The Triggerman's Dance

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “I love a scandal. What’s to drink?”

  “More than enough to put you on your butt.”

  She looked at him sternly. “I can hold my liquor, young man. That runs in the family. Shall we join the party?”

  John offered his arm in a formal angle and Valerie responded, running the bottom of her forearm against his, touching him very lightly. At the edge of the canopy she steadied herself against him and slipped on her shoes. He felt her weight tilt and her fingers dig hard into his arm.

  Fargo was there. “You look really pretty tonight, Val.”

  “Oh thanks, Laney-Poo. What’s that, your shrunken-head jacket?”

  “This is it.”

  “You’re a dark man, Lane Fargo, but I like you anyway. Against all my better instincts.”

  “Get the lady a drink,” he said to John.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Gin and tonic, John. And double up on it, would you?”

  When John came back with the cocktails, Fargo had just said something into Valerie’s ear and Valerie had just started faking her laugh.

  “Lane called you P-Boy,” she said. “Because of your coat. Can’t tell if you’re a private eye or a cowboy.”

  “Stop it, Lane. I might bust a gut.”

  “No, really, I mean, what’s that coat all about?”

  “Warm in the winter, cool in the summer.”

  “Oh, I’m just teasin’, John-Boy.” He smiled his small-toothed smile and leaned in close to Valerie. “John’s always got his panties in a bunch because I’m following up on him for your Dad. You know, verifying his character. Think he’s got something to hide?”

  Valerie eyed John playfully. “Everything.”

  “Me too! See, John-Boy, I’m not alone in suspecting that you’re a character of low moral value.”

  “Oh, now I didn’t say that,” Valerie offered. “I think he’s hiding . . . hiding . . . genius, advanced moral development, and a big . . . heart.”

  “Doing one hell of a good job of it,” said Lane.

  “Some people are easy to fool,” she said.

  “Then I rest my case,” said Fargo, kissing Valerie’s cheek. “Watch this guy, now. And I’ll see you later, gorgeous.”

  “Okay, Laney.”

  “You too, P-Boy.”

  “Fargone Lane,” whispered Valerie, as Fargo attached himself to Scott and Mary Holt. “I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. Dad does.”

  Her dark eyes flashed and a mean little smile came to her lips. “I must learn to forgive and forget. We all should.”

  “Best advice I’ve heard lately. By the way, you look absolutely beautiful tonight.”

  “I like these clothes that are out of style. Don’t know why that idea appeals to me so much.”

  Two hours later they were finished with dinner.

  “Everyone have a drink?” Holt asked. “Then lift it to the United States of America and the freedoms that we have left.”

  Murmured agreements, clinking cocktail glasses.

  “Here, here,” he continued. “Lend me your kind ears for a bit. I’ve got some things to say.”

  John saw the young Holt Men step inside the canopy with dessert trays, then turn back toward the house at the wave of Vann Holt’s hand.

  “We’re eating outside in the wind tonight because this is my favorite weather,” he said. “Feels like God’s own breath to me, but that’s probably just me. Hell on the hair and skin, I know. Wouldn’t want it blowing every day but you’ve got to enjoy it while it’s here. One of my themes tonight—enjoy it while it’s here.”

  Another round of mumbled assent, another meeting of glasses and nods. Holt stood.

  “I want to start out by welcoming Scott and Mary from Utah. It’s been exactly four years, eight months and two weeks since Scott and I have spoken. I know I disappointed you, brother. I was trying my best not to disappoint myself. That God of yours that I turned my back on is none the less supreme for my lapse. Stick with him. I don’t expect his forgiveness. Would love to have yours, though. Don’t say anything now. I’m not asking anyone for anything tonight. Except to hear me out.”

  John looked over at Scott and Mary, both statue-still and erect, both crimson in the face. Fargo was staring at him. Carolyn’s gaze seemed infinite as the cosmos. Laura Messinger aimed a brittle smile up at Holt while her husband tried to study Scott and Mary as he sipped his drink. Valerie in her polka dot dress looked at John, then back at her father.

