T. Parker - The Triggerman Dance

"That doesn't really worry me, Joshua. What worries me is John. How is he going to take this? He's packed and ready to come out. He's weak and he's vulnerable."

Joshua shook his head. "Fuck him. He's got the training and the ability to find what we sent him in to find."

"He just killed a man to get something to us, and it wasn't enough, Josh.

"He looked at Sharon Dumars for a long moment. He could feel the first rush of outrage and adrenaline leaving him, and approaching in its wake the grand fatigue of doubt and waiting.

"Six days," he said again. His voice sounded hollow an ungenuine.

Dumars set a hand over his. When he looked at her, she held his gaze with a look that seemed ready to dissolve, but did no Her dark eyes expressed the strength and tenderness that Joshua had long thought of as the essence of the feminine. How could they feel both at the same time? He wanted to cry.

"The other day you asked me something, and I answered you with a lie," she said.

He waited. He felt stuffed with information now, overloaded with emotion, and he could hardly believe that Dumars was apparently about to add to his burden. He searched his memory for the conversation in question. Something about the documents? The gun they hadn't found yet? The safe that Owl had photographed?

"You asked me to dinner and I said I had plans. I didn't."

That, he thought. Funny what a good job he'd done of forgetting.

"Oh. Well, that's okay."

Sharon blushed then. It surprised Joshua to see this intrusion onto Sharon's tanned, always composed, always prepared face. Her hand tightened and she smiled.

"Josh, you should have seen the look on Crazy's face when you told him to keep those apes out of your case. It was just to die for."

He allowed himself an uncertain grin.

She grinned, too, looked around, then leaned in closer l him. "I have to tell you, watching you go up against those o farts really made me proud. You're just a babe in their wood Josh, but you made a sound. You registered. No matter what happens here, you're the future of this Bureau, not Frazee and not Norton. You kicked a little butt in there, partner, and I loved it."

"What, exactly, did Frazee look like when I said that?"

"Like a nun finding a dildo in a Christmas package. Pardon my graphics."

"I missed it, I was so wound up."

"Well, I'll never forget it."

He smiled back at her now, and felt a massive draining of amperage from his nerves. He took a very deep breath.

"Thanks, Sharon."

He felt her hand tighten on his.

"Joshua, for cryin' out loud, will you just ask me to dinner again tonight? What does a girl have to do?"

"Would you?"

"My place. We'll go through Wayfarer files until we can't hold our eyes open any longer. After that, well, we'll just do whatever we need to."

Joshua's smile continued for just a moment, then his eyes took on a look of great reluctance as he reached down to the telephone pulsing against his waist.

John moves through the Big House like a ghost, past the kitchen and dining room to the stairway where his moccasin boots are all but soundless on the steps. On the second floor he walks purposefully down the hallway to Vann Holt's suite of private rooms and lets himself in. He moves to his right and leans his back against the cool adobe wall. He feels both exposed and invisible. He wonders what arrogance ever led him to believe that he could accomplish this mission, and questions whether Rebecca would understand what he has done. He knows she would not, and he feels tainted, foolish and cursed.

He looks down at his right hand, still flabbergasted that just a few hours ago, it took a human life. He looks at the lines in his palm, then at the tendons on the other side. How could you have done that? he wonders. I am a murderer now. He scrolls through his memory of the Ten Commandments, realizing that, if you count an engaged woman as a married one, he has actually broken every divine order except for the first two. Eight out of ten he thinks: I'm hellbound.

But he has already begun to embrace his new station. He feels a fraternity with the darker side of his race; he knows sin as a participant rather than a spectator. He senses connection with that great body of offenders, past and present, who have live with the mark of Cain burned into their souls. He knows their secret, and they know his. He has done something that sets him apart from goodness and light, something that the good and the light might not even see in him. But his brothers, his fellow dark agents, they see and they know. With the Fallen, at least he can be honest. Maybe he can learn from them. Shared burdens make strength.

The entryway opens into a room that is clearly a man's. Its furnishings are functional, with little attention to style or harmony. The blinds and carpet are gray. There are three heavy cowhide sofas set around a very large Kodiak brown bear rug. There are bookshelves along two walls, and one corner of the room is piled high with African drums, weapons and carvings. Facing the window is a long heavy bench set up with Holt's reloading equipment. John can see the long-handled machines of three distinct reloading stations: handgun, rifle, shotgun.

John steps to the table. A covey of stuffed quail make their way from right to left, around the boxes of shells, following a handsome sentry male who hustles along, his head and topknot forward. There are paper boxes at the shotgun station, clear plastic for the rifle cartridges and yellow plastic for handgun loads. Each is labeled with the cartridge gauge or caliber, the shot size or bullet weight and the powder type and charge. John notes again Vann Holt's graceful, forward-leaning draftsman's writing. The table is orderly. John can see that the bulk components are stored underneath. He bends down and pokes a heavy bag of lead shot, then looks into a powder canister to find, unshockingly, powder.

He takes four exposures of the table, following the quail, right to left.

The bedroom is larger than the reloading room but emptier, too. John stands in the double-doorway and views the neatly made bed with a Pendleton blanket for a cover, the nightstand with lamp, small bookcase and stack of magazines on the near side. His eye follows the sunlight to the tall window. There are no blinds here, but a heavy purple curtain that has been tied open on either side of the glass. The curtain strikes John as a sad dramatic flourish in an otherwise forsaken space. Two worn leather recliners sit at opposing sides of the window, facing outward where a perfect tall rectangle of hills and ocean is framed by the glass.

He kneels, pulls open the top drawer of the nightstand and takes out a loose pile of occasion cards. He sees, for the first time, Valerie's handwriting. It is composed, unadorned and pleasing. There are cards for Father's Day, birthday, Easter and Just Thinking of You. Mixed in with these are cards from Carolyn, whose script is sweet chaos with occasional blurbs of lucidity. Like her mind, John thinks: what does she dream about?

Beneath the cards are four yellow legal pads, all dense wit Holt's writing. Unlike the cryptic notes of his business files, the legal pads show a more expansive and personal Holt:

Still don't know if Valerie can be persuaded to take over Liberty Operations. Either that, or she'll go on to veterinary school and heal animals all her life. I'll be pleased with either decision, but Liberty Operations could use her and she'd make potfuls of money. I don't want to go outside the organization, but choices seem limited. Laura? She'd lose interest over time. Thurmond? Too old. Lane? He's loyal as a pit bull but I don't think he has the kind of character that builds trust. He'd be bitterly disappointed not to have a shot at it, I know. Must make some decisions before the last good nap.