John awoke at eight on Liberty Ridge. He had just showered, shaved and dressed in yesterday's clothes when he heard a knock. Looking down from the loft he saw Valerie through the glass inset of the door. When he called out the door opened and the dogs, damp and spiky from the lake, burst in ahead of her. She followed and looked toward the kitchen inquisitively. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had on a white sleeveless blouse tucked into a pair of khaki shorts, white socks folded to the tops of the heavy suede hiking boots favored by so many young women that year. Her skin was brown, but not overly so, a natural shade produced by activity out of doors rather than hours basting on a beach.
"There's coffee on," he said.
She looked up and he noted the deep brown of her eyes and the arched, interrogatory brows. "Good morning," she said.
"Good morning."
"Beautiful morning, in fact. Fall's my favorite time of year.' She looked away, glancing at one of the ubiquitous Liberty Ridge computers, which in this case was stationed on one corner of the dining room table. "What's yours?"
"Spring."
"The labs sure like the water."
"They don't get much, out in Anza."
"Hey, I got to thinking we should go get you some clothes.'
"Not a bad idea. Yesterday's wardrobe feels a skosh used."
"We can take my Jeep. It's a good day to have the top off."
They stopped at the Big House so John could call his boss at the paper. Valerie led him down the cool, vast foyer, which was framed in massive rough-cut timbers that looked a century old but were in fact older. The walls were hung with Indian blankets and baskets, each lovingly specified by a recessed light. A series of wrought-iron candelabra hung down from the cavernous ceiling on thick black chains. John looked into the huge living room as he walked by, noting the quiet fire in the tremendous fireplace. It looked almost distant. Then the kitchen, which was roughly the size of the house he'd grown up in. There was no sign of Holt and his guests, nor the Liberty Ridge staff, nor any of the dozen Liberty Ops insiders with whom Joshua Weinstein had made John familiar. He committed what he saw to memory. Valerie poked a few preliminary digits on the phone, saying that the system was a bit complicated here-"basic security." The phone was a cordless with an automatic channel search. The numbers to call out-this day's, at least-were 3-9-9.
John started to explain what had happened, but Bruno-his garrulous and unlikely publisher-was full of questions: Did John shoot three or four of them; how many trailers did they burn out at the High Desert Rod and Gun Club; did the rape actually occur inside Olie's or in the lot itself; and since when did John travel with a pack of attack dogs? The publisher told him that the entire city-all 2,450 citizens of Anza Valley-was talking about the incident, and that some people feared the bikers might return for some kind of retribution. Riverside County Sheriffs wanted to talk to him. And of course, a first-person account in the Anza Valley News would draw advertisers, "fly off the stands," and was due before four p.m. the next day. A special section was a possibility for the week after. Did anyone take pictures?
John said he'd be in at the regular time tomorrow, pressed "off," and listened for any sound of a recording being made. He heard none, then put the phone back in its cradle.
"So, will there be a hero's welcome for you back in Anza Valley?"
"A ticker-tape parade, major media, key to the city."
"You deserve it."
"Sheriffs, too."
"That bother you?"
"Better than bikers."
They drove up the freeway to South Coast Plaza, a mall nationally known for its size, crowds and variety of stores. The Jeep-; bright red Wrangler-bounced along on its parsimonious shocks the roll cage rattling happily, the warm October air blasting through the cockpit. There was no real point in talking. Valerie drove the Jeep fast but with concentration-hands at ten and two, her eyes often on the mirrors, the radio turned up high enough that its static almost matched the roar of the road.
John sat back and watched Orange County go by. Nothing much had changed in the last six months along the freeway here. It was coveted real estate that had been built up decades ago. The new airport gleamed off to his left while a silver 737 wavered toward the landing strip. Traffic was bad, especially around the mall parking lot, but it was always bad. Almost any time of day any season of the year, this retail metropolis would be crammed with people buying and eating things. The place had seemed to give rise to an entire class of people-the shopping class-though John realized that the mall didn't create them, but simply gave them a place to gather.
He looked over at Valerie several times, indulging the simple pie-minded pleasure of admiring her. She looked back at him once, then, smiling, returned her gaze to the road.
By the time they parked, her hair was a bird's nest of tangle that she attempted to organize in the mirror, then matter-of factly gave up on.
"Let's go consume," she said. "Be good little wheels in the capitalist machine."
"I'll bet your dad cringes when you talk like that."
