“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 by 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 of 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’s 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?”
“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 and 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 not. 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 to him. “I have to tell you, watching you go up against those old farts really made me proud. You’re just a babe in their woods, 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.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
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 hellhound.
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 lived 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 with 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.
Can disconnected people be free? When the U.S. Government wanted to solve the ‘Indian problem’ in the west, they made tribal language, custom and religion illegal. The idea was to destroy the tribes without killing off all of the individuals. Without the tribal connections the Indians were defenseless. In place of the tribe, the white man offered the concepts of private property, agriculture, Christianity and the importance of individual freedoms. Once the unity of the tribes was ruined, so were the individuals within them.
John flipped back a few pages and read again:
More cops make more nuts and more nuts make more cops. No end to the widening spiral until we find a common enemy. Oklahoma City only the iceberg tip.
If I could only have Patrick back I could look into the dark future and see some light. There he would be, my eyes, my seed, my pride and my love going forward into the days. When Pat died it was like losing two futures—his and mine. What to do? Valerie is all that’s left, but will she want Liberty Ridge as her own, or will she need to separate, follow a husband, and begin her own life somewhere?
Under the legal pads John finds a small stack of medical bills. They are all from M.D. Anderson Clinic in Houston, and none are stamped or cancelled by the Post Office. Carried home personally, John thinks: why? He can’t make much sense of the billings codes or charges, but recognizes the scans: X-Ray, CT, MRI and PET.
Must make some decisions before the last good nap.
He realizes what nobody seems to know, or at least what nobody has bothered to tell him: Holt is dying. Yes, he thinks. Holt brought the bills home himself so Valerie, or Fargo, or whomever, wouldn’t find them in the mail. They don’t know. Josh doesn’t know. Does anyone?
He arranges the billing statements, open, in a loose square, then shoots them with this penlight camera. Then he replaces the bills, the pads and the cards very carefully, in the same order he found them. He checks his watch and looks out the window for a moment.
The bathroom is spare and clean. Hoping for a clue to Holt’s ailment, he opens the medicine cabinet, but finds nothing but over-the-counter remedies, shave gear and ChapStick.
The last room is a kitchen, which appears only partially stocked at best. In the frig is some fruit, milk, soda and a full ice-maker bucket. There is, of course, a container of fresh-squeezed orange juice. There are crackers and a half-used loaf of bread on the counter, beside the toaster. The cabinets contain the usual
condiments and spices, and, much to John’s surprise a box of peanut-butter flavored Cap’n Crunch cereal. He can hardly picture Holt sitting down to a breakfast of this kind. A liquor cabinet has two fifths of Scotch and several bottles of old California wine—Zinfandels, Carignanes, Cabernets.
John stands in the kitchen for a long moment, trying to acquire a sense of the man who, at least on some mornings, begins his day here. He wonders, given Carolyn’s condition, does Holt make love with her?
Ten minutes later he sits at his own dining table in the cottage, watching through the big picture window as Valerie and her dogs come across the meadow toward him. She is dressed in hiking boots and shorts, a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and her red wool cap. The springers twist with patternless logic out in front of her, noses to the ground for birds. She wears a holster and pistol on her hip, slung down low like a gunfighter. He decides that Valerie Anne Holt is one of the oddest women he’s ever met.
John’s heart leaps, then plummets. It aches. It aches to soar. It aches for company other than the dead, their murderers and their memories.
There she is, he thinks, a woman I can deny, mislead and betray.
There she is, a tool I can use.
There she is, a beautiful young woman coming to see me.
The light of her approach brings out only the darkness in his own killer’s soul. He goes out to the shaded cool of the porch to welcome her. He smiles but it feels like a grimace. He watches as Boomer, Bonnie and Belle charge into the meadow and commence an assault upon the springers. Valerie stops to watch, then joins John in the shade. She smiles.
“Dad wants us to have dinner with him tonight.”
“He’s back?”
“Called from the jet. He’ll be here by six.”
“Everything okay?”
“He sounds elated. I suspect Titisi has signed on.”
“That’s good news.”
She turns and looks back at the meadow to the dogs. Her hair is stacked up under the cap and coming loose like it always seems to be. “Whatcha been doin’?”
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