The Triggerman Dance

"Of course you can. I'm sorry if any of this got a little heavy for you. Hey, can I tell you something in confidence? I mean, really top secret confidential? A couple of years ago Mr. Holt hired a supervisor for one of the software companies we guard. He was a good super—kept his guards happy and alert and honest. But a year later our company got killed on a bid by a competitor using an awfully darn familiar RAM alignment. It took us almost three months to nail that super for passing the design. But we did. Oh yes, we did."

Fargo slipped the folder into the desk drawer, shrugging.

"So you're good at what you do," said John.

A little smirk again from Fargo, his eyes deepset but alive with light. "The point I'm trying to make isn't that we caught the scumbucket. That's a given. We're not good. We're the best. We're the best fuckin' private security people on earth and we know it. Naw, it wasn't that we caught him. We could have caught that greedy dipshit in our sleep. It's how we handled him. That's the part I'll always be proud of."

Fargo locked the desk drawer and stood.

"Well, I give up. How did you handle him?"

"He went somewhere with Snakey, and Snakey came back."

"That's it?"

"For right now. Have a good day, John-Boy. Keep your dick in your pants when Val's around. I think I'm beginning to like you."

CHAPTER 22

The next day John stands at the front door of the Big House, looking through the glass into the entryway beyond. He opens the door quietly, pushes it an inch or two and leaves it ajar. His heart is pounding against his shirt, wobbling the penlight in his pocket, and his ear throbs slowly from the impact of Snakey's open hand.

"Hello?" he calls tentatively. "Valerie?"

Just one hour ago he saw Holt's Hughes 500 lift into the sky, shivered by the diminishing gusts of the Santa Ana winds. Holt, Fargo and Titisi were on board, and the Messingers.

John can hear the short chips of Valerie's whistle from the meadow down by the lake. He has agreed to meet her there at three o'clock to help train the dogs. It is a quarter to three now. He had gone to the house to see if he might make a quick phone call to Bruno at the Anza Valley News, to see if any changes are needed on the article. He had already mentioned to Valerie and Mr. Holt that he wanted to do this.

He pushes open the door, steps inside, and shuts it. The foyer is cool and he can smell the aroma of old wood, candles and adobe. His leather-soled boots are quiet on the tiles as he walks toward the kitchen.

"Valerie? Valerie, are you here?" Then, louder, "Valerie?"

He stands in the kitchen and looks at the phone, thinking 3-9-9. He picks up the handset, hears the dial tone, then pushes the "off" button. Holding the phone before him like some kind of insulting household mystery, he walks to the stairs, then climbs quickly up to the third floor.

He enters Holt's library, again calling for Valerie. Outside, the sun is just past its zenith and the tall windows gather the light and hoard it down into the room. He looks up toward the shelves of books and watches the dust motes lifting in the hard, specific light. He takes twelve steps to cross the room and let himself into Vann Holt's inner office. He leaves the door open. He stands before the huge mahogany desk like a man waiting to be asked to sit. Then he takes a deep breath, walks around the desk and settles into the comfortable chair behind it. He puts the phone on the wood, noting the way the finish shines between the mahogany and the plastic unit, separating them like a sheet of glass. He studies the material on the desk top: in and out boxes (both empty); a telephone and fax machine; a blotter (fresh page, clean); a short crystal canister containing ten freshly sharpened pencils (points up); a computer and keyboard; a simple office-issue desk calendar turned to today's date (Wednesday, October 19); a clean crystal ashtray with the image of a flying pheasant etched onto the bottom; a framed picture of the Holt family taken perhaps ten years ago.

Most interesting is the copy of yesterday's Journal, featuring the pictures of Mark Foster on the front page, and the story that the FBI is seeking him for questioning in the murder of Rebecca Harris. The edition is folded neatly in the middle, with the masthead and the headline:

FBI PROBES NEO-NAZI GROUP IN JOURNALIST'S MURDER

Joshua's diversion, he thinks: the trail that leads nowhere.