The Triggerman Dance

by T. Jefferson Parker

  She thought about Josh Weinstein and John Menden—the men in her life now—and how close they could be to her heart, yet so far from it. Maybe that was the price you paid for a career like hers. Men all around you, really, but what did they amount to except teammates, competitors, flirts, maybe friends at best?

  A woman could do worse, she thought.

  CHAPTER 12

  October the fourteenth hovers gently upon Liberty Ridge. It is an autumn evening scrubbed by breeze, cloudless and dry, ripe wit the promise of change. If seen from above, the dominant feature of Liberty Ridge is the blue oval of lake in its center. In the middle of the lake is small round island, densely wooded and dark. The lake seems to stare upward at you, like an eye, with its calm black pupil of an island taking you in.

  To the north are two hundred acres of orange grove, a perfect rectangle bordered by a windbreak of eucalyptus. Early each morning the irrigation rows fill with water and glisten like stripe of poured silver. Holt has gone to enormous expense to bring his citrus up to certified organic standards, though never applying for the final papers because his operation is not commercial ant he detests inspectors of any kind on Liberty Ridge. Without this use of chemical herbicides to control weeds, or chemical insecticides to kill pests, the two hundred acres are labor intensive Holt's ranch workers are relatively small in number and well paid. Behind the lake, to the south, lie four hundred acres of Southern California coastal scrub and savanna. Because this natural habitat is part of a greater belt of undeveloped land, it is impossible to tell, from above, where the southern boundary o Liberty Ridge lies. Only from the ground can you see the actual border—an eight foot chain link fence topped by another two feet of acutely angled barbed wire, all charged with 24,000 volt of current. The electricity to the fence is turned off and on at arbitrary hours during the day, but it is always on at night. The charge is strong enough to send a deer spasming hoof-over-ear back into the brush, or to knock a man completely senseless. One of Holt's independent springers roamed far from the pack last summer, urinated on the fence and snapped its own spine in a howling recoil. The animal scratched back to the compound a day later using only his front paws, setting off a dispute between Holt and his daughter, Valerie, that Valerie, as usual, won. She demanded surgery for the pup. The dog was operated on that day, but expired during the ordeal.

  East of the lake, inland, lie soft foothills of oak and sage, grasslands, and Interstate 5, which marks the edge of the property. From a frontage road used mostly by surfers and the Marines of nearby Camp Pendleton, a private asphalt ribbon lined with date palms winds west toward the house and outbuildings, the lake, and groves. There is a gate near the frontage road—just out of sight around the first bend—which is manned round-the- clock by Liberty Ridge Security, a team of five men supervised by Vann Holt's ubiquitous protector, hunting companion, drinking buddy and personal assistant, Lane Fargo.

  To the west is the Pacific. The property line ends almost half a mile before the beach, which is fine with Vann Holt because beach access in California is nearly impossible to restrict anymore, and because a long, narrow, brackish slough runs parallel with the coast on the western edge of Liberty Ridge, making electric fences, guarded gates or even routine security patrols all but unneccessary. In light moments he jokes about stocking the slough with crocodiles. It would be nice to have a beach, but when a strong south swell powers up from Mexico and Holt wants to surf, he and Valerie and Fargo just drive to the dirt parking patch like everyone else, then paddle out and fight for the waves. As a boy he'd belonged to a private surf club there, but privacy in current day Orange County—Holt once pointed out to a client visiting from South Africa—has gone the way of the mastodon, the full-service gas station and apartheid.

  The compound itself is built around what Holt calls the Big House—a little joke on himself, a retired Federal crime buster. This house is made primarily of restored adobe over cinderblock and steel I-beam. This expensive combination of materials makes for very good insulation against heat and cold, and of course provides the Big House's old-time California Mission flavor. Holt often points out to guests that it is bulletproof, apropos of little but his desire to raise eyebrows. It is an imposing structure with three stories that seem to just wander on forever once you're inside. Holt designed the remodel himself, which captures the Mission ambience but has contemporary touches such as oversized double-paned windows and twelve-foot ceilings that gather plenty of sunlight. Some of the rooms are furnished with genuine Mission-era appointments, others feature pale gray walls hung with the somewhat sentimental plein-air landscapes of the early twentieth century that Holt admires.

