The Triggerman Dance

Joshua Weinstein sat in the Quantico conference room and looked out at the sere Virginia landscape. The trees were naked and the ground was tan. It's like Wyeth painted the whole damn world, he thought. A light breeze swayed the branches and moved the leaves in pointless patterns. The central heat huffed on and he looked at Dumars. "How's your room?" he asked flatly, his red-eye voice.

"The same as yours."

And right next door, he thought—anything to relieve himself of the worry and fear. What could they possible want with him? Did they know about Snakey by now? Impossible, but their jot was to discover the impossible.

Right after the call from John, he had ordered Dumars to abort their airport run and speed to the perimeter of Liberty Ridge. There, he had grimly overseen the claiming of Snakey and the package. He heatedly swore his people to secrecy, and arranged for them to book the body at county as a John Doe. He now had two weeks of grace from a deputy, calling in an old favor.

He had flown out John's prizes by courier jet, which landed them in Norton's lap approximately five hours later. Then, making a mock rush for the airport, he had ordered Dumars to stop their car on the shoulder, gotten out, lifted the hood and asked her to locate the fuel line. Joshua couldn't tell the fuel line from a battery cable but Sharon could. He yanked it from the pump then called Bureau Tech Services to come fix his car.

The next flight out was at eleven.

Now he was here, half a day late, quite literally on the carpet. He looked down at the unearthly shade of green, suitable for a camouflage pattern at best, exactly what you'd expect from the federal government.

Norton entered the room and shook hands. He reeked of after-shave and anxiety. His cheeks were bright pink, marked with the capillary exuberance of forty years of Scotch. His smile looked too jolly; his handshake felt too warm; his tie was too tightly knotted.

All the best appearances, thought Joshua. We're fucked. Even Norton knows it. Did they tell him about Snakey? Norton sat and they made unbearable small talk for five eternal minutes. What do they want?

Walker Frazee finally popped in, his bouncing stride enough to send a familiar buzz of horror up Joshua's spine. They all shook hands. Frazee was a short man with a boyish face and a smile so disarming you wanted to hug him. His suit was dark, cheap and years out of fashion, exactly the same color and cut that Joshua had always seen him in. His shoes were polished to absurdity. His hair was an effulgent white, cut with just a little touching the top of his ears. He looked to Joshua like a funeral home counselor, which Josh knew was a wholly inappropriate impression. Because, when the boyishness left Walker Frazee's face and he dropped his ingratiating smile, what was left was the zealous gleam of the true believer. Josh could see it in his eyes, as clear as the beam from a lighthouse on a black sea. It said: I am the vessel. I carry the word. Righteousness, and its sad obligation to the sword, was certified by the gleam. He never swore, never drank alcohol or caffeine, never smoked, never missed church, invested shrewdly and—it was rumored—tithed abundantly. His wife was breathtakingly ugly, as portrayed by the photographs in his office. His eight grown children were pillars of Mormon, spread out across the republic like the footings of a foundation. Frazee never stopped talking about his children. Crazy Frazee, went the gossip: One God, one suit, eight wives.

"Good morning," he said, pulling out a chair at the head of the table. "How was your flight?"

"Fine, sir," said Dumars.

"Long," said Joshua.

Frazee held his boyish smile. "Looks like you survived it well."

"The movie was about a plane crash in the Andes," Joshua noted. "I couldn't figure out if it was a bad joke or a good one.'

"Oh, I saw that thing," said Norton. "Where they end up eating each other?"

"That's the one."

"Not for the queasy flyer," said Frazee. "Agent Dumars, you're looking very well these days."

"Thank you, sir."

"And you, Joshua?"

"I'm thinking of buying a surfboard."

"Really?"

"No, not really. But the Orange County office is a beehive I'll say that. There's always too much to do."

"Nice job on the kidnapper buying the Ferrari."

"Dumb shit—oh, I beg your pardon, sir—dumb clod just walked in with the cash. We had people standing around acting like salesmen. I mean, he'd done it before."

"Astonishing, he'd grab a casino owner's daughter."

"Won't last long in the prison population," said Norton "Dumb sh . . . muck."

"Well, I can't say I'm not a little envious of you two, when I wake up to an October morning and the mercury is right a thirty."

"We don't have weather in California, sir," said Weinstein "We have nuance."

"I see." Frazee's boyish smile faded as he settled in his chair and looked at Joshua. "And you have Wayfarer?"