty-odd years to the summer days he and his friends would sneak past the "No Trespassing" signs, hike to the lake and spend the day swimming, fishing, hiking and looking for animals. They had outlegged the sheriffs more than once. He had even spent the night in the cave on the island, for which he was thoroughly thrashed by his father upon returning home late the next afternoon. John was struck that the place was more beautiful now than then—the foliage thicker and the trees more mature and the water level of the lake higher—no doubt due to Vann Holt's attentions. A flock of mallards veed out across the blue water in no hurry whatsoever, a chevron of ripples widening behind them He wished Rebecca could have seen this. He thought about the dream he'd had early that morning, the way she had seemed so present and actual. And tonight, he thought, I'll be having dinner with the man who blew her heart out of her chest.

The foyer of the big house is as brightly lit as a movie set when John walks in, led by a ravishingly beautiful brunette who ha introduced herself as Laura Messinger. John has already recognized her. She takes him by the arm, saying she always wanted to touch a hero. She leads him into the expansive kitchen, at the far end of which is a bar. A waiter approaches and she dismisses him. She asks John his pleasure and gives the bow-tied barman the order. He can smell venison and elk on the stove-top grill, and wild, cilantro-based aroma coming from four huge saucepans.

"Are you a friend of Mr. Holt?" he asks.

"His attorney and techno-weenie, actually. A friend, toe Cheers."

She hands him the scotch-and-soda and raises her own cocktail glass very sightly, not touching his, then brings it to her thick bright red lips. Her eyes are an astonishing blue that John decide can only be realized by colored lenses. Her breasts are large and tastefully displayed. She could be thirty, but John knows from Weinstein that she is forty-two.

Laura and husband Thurmond are the high-end foreign team for Liberty Operations. You need a hundred capable men to settle unrest on the diamond coast in Namibia? Talk to Laura. Need some small arms know-how in Sierra Leone? Thurmon can help. He's a lapsed Northrup veep who never got his peace dividend and she was third in her law class at Harvard. They aren't salaried—nobody at the Ops is salaried except for Lane Fargo. Last year their take was a little over four-hundred thousand, counting bonuses.