"He loathes consumer society. I think he'd bomb this place if he had a chance."
"No offense meant."
"None taken. I'm going to buy you something for what you did yesterday."
"I can't live off my reputation forever," he said. "How about I buy my own clothes?"
"Fine. Then I'll accessorize you."
"No, really-"
"-Put a lid on it, Mr. Menden. You saved me from a rape and maybe more, and it cost you a dog and a home. So I can buy you some stuff if I want to. End of argument, White Knight."
She bought him three pairs of pants, three shirts and three pairs of shoes at a store billing itself as an "outfitter." He gravitated to the sale items but Valerie seemed unfazed by price. At a department store he stocked up on socks and underwear while Valerie wandered off, only to return bearing a light jacket, a sweater and three neckties. She insisted on a cream linen summer-weight suit, with a shirt that matched and a shirt that complemented it, countering his protests with threats to buy more. At a drug emporium he got toiletries and some personal things. At a pet store so overpriced he could hardly believe it, John got a forty-pound bag of food for his batallion.
They stopped for lunch in Laguna Beach. The cafe was little more than a few plastic tables and chairs strung along a cliff-top overlooking the ocean. They sat at the far end. The breeze was stiff from the water, crumbling the little waves onto the beach and trying to blow away their menus. Valerie's lifted off but she caught it mid-air.
"Nice grab."
"The Softball years."
While Valerie ordered, John took the opportunity to study her. He knew from Joshua that she was twenty-two. He guessed her height at five feet eight, but was never any good at women's weights because they always seemed to weigh less than he thought they would. Average, he decided, maybe average plus a few, because Valerie Holt had a full but shapely body that seemed somehow to have retained just a hint of girlish fat. This gave her limbs a taut smoothness, as opposed to the weight-room definition of movie stars and models. Her wrists were slender, her fingers long and beautifully shaped, though the nails were cut short for her hunting and field work with the dogs. Her face was full, with a smattering of freckles on each cheek. Other than the freckles her complexion was flawless and had that kind of moist glow that speaks of health, youth, a body working well. Her mouth was wide and her lips quite pink without lipstick, and when she smiled her teeth were large and even, the kind of teeth no orthodontist could improve. Her nose was small. Her eyes were a dark chocolate brown in the strident October light. To John, her most delicate features were her brows, which arched finely to an inquisitive peak then angled down to frame her calm, steady eyes.
This arch made her look almost uncertain at times, skeptical perhaps, giving her face an expression of intelligence and doubt. Her forehead was high and round, suggesting a youth belied by her twenty-two years. It was the kind of head, John mused, that would still look good when Valerie Holt was eighty years old Her hair at this point was still pulled away from her face in a wind-blown tail of gold and light copper. Valerie was by any standards a beautiful young woman, a woman still growing and still unfinished.
She can be a useful tool, an unwitting voice, a conduit. You can know her only to use her.
"Well," she asked, glancing up from the breeze-bent menu "Did I pass my physical?"
"Sorry. Yes."
"You're forgiven. You are a writer, after all."
"Always studying."
"Like what you see?"
He looked down at his own menu, shrugging. "The chicken sandwich sounds good."
She laughed. "You big oaf. That's what you are-a big sweet oaf. An accidental hero. A mystery man with a quick gun and long coat and a shy streak. What am I?"
He looked at her, summoning distance. "A beautiful young woman with a whole life in front of her."
"Not just a girl with a brain the size of a table grape and way more money than she needs?"
"Naw."
"Good, because you'll be sitting next to me tonight at the grad dinner. It's going to be quite the affair, and you have to b there because you are a guest of honor."
"Grad dinner?"
"Dad gives a bash for his new Holt Men every six month when they finish training."
"He calls them Holt Men?"
"That's what they are," she said cheerfully. "They're just glorified security guards, even though Dad educates the hell out of them. But you're the guest everyone's dying to meet."
"Hmmm."
"Hmmm nothing. It's a perfect time to wear your new suit.'
"Okay, mom."
Valerie smiled then, a wide-mouthed, honest, forthright smile. It was just a little more open on one side, which revealed some back teeth and gave it a shade of mischief. She looked down at her menu again, with an odd expression of satisfaction on her face. The wind blew a strand of golden brown hair over her round girlish forehead and she caught it without looking up then fingered it back behind her ear.
John felt an odd shifting inside, and a very slight, very clear ringing in his ears.