  There is a separate residence for Lane Fargo. Fargo's home is actually a portion of the restored orange-packing house that sits between the Big House and the lake. It has the functional tin facing and cavernous interior of the original. Holt has kept great deal of the old packing equipment in tact: the convey and hoppers, the processing tables, the two roll-up doors large enough for a truck to drive through. But Fargo keeps the doors locked and the windows shut on all but the hottest days, giving the old plant an air of rusty malignity. The dogs kill an occasional rat along the decking that runs around the perimeter of the packing house.

  There is one more home for the two other members of Holt's inner-inner circle: Laura and Thurmond Messinger. This is the adobe church that has stood on the grounds since 1853, topped by a wooden cross to tell travelers they would be treated with Christian respect here. Holt gutted the old interior when moved onto Liberty Ridge, in keeping with his desire to provide the Messingers with a convenient place to live, and with his profoundly bitter loss of faith in the church after the shooting of his wife and son. Much remains of the old religious ambience inside. Because, as Holt discovered, a church is always mainly a church no matter what you do to it. This is fine with Laura Messinger, a Catholic, and Thurmond, a lapsed Presbyterian.

  Nearby, in a loose archipelago that borders a rolling central landscape verdant with grass and trees and flowers, stand four spacious cottages where the cadets of Liberty Operations are trained. One building is for classroom sessions. One is for martial-arts work. The third is an indoor pistol range and the four a library stocked with books that are handpicked by Holt and required reading for any cadet hoping to graduate into Libery Operations. These volumes include the Old Testament, The Riverside Shakespeare, The Man-eaters of Kumaon, the Magna Carta, the Constitution of the United States and Holt's own self-published rumination, Conscience and Character. Beyond these are the recreation building, two bungalows for the live-in help, two generous guest flats; and several outbuildings for the vehicles, the helicopter, propane, generators, water supply and storage. The helipad and tennis courts are hidden in a hollow on the other side the main house, as are the swimming pool, whirlpool, rock garden and aviary. Down by the grove are four sizeable cabins for the citrus workers. Beside the lake sit the boathouse, another guest cottage, the kennels for Holt's army of springers, the marina and the drydock. Beside the drydock is a large cinderblock structure, windowless and cheerless as a coffin. Inside is the notorious "Holt Alley," a walk-through small-arms range featuring a city block with 25 bad guy mannequins that can pop out at you from just about anywhere, and 15 innocents who scuttle about their daily lives. No one has ever shot a perfect score in less than three minutes and fifteen seconds.

  On the south end of the lake is the beach, cabanas, and the rifle and pistol range. Next to the rifle benches is a modified sporting clays course where, since the beginning of August, Vann Holt has spent many hours getting ready for quail season.

  As the sun loosens its orange into the western sky, Holt stands here, on the sporting clays range, at the last station. Behind him is the tower, with its mechanical throwers, stacks of targets, platforms and railings. Holt is in a small wooden cage shaped like a portable toilet stall, with the front and back panels cut away but the two side panels up, to make his shots more difficult. He is a large man, thick-l
imbed and suntanned. His straight silver hair is neatly trimmed on the sides and back, but in front it juts outward over his forehead like a youngster's. His face is slender, clean shaven and deeply lined; his mouth is taut but unexpressive; his eyes, though pale gray, are now a kind of translucent blue behind the yellow lenses of his shooting glasses. He is dressed in khakis, chukkas and a blue oxford shirt, and has a shell pouch around his waist. He raises the shotgun to his shoulder and calls "pu//." It is not the sharp pull! of the aggressive shooter, not the interrogative pull? of the hesitant shooter, but an unhurried, relaxed command that somehow sounds like a prefix. Puuull. . . His voice is deep and clear. The clay bird hurls from his blinded left side, streaks in front of him, rising, then disappears in a cracking little cloud of black dust. Holt steps back and reloads, staring down at his gun in the way a tennis player might ponder the strings of his racquet. There is a distinct air about him. Seen from any angle, Vann Holt is a man who emanates assurance, engagement and capability.