  “It’s important to me that we be together tonight,” he continued. “You are my family. Both literal and extended. You are the people I love. You’re my life. Carolyn—I love you the most. You were my beginning. You’ll be my end. Thanks, girl.”

  “Oh, Hercules.”

  The laughter was immeasurably polite and John could feel the anguish behind it. He tried to imagine Carolyn whole. He also saw a darkness pass behind Holt’s gray eyes, a darkness that seemed familiar and known, a part of him.

  “I had something funny happen down in Texas a few months back. Didn’t tell any of you about it. Wanted to mull it over. Well, it’s been mulled. They found a spot on a scan, then a bunch more. No reason to get into detail. Biopsy, all that. The upshot is it’s been in there a while, in the system, doing what life does. I’ll be pushing up weeds here on Liberty Ridge inside a year, if the doctors are right. Feel pretty good all around, actually.”

  Carolyn clutched John’s arm with surprising strength. He looked at Valerie, whose powerful glow diminished while he watched. Her mouth parted just slightly.

  “No,” Holt said. “Don’t say a word. Nobody. We’ve got months until good-bye and I hate good-byes. You all know that. I’m just getting out the facts. No use hiding them. I don’t want tears and I don’t want special treatment. Least of all I want is pity. It’s insulting. Anybody can’t handle this can get up and leave the table now. I mean it.”

  In the silence that followed John heard the slap of the canvas over them and the hiss from the hills around them. Valerie’s face had gone slack, her lips parted in astonishment.

  Carolyn smiled, not understanding.

  Scott sat with his arms crossed, expressionless.

  Thurmond Messinger looked at his plate; Laura had taken his arm in both her hands.

  Adam Sexton slouched in his seat, but his eyes were resolutely fixed on Holt.

  It was Fargo who surprised him. The dark man in his shrunken-head jacket was scanning the faces around him, as if much more interested in reactions to the news than the news itself. His eyebrows were raised in a thin attempt at alarm. His gaze came to John. It was frank and probing, maybe even a little amused.

  And John realized: Fargo knew. No surprise in his face, no befuddlement or sadness, not the slightest hint of shock. Fargo knew. John held the curious stare until it moved on.

  He felt Valerie’s fingers digging into the flesh of his palm.

  “Now,” said Holt. “Main reason I bother you all with this is that things are going to change. We’ve got a nice little empire here and I want it run right when I’m gone. I want things understood. I want things clear. One—Valerie, I’ve been trying to get you into Liberty Ops for a while now. Especially since you got out of school. I’m asking you again, right here and now, to think about it. Think hard. I want you in charge someday soon. Two— Laura and Thur, Adam, keep on doing what you do best. You’re our glitter and our gold. You’re the people to answer the world for us. I’m asking you to work with Valerie, when that time comes. Three—Lane, I’d take you to the grave with me but I think you might get cold. You’re the best friend a man could have. I’m thanking you for everything you’ve ever done for me. I needed you for everything on Liberty Ridge. You watched my back. Kicked butt when you needed to. I don’t know if anyone here appreciates all we’ve been through together. I don’t know if you’ll even want to be here when I’m gone. We have some time to ponder that. But you will be well taken care of, when the time comes. Taken care of very wel
l. I’ve already started putting some of this organizational stuff in writing. I’ll finish it, soon. We’ll need some law for this company, just like the country does.”

  John looked at Fargo again. Things were beginning to make sense: Lane was going to get his walking papers when Holt died. Fargo was nodding with approval, smiling slightly, as if basking in the glow of Holt’s praise. But his eyes peered into deep space while the smile just stayed in place, preserved by effort.

  “Oh, go Vanny go.”