He spent the rest of the afternoon writing his account of the incident at Olie's Saloon for the Anza Valley News. He used the computer on the dining room table. It ran a brief fifty-five lines. John concentrated on dispelling rumors: the woman was not raped or even hurt; his trailer was the only one burned out; he had in fact shot only once, giving the woman's assailant a minor flesh wound that made her escape possible. He refused to give any names because they had asked him not to. He hoped the whole incident would be forgotten soon and that the citizens of Anza Valley would not worry about a vengeful motorcycle gang overrunning their town. He asked anyone with information about the bikers to call the Sheriff's substation in Indio. He also admitted that the single worst thing about the whole affair was the loss of Rusty-the day's true hero. That evening he walked along the lake with his dogs. He stopped to look at the marina and boathouse, the lovely Hatteras, Carolyn, docked there, the little covey of Boston Whalers tarped against the sun. He could see the beach on the island in the center of the lake and the dark oaks and conifers beyond. On the far shore he made out a row of small cabanas and scaffolding of what looked like a sporting clays tower. He thought back twenty-odd years to the summer days he and his friends would sneak past the "No Trespassing" signs, hike to the lake and spend the day swimming, fishing, hiking and looking for animals. They had outlegged the sheriffs more than once. He had even spent the night in the cave on the island, for which he was thoroughly thrashed by his father upon returning home late the next afternoon. John was struck that the place was more beautiful now than then-the foliage thicker and the trees more mature and the water level of the lake higher-no doubt due to Vann Holt's attentions. A flock of mallards veed out across the blue water in no hurry whatsoever, a chevron of ripples widening behind them He wished Rebecca could have seen this. He thought about the dream he'd had early that morning, the way she had seemed so present and actual. And tonight, he thought, I'll be having dinner with the man who blew her heart out of her chest.
The foyer of the big house is as brightly lit as a movie set when John walks in, led by a ravishingly beautiful brunette who ha introduced herself as Laura Messinger. John has already recognized her. She takes him by the arm, saying she always wanted to touch a hero. She leads him into the expansive kitchen, at the far end of which is a bar. A waiter approaches and she dismisses him. She asks John his pleasure and gives the bow-tied barman the order. He can smell venison and elk on the stove-top grill, and wild, cilantro-based aroma coming from four huge saucepans.
"Are you a friend of Mr. Holt?" he asks.
"His attorney and techno-weenie, actually. A friend, toe Cheers."
She hands him the scotch-and-soda and raises her own cocktail glass very sightly, not touching his, then brings it to her thick bright red lips. Her eyes are an astonishing blue that John decide can only be realized by colored lenses. Her breasts are large and tastefully displayed. She could be thirty, but John knows from Weinstein that she is forty-two.
Laura and husband Thurmond are the high-end foreign team for Liberty Operations. You need a hundred capable men to settle unrest on the diamond coast in Namibia? Talk to Laura. Need some small arms know-how in Sierra Leone? Thurmon can help. He's a lapsed Northrup veep who never got his peace dividend and she was third in her law class at Harvard. They aren't salaried-nobody at the Ops is salaried except for Lane Fargo. Last year their take was a little over four-hundred thousand, counting bonuses.
With her arm again on John's, Laura Messinger leads him into the living room. "Oyez, oyez," she calls in a mellifluous voice, "John Menden. "Heads turn: two dozen of them, men in dinner jackets an women in dresses, tanned healthy faces, mostly middle-aged bi some old and some young, expressions of polite assessment, mild approval, curiosity. The newly minted Holt Men stand out conspicuously, clustered together a little nervously near the fireplace. They are late twenties to late thirties, fit, alert and dressed alike in black slacks and white dinner jackets. They have the bearing of West Point cadets. John regards the guests with his native taciturnity, feeling embarrassed and underdressed. He scans the room quickly for Valerie, resting his glance occasionally on a still-beholding guest. They are clapping.
"Don't embarrass the poor boy too much," says Laura, smiling at John. "We don't want to spoil his appetite."
Then she takes John to the first little group of people, releases his arm and is gone. He can feel the warm spot where her hand was, cooling through the fabric of his linen coat.
"Hey, I've missed your articles in the Journal," says the first man to shake his hand.
John recognizes him from one of Joshua's endless briefings-Adam Sexton-young, ambitious, married into one of the county's largest landholding families and currently Vice President of Domestic Development for Liberty Operations.