  Behind the station, Lane Fargo rests his gun across the crook of one elbow and watches.

  Holt steps forward into the box again and calls for the second bird. It comes from his left again, but flies lower, faster, and more directly away from him. There is a quick pop, a short follow-through of barrel, and the disc jumps ahead, nicked but still flying.

  "The magic pellet," says Lane Fargo. "Pick up your double now, Boss."

  Holt appears not to hear. He steps back, breaks open his Browning over-and-under, puts the spent shell into his pouch, then pushes two thin green .28 gauge loads into his gun and snaps it shut. He enters the station house again, positions his feet and raises the stock to his shoulder. Everything he does seems deliberate, experienced. He calls for the bird in his usual way, puuull. . ., the way that seems to presage an automatic bursting of his target. The first bird whizzes away, untouched, through the report of Holt's gun. Then the second, faster and further out, escapes too, streaking across the clay-blackened range and settling out of sight behind a hillock.

  For a moment Holt stands there, looking out as if he can see them again, each missed bird. He raises the gun again and makes the shots in his imagination. Then he backs out of the station, breaks open his weapon, removes the shells and joins his partner.

  "Well, that's an eighty-four," says Fargo. "Put you in A's almost any club in the world."

  "Behind them again."

  "Yep."

  Lane Fargo goes into the station, knocks down both singles and the double. He's shooting a .12 gauge with a heavy load, and the report of his gun booms across the range. He returns to Holt with a cautious look, but apparently pleased.

  "Ninety," he says.

  "That's good shooting, Lane. You'll slay them tomorrow."

  They case their guns and lay them in the bed of a little pickup truck.

  "You're not picking them up as soon, Boss," says Fargo.

  "The eyes."

  "I'm not happy about that."

  "I'm less."

  "Give you one of my own if I could."

  "Hang on to what's yours, Lane."

  "Stay out ahead of 'em tomorrow, and you'll limit by ten, Vann."

  "Nine-thirty, Lane," says Holt with a warm, genuine, and somewhat impish smile.

  Holt is quiet as they drive back toward the Big House. He has, in his law enforcement years, confronted his own mortality enough to be familiar with it, but this new enemy, which introduced itself during a yearly physical eight months ago, is more unnerving than any creep with a gun. What demoralizes him most is not the fact that the disease is inoperable, nor the slow sapping of his strength, but rather the inexorable diminishment of his eyesight. Fifty-five years of 20/10 vision and now some of the clay birds are just a blur.

  Much to do, he thinks, while there's still daylight inside.

  "Lane, we'll cast off at five tomorrow."

  "I'm ready. You want to me to take care of the guns and dogs?"

  Holt, of course, has taken care of the guns and dogs for the last thirty-five opening days of his life. He shakes his head and tells Fargo he'll handle it. Fargo is the only one he has told about the blood, and he regrets it. Nothing on earth is more irritating to Vann Holt than condescension. Lane Fargo means well and that is what makes it so disgusting.

  "Got those covered, Lane."

  "Yes, sir."

  Later that night, after dinner and a brief discussion with his daughter about which dogs to take in the morning, Holt roams the main house. Still dressed as he was at the range but without the shell pouch, he has a tumbler of scotch and water in his hand rather than the Browning. He has replaced his shooting glasses with heavy bifocals.

  It is late—almost midnight—and he is done with the work of the day. He has talked to the caretaker down at the Lake Riverside Estates place; he has confirmed times and weight loads with his helicopter pilot; he has spent almost an hour on the phone with a close personal friend who is in the middle of a messy divorce. He has talked briefly with Carolyn, his wife.

