The Triggerman Dance

A small smile crossed John's face as an odd feeling began to spill into him. It was a humble feeling, not a loud nor demanding one. He could hear it over the pounding of his shoes on the earth and the thumping of his heart. It said to him: you could love this woman and let her love you back, and have everything a man could want.

Impossible, he thought. Never.

Not after I do what I'm going to do.

He almost laughed at himself.

Was Valerie a way back to Rebecca? Was Rebecca a way toward Valerie?

Who cared?

You have a purpose here, he thought. Fulfill it.

Then he was in the clearing, with the fence nearby and the stump, and the young oak tree pruned away from the electric chain links. He circled the area, breathing hard, dodging the wooden cover of the tunnel. Calm, he thought: be calm now.

When his breathing and heart had slowed, he sat on the stump and lit a smoke. The dogs had sprawled around him, tongues in the dirt, panting rapidly. All three suddenly perked up and looked back down the path as Boomer rose lazily and snapped at a fly. The others lay back down, sides heaving. John listened. Nothing. The cigarette tasted bad so he stamped it out and put the butt in his pocket.

He stood and went to the spot, two yards from the fence, toward the oak tree, and uncovered his box from its leafy grave.

He slipped a fresh penlight into his pocket and set the used one in the box. He unbuttoned his shirt and took out the bag, setting it into the box too.

Then he removed the telephone, stood and was just about to hail Joshua when he heard the dogs scramble upright in the dirt and start to growl.

Snakey stepped from the path, tossed some biscuits toward the dogs, but stared at John. His clothes were covered with thorns and brambles, and sweat dripped from his sharp triangle of a face. He had a little machine pistol in his right hand, with the short black barrel pointed at John's chest. The dogs ate the biscuits and lined up in front of Snakey, tails wagging.

"Drop the phone," he said.

What will the abort button get me, thought John. Answer: an FBI escort to the morgue.

He dropped the phone.

"Open your hands, and lift them."

John put up his hands, fingers out.

"Walk to the tree and stand in front of it. If you run, or if you move quick, or maybe even think about it, I'll kill you. Slow now ... to the tree. And when you get there, you put your hands way up on that branch and you don't move."

John took an uncertain, leg-heavy step toward the tree. "Mind telling me what in hell you're doing"

"Shut up. Lean against that tree. You keep your hands on that branch or you get this clip. I mean it, Bubba. I'd like to do that. It'd make my whole year."

Think.

He felt Snakey up close behind him now, then cool hard steel between his neck and his skull. A hand crossed his chest, jammed under his arms, moved around his belt and crotch, slapped down each leg.

Think.

"Mr. Holt won't appreciate this," said John.

He heard Snakey retreat through the leaves.

"I don't work for Mr. Holt, cuntlips. I don't want to be a boy scout suckass Holt Man. I work for Lane Fargo and he works for Holt. Press up against that tree now, like you're fuckin' it. Like you wanted to do to Val last night out on the island, and in her room. Yeah, I saw it all. Didn't really get any, did you?"

"Lane didn't tell you?"

"Shut up. You squeak again I might shoot you in the leg just for the fun of it."

John clamped his hands over the big oak branch. Snakey was behind him, maybe twenty feet back. John heard him pick up the box, rummage through the penlights and video tape.

"These little lights got mikes in 'em?"

"To record whoever's been cheating Mr. Holt."

"You're the one's been cheating Mr. Holt."

"You ought to listen to me, Snakey."

"Shut up, Bubba."

John heard footsteps as Snakey headed toward the phone. "Hey little doggies," he said. "How about some more snacks? You dogs are gonna like hangin' with Snakey. This fag you got for a keeper now, he won't be around anymore. There, good dogs . .. there you go. Maybe I'll get you some of them spiked collars, make you look badass. Kinda fuckin' dogs are these, anyway?"

"Labrador retrievers."

"Where's Labrador at?"

"Up north."

John heard the telltale crunch of teeth on biscuits. He turned his head slightly, and could just make out the blurred shape of Snakey kneeling in front of the cellular phone.

"Two buttons," said Snakey. "Who for?"

Think.

"The red one's for Mr. Holt. The black one goes to Lane."

"That's a lie."

"Push one and find out."

Snakey laughed. It was the laugh of someone not quite sure if the joke is for him or on him. "This thing reach all the way to Grand Cayman?"

"Easily."

"Oh, yeah, Bubba. This little piece of shit's gonna reach 'em way out in that ocean?"

"It's linked up by satellite. I could call Mars, if that's where Mr. Holt was going to be."

"Shut up."

"Call him. Ask him if I'm working for him or not."

"We wouldn't have slapped you around if you were working for us. Kinda idiot you think I am?"

Think.