"Thanks. Nice to be back in the county. " Sexton brings in the genuine dollars for Liberty Ops. Domestic takes in triple what foreign does, prosaic as the work might sound. Home security. Plant Security. Store security. Personal security. Private Investigations. Sexton married straight into the Orange County movers and shakers, waved a vague Manhattan pedigree in front of them, convinced them he was one up on them. Easy to do to Californians, of course. His timing was perfect. When crime started grabbing the headlines a few years back, everybody was worried. Everybody was scared. Nobody could remember it being this bad. Afraid to leave the mansion. Who do we trust? Who do we hire? The cops can't help us. Who can really blast away on our behalf when the gook home invaders from Little Saigon show up, or the gangbangers from Santa Ana come scaling our gated-community walls? Sexton was ready with his sophistication-and-a-touch-of-streetsmarts routine, New York style. Thanks to him they all prefer to use Holt Men-excuse me, Liberty Men now. It's as much a status symbol to have Liberty Ops patrolling your bay front house in Newport as it is to drive the right car or wear the right clothes. Even more so. You own more than just a home or a private plane-you own a man. A Liberty Man. There was a joke going around last year Question: Why is a Holt Man better than a dildo? Answer: dildo can't show itself to the door. You know you've entered a profitable vernacular when rich women joke about the penis size of your employees. Well, thank Sexton for the entree. span›
"Are you back to stay, John?" Sexton asked.
"No. I've got work down in Anza Valley."
"People down there can actually read?"
"They light their caves with candles."
"Candles. That's rich. Hey, plenty of work here in the county, if you're interested. All kinds of it."
"Thanks. I like my job."
The dining room basks in the burnished candlelight of an immense, circular candelabra. The table seems to stretch into infinity. Waiters come and go, glancing occasionally at Laura Messinger, who directs them with the silent nodding of her head. Vann Holt has stolen in-exactly when, John has no idea-and now presides at the head of the table. He has not acknowledged his guest of honor. John sees that his host looks alert, fit and leonine, with his thick gray hair, stout neck and shoulders and a easy physical grace. Holt is also conspicuously underdressed in black suit with a black polo shirt buttoned to the top. But John senses that Holt is the kind of man who can make everyone else in a room feel pretentiously overstated. Finally, Holt looks his way and stares at him for a moment without expression. Then he lifts his wine glass, nods rather formally, and offers a robust smile. From behind Holt, Lane Fargo stares his way with a look of focused aggression. His widow's peak and mustache are some how absurd above his tight white dinner jacket. He is drinking glass of beer.
Holt seats himself and the others follow. John has a seat of honor on Holt's left. They are just settling in when Holt pushed back his chair and stands, brushing up his coat-sleeve to look a his watch. Then he bellows in a voice that threatens to rattle the crystal, " Valerie Anne Holt-you are holding up my dinner party-again!"
By the unanimous chuckles John understands that this i something of a ritual. Heads turn, and John looks to see Valerie Anne Holt coming up the broad hallway toward the dining room. Her hair is up and she is wearing a black knit dress with a high neck and that holds her snugly under the chin. There are no sleeves on it and her brown arms sway easily as she walks. The dress ends well above her knees. Her shoes are heeled and black and she makes walking in them appear easy and natural. She claps across the tiled floor and enters the room to a chorus of Hello Valerie; Evening, dear; Worth the wait, young lady; Nice of you to join us; etc. Lane Fargo sustains a piercing whistle that continues for a beat after the general welcome has died down.
"Oh, Lane, put a lid on it," she says, which brings another round of laughter from the guests.
Beaming, Valerie walks the length of the table and kisses her father on both cheeks. Then, helped by a new Holt Man who has popped up to assist her, she settles into the chair on her father's right, across from John. She looks around the table, holding each face for a brief moment. Then, smiling and apparently finished, she sits back and turns her full attention to John.
His ears ring again and he feels uncomfortable, as if the entire world is staring at him.
