T. Parker - The Triggerman Dance

"All grounds," said Frazee, offering his smile, his clear am guileless eyes, his Gleam, his righteousness. "ATF takes Wayfare off our books, but the dollars stay. We are seen to be Joint Tasking effectively. We use what's left of our Hate Crimes windfall for more achievable goals. We still get our man. Moreover, the nation sees that our fellows in the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms are not the bumbling murderous fools last spotted in Waco, Texas."

"Oh, God," said Joshua, his stomach churning like a washing machine now, his tongue all but frozen by anger.

"Don't 'oh God' me, Mr. Weinstein," snapped Frazee. "You can sit back in your Bureau seat and call ATF anything you warn You can laugh, scorn, micturate or moan. But that won't change the fact that they're looking for redemption. They're not just looking for it-they're frothing after it. I had lunch with the Attorney General yesterday, and I can tell you that she is absolutely resolute on this point-ATF needs another chance. And, hint, hint: Hate Crimes largesse is much in question for next year. So, if we don't have Wayfarer's head on a platter soon, ATF gel their chance. I've got to give them something."

Norton was still standing, his mouth open, a look of incomprehension in his wet, blue eyes. He'd taken a cigarette from his pack but hadn't lit it-federal regulations, of course. For just moment Joshua saw Norton as ridiculous, a Scotch-soaked old triceratops wandering heavily in a world of smokeless bureaucracies, smug, soulless zealots like Walker Frazee and muscle-headed storm troopers like the Bat Boys. He wondered if Norton would start to fossilize, right before his eyes.

"How soon is soon?" managed Weinstein. His own voice sounded like something released from under pressure. He could hardly form words around his jumping larynx. He saw Share Dumars staring at him, which encouraged a fresh jolt of anxiety;

"Six days is the best I could do. Believe me, the Attorney General was this close to shutting us down right there, over lunch-redlining about ten of my operations. She pointed out with unfortunate accuracy that the murder of Rebecca Harris-a heterosexual WASP-does not, in fact, even constitute a hate crime."

"We all know who the target was!" yelled Joshua.

"That doesn't change the outcome," said Frazee.

"And if we don't have the arrest in six days?"

"She cannot guarantee us all six days. Six, maximum."

"If we don't have an arrest in time?''''

"ATF takes over."

"Would you excuse me for just one moment, sir?"

"Of course."

Joshua went into the men's room and vomited. Then he wiped his face with a soaked paper towel, brushed the hair back on his sweating scalp and smashed his foot into the aluminum waste receptacle. He looked down at it: shiny angles now all converging toward the huge pockmark of a center. Round Two, he thought. This fucker will not defeat me.

Back in the conference room, he stood somewhat formally behind his chair, like a party guest waiting to be seated. He buttoned his coat and looked at Walker Frazee, trying to mute the fury from his eyes.

"Sir," he said calmly. "I believe this is the worst decision that can be made at this time. Our informer has performed splendidly, quickly, intelligently. We are on the verge of a clean arrest. I can guarantee you one thing, sir-if ATF storms the walls at Liberty Ridge, Wayfarer will destroy everything that might implicate him in the murder of Rebecca Harris. We will be left with nothing. Nothing. ATF won't even get their ninety-six bodies. It will be an unqualified defeat, and Wayfarer will walk. He'll never offer us another chance again. Ever. You know him, sir. You know I'm right."

It was Frazee's turn to posture. He extricated himself from his chair with meaningful slowness, then walked to the window. He stared out. Then he turned and looked at Joshua. His eyes had that glimmer of conviction in them again."

“I object to your cynicism and irony, Mr. Weinstein. You have been given control. You have had your man inside for nine days. At the most, he will have six more. I can do nothing more for you. And if ATF takes over I'll be happy to see this go. I've never believed in this kind of hugger-mugger, anyway. I believe in bold, broad, decisive action. Take it, or ATF will."

Joshua stared back at Frazee, both drawn to and repelled b the Gleam. It was such a pure, unexamined thing. But when Frazee smiled now, Joshua saw it in a new way. Gone was the boy behind the face, and in his place was the serene sadness o the supplicant. Joshua realized it then: Frazee's onetime friend and ally within the Bureau was now his lamb of atonement. Frazee could not be clean until baptized in the blood of Wayfarer, and blood, Joshua understood, is exactly what Frazee was hoping the Bat Boys would spill for him. For free.

"Sir," said Weinstein. "I guarantee you that we will bring in Wayfarer on a clean arrest. Owl will produce. And I humbly implore you to keep those fucking apes out of my case."

"Go back to California," snapped Frazee.

"We're on our way, Walker!" exclaimed Norton, taking Joshua by the arm and leading him from the room.

They huddled in the far corner of a terminal lounge at Dulles International. Joshua stirred sugar and milk into his third cup of coffee. His ears were still bright red from a bitter confrontation with the airline desk, from which Joshua finally emerged victorious with two tickets for an earlier flight, no extra charge. He had only saved three hours time, but something in his gut told him he would need them.

"Can we shift Owl into overdrive?" asked Norton.

"He's been working as fast as he can," said Joshua. "Now we'll work him even faster. The Bat Boys will not crash my party; Norton."

Norton nodded without spirit. "Frazee is just a blade of grass in a Storm."

"He's a waste of skin."

"It isn't his fault."

"Norton," said Joshua, "that is completely beside the point."

Josh looked at his boss. There was no way he could tell him of Snakey now-it would be certain suicide. Norton would simply enjoy the protection of innocence until someone on Joshua team leaked the news. Someone would, he knew, but he prayed it wouldn't happen in the next six days. Six days-maybe less.

Knowing Frazee, maybe a whole lot less. If and when Frazee got wind of Snakey, the whole investigation would be completely and forever over. So, he knew, would his career with the FBI. This concept sat inside him without valence, neither positive nor negative, just a stable actuality he had never considered before. With regard to his future, he thought: small business. I've always liked dry cleaning, the way things go in dirty and come out clean.

He turned his thoughts to Liberty Ridge. What a botch, he thought, what a mess. But still, Owl was in there, right where they needed him, and the pearl of great price was in there too, waiting to be discovered. The cellular phone waited on his belt, a silent oracle. The relays and patches and satellites could put Owl through to him almost anywhere in the Western Hemisphere, but there it sat, black and mute on his hip. Ring, bastard, he thought.

"How come you missed the morning flight yesterday?" asked Norton.

"I told you, the Bureau car broke down. It took Tech Services over an hour to get the damn thing to a garage. Too late for the flight, by then."

Norton looked at him with unsatisfied eyes.

"Fuel line," said Joshua.

He felt Norton's big hand brush his shoulder as his boss stood, then plodded through the empty bar toward the exit.

Josh waited until Norton was out of sight before he spoke. "Sharon, I feel betrayed. Six days."

"Better than two."

Josh thought, then gulped down half his coffee. "The sketch of the Journal and the photo of Baum's house should be enough. They were in Wayfarer's possession. It is evidence of planning a murder. Why can't Frazee cut us loose with it, at least let a judge decide? We're after a search warrant for God's sake, not the gas chamber. Who in hell made that sketch, took those notes, if it wasn't Wayfarer?"