  Now, unsaddled by obligation, Holt is free to tour the enormous house. He has still not gotten used to its beauty and size its varied atmospheres and internal climates. Lately, he's been particularly drawn to the library, which faces west, is cool ii the mornings, sun-dazzled in the evenings, and oddly hushed am handsome after dark. It is on the third floor of the house and provides an overview of Liberty Ridge and the rest of Orange County to the north.

  He sits on one of the leather library sofas, with a reading lamp over his shoulder and the day's newspapers set out on the coffee table before him. Holt always reads his papers at night because his mornings are hurried. He scans the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post, and of course, the Orange County Journal.

  He sips his scotch. Holt finds it increasingly difficult to read the mainstream American press. He does not believe that what he is reading is actually the pertinent news of the day. He thinks that large news organizations have an agenda to follow, and that they choose which stories to print and which to ignore, accordingly. He thinks that papers were better three decades ago, when the reporters were less righteous and egotistical, less obsessed with biographic, crowd-pleasing dirt. Still, he reads them, and they inform, amuse, and infuriate him. Here, he notes, is the dread Susan Baum again, in the Orange County Journal, bleating on about the "first annual" Gay Pride Festival last weekend in Laguna Beach: "The feeling of empowerment I sensed there was strong. There was a life-affirming scent in the air, as surely as the scent of eucalyptus. I saw the love between a lesbian couple and their two-year old, adopted son. I saw the uncloseted faces of young gay males, stepping into the straight world, without shame, for perhaps the first time. Yes, the American family ha changed, and now includes these divergent lifestyles. To deny this is to deny the truth, but to see it, is to glimpse America's future.

  Holt himself had toured Laguna during the Gay Pride Festival—Liberty Operations was hired by certain individuals to provide security—and thought that the town had been transformed into one big happy gay bar, a sanctioned street-hustle under the PC banner, a mindless cluster-fuck of the naive by the depraved. God knew how many viruses were passed and caught that weekend. Baum failed to mention that. It makes Holt feel sick and angry. He wonders if the moral sickness of the Journal has somehow gotten into his own blood and turned it against him.

  And here, another article of the sort that infuriates Holt, this time about the NRA: "considered by some to be a greater threat to public health than the Tobacco Institute."

  One lie always leads to another, he thinks: Must send Wayne another five grand.

  There is a computer station in the library. In fact, there is a computer station in every room of the house except the bathrooms and kitchen. The computers are linked to practically every other room of every other building on Liberty Ridge, connecting the people on the huge estate like nerves connect parts of the body. There is a computer in the boathouse, a computer in each of the L
iberty Operations buildings, a computer in each of the citrus workers' cottages, in each of the guest flats and even a computer in the entryway to Holt Alley. All are linked.

  Holt signs on, finds his own mailbox and makes the note to send Wayne LaPierre, the NRA President, $5,000 to blow as he sees fit. Holt knows that Wayne takes extreme positions at times, but believes they are the only things that will work in times of extremity. In times, for instance, when the Attorney General has publicly admitted she wished the citizenry of her country was completely disarmed.

  He signs off, sighs, refills his glass from a crystal decanter on the table before him, then walks out to the observation deck off of the library's west windows. From here he can see the Pacific, his perfect orange groves, Liberty Lake, a slice of 1-5, then to the north the lighted sprawl of the suburbs—Mission Viejo into Lake Forest into Irvine into Tustin into Santa Ana and stretching beyond, like a huge and sparkling welcome mat, all the way to the door of Los Angeles itself. The breeze-cleansed October night is clear. Holt stands at the railing and trains the telescope west at the ocean. He can see a bait boat squidding under halogen lamps miles off the coast. He trains the telescope north, toward central Orange County, home—he thinks—to whores and junkies, home to thieves and liars, child molesters, rapists, killers. Home to LaRaza and Aztlan and other aberrations of the mind. Home to l kind of gun-toting racists who shot down Patrick and Carol simply because of the color of their skin. Home to the Orange County Journal, which claims that the American future is two dykes and their adopted boy.