"Nice suit, Mr. Menden," she says. "It goes perfectly with your blush. "For John, dinner goes by in a pleasant haze. He drinks two cocktails and three glasses of wine. The conversation around him is animated and light. Holt regales him with stories of his Boone amp;c Crockett trophies, most notably a "Grand Slam" sheep hunt during which he nearly froze to death somewhere in Tibet. In fact, one of his guides had been buried in an avalanche. But John hears nothing of the braggart in Holt, none of the macho posturing associated with the rich eccentrics who aspire to the Boone amp;c Crockett "Book" and spend scores of thousands of dollars to acquire that status. John had written about these men in the Journal, finding them fascinating, driven almost beyond comprehension, and eerily dispassionate about taking life for sport. Even for a bird hunter such as himself, it was hard to understand their ardor for such grueling, far-flung expeditions. The articles had brought a cascade of protesting letters from his readers, who chose to believe that merely reporting on these people was endorsing them. But Holt's narratives are self-effacing, almost scientifically objective. He does not use the euphemisms of the contemporary "hunter/conservationist" such as "harvest" or "collect." When Vann Holt tells of killing an animals he uses the verb kill, pronouncing it with slightly less volume than the rest of the sentence, in a kind of reverential hush.
Valerie listens to her father, talks with Thurmond Messinge to her right and looks at John from across the table. He can fee her attention on him even when she's looking away, and it worries him that Vann Holt must sense the same thing. But it feels reassuring to know that he is not totally alone here. His eyes ar drawn directly to her. They are not willing to look past, through or around her. In the light of the candles above, she radiates restless, almost ungovernable energy.
You can know her only to use her.
Between his undeniable attention to Valerie, John still note the face of every guest. Beside him is Mary Randell, a talkative woman in her early fifties with a wizened complexion, the high cheekbones of an Iroquois and a long mane of gray-black hair, Mary is happy to tell John about the interesting characters sitting around the table, spicing her resume of each with at least on tidbit of the personal. "And next to Laura is Mike O'Keefe, brilliant motivator but a terrible doubles partner. He can't handle pace to his backhand. And Adam Sexton? He brings in piles of money to the company. Cocky kid-the only one around who doesn't worship Vann like a god." She is the wife of Rich, whom John knows is part of the Liberty Ops team trying to draw the business of Juma Titisi.
The Ugandan himself sits at the far end of the table, opposite Holt, expansive in his tux and Oxford English. John collects every nugget of information with some effort, because although his mind is keen and capacious, he's not sure what might be important to Joshua and what might be redundant. He doesn't want to miss a thing. He was told to gather so that Joshua could edit; horde so Josh could winnow. John has always been good at collecting facts-a reporter's first task-so before the evening is over he knows the name, face, occupation and at least one person; item about everyone in the room. Laura Messinger, for instance, has two children from a previous marriage, while Thurmom twenty years her senior, has none.
The food is incomparably good. Elk and venison, pheasant and chukar, garden greens, basmati rice with slivered almond frijoles covered with the cilantro sauce, dill-sprinkled rolls, cold asparagus spears with vinaigrette. Holt is unabashedly proud of the dinner, most of which he either grew or shot. He says he killed the elk early last fall while the forage around Jackson Hole was still sweet, and you could taste the berries in the meat. An elk shot deeper into the season would taste of the sparse feed and the stress of winter.
"Do you hunt Anza Valley a lot?" he asks John.
"The last ten seasons, anyway."
"Ever try that meadow out by Copper Saddle, where the old water tank is?"
"There's a nice little covey in there."
"So it's you picking over my quail! Funny we've never run into each other."
"Big desert, Mr. Holt. I usually hunt early, then get out."
"Those labradors take the heat okay?"
"Well, they're not designed for it. They go through five gallons of water on a hot morning."
"Why not hunt springers?"
"Labradors have the kind of character I get along with."
Valerie joined in then, with words of warning. "Dad, don't try to convert a dog man. It's more personal than religion or politics-you taught me that."
Holt smiles, reaches out and touches his daughter's cheek. "What were you doing with that heroic German shepherd yesterday? And don't tell me you taught him how to flush quail."
"Well, someone did, sir. He was on them all spring and summer, so I gave him a try opening day."
"I'll be damned. He looked purebred."
"I'd say."
"Who'd let a thousand-dollar dog just wander off?"
"People aren't always bright."
Holt beholds John and sips his wine. "Poor boy."
To conclude dinner Holt stands and offers a toast to the new Holt Men. It is brief and alludes to the fact that Holt considers Holt Men extensions of himself. He then offers a toast to John Menden, "a good shot and a good man and a good stroke of luck. An honorary Holt Man," he says to polite applause.
"Hey Vann," yells Sexton, "Get him a little orange and black costume to wear!"