  “Be quiet now, honey. There’s just a couple of more things I want to say. You all know that Liberty Ridge was built up over the decades. It rose and fell with the times. It was cattle once, then horses, then nothing. Now citrus and security. Tomorrow, who knows? Things will change. We live in an ailing republic. Too many people. Too few values. Too much fear. Too many lies. All the spirit pounded down to mediocrity. My last years have been given over to work and hatred—you all know that. I’m good at those things. I learned to hate everything around me that wasn’t you. I hated the people who took Pat. I hated the people who took away his good name. I hated the God that let it happen. We’ll still find the kid who pulled the trigger. I’m honor-bound to finish that. I’ll still have my day with the woman who smeared him in front of the world. John here is helping me see to her. I can’t forgive the unforgivable. I’ll see to the final justice for them. I said some things I shouldn’t have. Thought some things. Did some things. But, quite frankly, I’m tired of it now. I’ve got a few months to be here with you people. I’ve got another winter and another spring. Summer’s a maybe. If I could get one more fall to chase those quail and work those dogs, that would be a real good thing. If nothing else I’ve got you all pinned down here right now, with the Santa Anas blowing the ridge clean and that ocean out there heaving away. So, drink with me again tonight. To here and now. To all of us. Cheers. Boys—haul in the dessert.”

  The conversation continued—muted, fretful and forced. Valerie was almost silent, but she moved to be as close to her father as she could. She kept drinking. John could see the emptiness in her eyes, and the pain the alcohol couldn’t dull. Only Holt was expansive, and soon everyone else was quiet and listening. He was lost to tales of meeting Carolyn, his good days at the Bureau, his first Grand Slam, his best quail shots down in Anza. He drank four Scotch and waters, his voice and delivery unaffected so far as John could see, his big leonine head scanning the guests to let them know he was still here, still alive and powerful, still Holt. The wind blew harder and the canopy shivered. The guests huddled into themselves and still Holt held forth, his voice and the wind taking turns until they seemed to become one force, together breathing life and sound into the tiny universe of Liberty Ridge.

  The canopy lifted off and somersaulted across the lawn toward the ocean. Holt stood with his drink in hand, raising it to the sky. Valerie stood with hers; John with his. Then all of them were standing, even Carolyn locked to John’s free arm, holding their glasses high while the wind snatched the tablecloth off the table and sent it skidding into the night.

  “To vengeance completed and the restoration of soul!”

  Then, all:

  “To vengeance completed and the restoration of soul!”

  They drank.

  Then Holt looked at John with all the consuming focus of his character. His gray eyes looked hungry and hard. The wind bent his hair in one direction and lifted one lapel to the side of his neck.

  John looked back, feeling reduced to the meager essentials of his falsehood.

  “Are you with me?” demanded Holt.

  “Yes, sir.”

  At this, Valerie straightened and lifted her glass. “Dad, I’ll run the Ops better than it’s ever been run before. I’ll make you proud. I promise.”

  John glanced at the stony face of Lane Fargo while the applause lifted around him.

  Then Valerie sat heavily in her chair, her face gone the sudden pale of too much drink, and her eyes focusing on the surface of the table.

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  “John,” said Holt. “Take her to your cottage. Tend to her tonight.”

  “I’ll help,” said Fargo.

  “She won’t need you, Lane,” said Holt.

  John thought: Fargo’s future in a nutshell. And that’s why he’s been funneling the evidence to me. John suddenly understood, too, why the soundtrack to Rebecca’s slaughter had been removed before he was led to the tape—because Holt’s wasn’t the only voice on it.

  Holt had shot Rebecca while Fargo shot the video.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  They walked across the lawn then through the trees and hedges until they came to the meadow. Valerie leaned hard into John as they started across. The wind gusted from behind and John could feel it pushing them forward. The grass lay flat in the moonlight. He heard his dogs barking and saw them sitting three abreast in the cone of brightness from the porch light. Boomer lunged into the dark and the others followed. Against his outstretched arm Valerie’s back was warm, and beneath his palm the curve of her hip rose and fell with each step she took. He thought: you are beautiful and I could love you and I would give almost anything on earth not to betray you.

  He carried her upstairs and laid her on his bed. He opened the windows to let in the cool, wild air. In the bathroom he wet a washcloth, folded the cloth, took it out to Valerie and set it across her forehead. Her face was shiny and pale in the dark and her breathing was fast. He thought about his phone.

  “Nice,” she whispered.

  He brought her the ice water and sat on the bedside. He turned over the washcloth and put the cooler side against her head. He could see the shine of her eyes down against the pillow.

  “Think I drank a little too much. Today,” she said. Her words seemed to wobble from her mouth and her punctuation was off. “Then drank a little more. Too.”

  “I think you did.”

  He ran the backs of his fingers down one clammy cheek. She began sobbing. He saw the shine of tears on her face and the pools of wet light on her eyes.

  “I knew something was wrong with Dad. Sometimes I thought he didn’t look. So good. Then a big burst of energy. Like tonight. Then tired or something. When he told us tonight it was like I knew and he was just . . . Confirming. Sometimes I try to picture the world. My world. And all I see is Dad standing there. He’s it. He’s the world. And I can’t think about him gone now. I just can’t see him in an urn. Fancy tomb or not. Quiet and cold. My heart’s feeling weak and hard right now. Like it’s gonna stop. Like when Pat and Mom. Funny feeling. Heart gets sideways in your chest and doesn’t have any rhythm left. Throat tickles. Head gets light. Heart just beats anyway. Life keeps pounding away even though you’re not interested. Is that a broken heart, John?”

  “Yeah.”

  He took the ice water from her and set it on the nightstand. Then he climbed in beside her and she rolled toward him, putting her face into the crook of his shoulder. He felt her back shaking and the warm liquid of her tears soaking through his shirt.

  “In the beginning there was us. Mom ‘n’ Dad ‘n’ Pat ‘n’ me. Then Pat shot. Mom all messed up. But somehow it was still a family. But if Dad goes then it’s over. It’s just two crazy women and no men left. Bunch of oranges and guys with orange neckties. Bunch of money. Bunch of people. Dad goes, I don’t want to run this place. I wanna get on a cruise ship and not come back. I wanna get a penthouse and not come out. I wanna follow the seasons and shoot birds ‘til I keel over. From shotgun recoil. I’ll be the first girl to die from recoil. Ever.”

  “Stick around.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re bright and beautiful and the world needs you.”

  “You need me?”

  “I’ll always need you and I’ll never forget you.”

  “Sounds like you’re tryin’ to. Already. You gonna go like Pat and Dad?”

  “I’ll be where you want me to be.”

  “You’re a
good liar, huh?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He looked at her eyes bright in the darkness. Their knowingness, even in her drunken state, unnerved him.

  “You got somethin’ about you that’s hard to not like. You got this face and this voice. You got this nice paint job. But I think underneath you don’t have a you. Underneath it’s all moving around, all these John molecules. Don’t have a pattern. Don’t have a plan. Don’t have a place they came from or a place they wanna get back to. I think when Jillian died your compass broke down. The needle stuck. You didn’t mind ‘cause you needed a rest. Everybody needs a rest. After a loss. But you gotta be careful because if you float too long. If you just wander ‘round being tall and cute and telling people what they want to hear, then you turn. You turn into a big bagga shit with a smile on it.”

  Cogent, he thought. “Drunk and heartbroken, you still get the gist of it, Valerie.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Kind. Pretty. Alive.”

  “What did you like best about her?”

  “Her happiness.”

  “Dream about her?”

  “A lot.”

  Valerie was quiet for a long moment. John listened to her fast breathing and to the wind outside antagonizing the overhang and window glass. He thought of standing on his uncle’s roof with the bedsheet spread.

  Valerie took his hand. Her fingers felt hot and damp.

  “I had this dream,” she said. “Then I had it again. Then I had it a bunch. These two men come to Liberty Ridge. One’s dark and handsome. The other’s light and handsome. The dark one, he takes Dad away and Dad doesn’t ever come back. The light one, he makes love to me over and over again and I can’t get enough it feels so. Good. Then the dark one comes back and they’re standing there and they blend together into one guy. And Dad’s gone and the light guy doesn’t look the same anymore. I can tell he’s gonna rape me. I try to kill him but he’s too strong. After that I’m this dog that runs around here. I watch these guys run the place. They don’t know I’m me, and pretty soon I don’t, either. Finally I just run away.”