Uncertain laughter follows.
After dinner Holt offers John a tour of the Big House. Drinks in hand, they wander the first floor rooms-living, entertainment, den, guest and gun rooms-in which Holt does not seem particularly interested. Then they climb a wide wooden stairway with rough-hewn banisters and leather-capped railings, to the second floor. Here, Holt explains, are the bedroom suites-his wife's, his daughter's, his own and an extra. He hesitates for a moment and John awaits some further elucidation, but Holt merely crosses the tiled landing and continues up the stairs to the third story. Holt shows him the library, a colossal room lined with bookshelves and furnished with very old leather sofas and rawhide chairs. Mission-era trunks serve as tables. Two large French doors open to a balcony and observation deck. Behind a heavy oak door along one wall is Holt's office. He makes them fresh drinks, very strong, from a small bar that swings up from what John thought was a steamer trunk. John looks at the fireplace, a generous cavern overhung by an adobe-and-timber mantle, with nineteenth century wrought iron tools hung from stout dowels protruding from the hearth facade. He notes the smell of leather and fire, cigar smoke and the pages of old books. He thinks that this is the best smelling room he's ever been in.
"I like this room a lot," he says.
"My favorite. Here, let's get an overview."
From the balcony they climb a flight of outdoor stairs to the platform of the observation deck. John can see the northern shore of the lake, the hillsides of Liberty Ridge, the ocean, the chaparral and a distant section of luminous freeway to the east, and the dark carpet of orange trees spreading north toward the heart of the county.
"Try the telescope."
John trains the instrument first on the lake, then on the back of the cottage in which he spent the night, then swings it west to reveal a silver Pacific.
"Do you have strong eyes?" Holt asks.
"I'm lucky that way. Why?"
"Curious. Envious, maybe."
"You've got a lot here to be envious of, Mr. Holt. I've never seen a place like this."
"Have you seen the grounds, the groves?"
"Just from a distance."
"Maybe you'll get a closer look sometime."
"What are all the buildings for?"
"Executives. Staff for the house and grounds. Citrus workers live in the cottages down where the groves start, but you can't see those from here."
"I didn't know you owned Liberty Operations."
Holt nods.
"Are you an investigator, then, a private policeman?"
Holt chuckles. "Of sorts. What I really do is just make people feel safe."
Ever make Rebecca Harris feel safe?
"… I kind of fell into it. Everyone's afraid these days and they pay me to make it go away. I fell into a bucket of money, too. To be truthful, though, there was already plenty of that in the family."
"Well, you've certainly prospered."
"Liberty Ridge is a pearl of great price. Most things in life come with a price."
John nods and lets the heavy telescope rest on its brass fulcrum.
"How can I reward you for what you did?"
"You already have."
"I'd be grateful if you would let me buy you a new trailer."
"Well, trailers aren't real expensive, you know. What I mean is, with a few weeks pay I'd have enough for a down payment, so it's not going to be a-"
"-What did your last one cost?"
"Just twenty-five hundred. It was almost twenty-years old, but they made them better back then. Some of them."
"Consider it done, then, that your next trailer will be a gift from the Holt family. You will choose it and all the options, of course."
"No, really… that doesn't seem right, sir."
"What doesn't seem right? I don't understand you."
John turns to face Holt now, an act of self-confidence and of self-revelation. Holt's eyes, behind the thick glasses, have an unfiltered, unrestrained voraciousness in them. They look insatiable and incapable of pity, simple organs of procurement. John believes that now is the time to-as Joshua put it-bait the hook. You'll sense the moment to show him what you keep inside, John.
You'll sense the time to let him glimpse something in you that he possesses, too. When you do, give him a clear whiff of himself.
"Mr. Holt, I just did what I thought was right. To be honest with you, it gave me a chance to be a little hero, which fulfills a nice daydream I've had since I was a boy. Every man's fantasy, to rescue a king and his princess. I got to have a nice dinner and meet some good people. On a less noble note, it gave me a chance to put the fear of God into a bunch of bastards. Felt good. I've wondered a couple of times how it would have felt to just gut-shoot that turd and let him bleed to death beside my dog. Truth is, I'm afraid it would have felt a little too good. And I didn't want to face the paperwork."
Holt is silent for a long moment. Then he laughs. "My, oh my, what lurks in the heart of Menden. I understand."
"Do you?"
"Of course. What thinking man wouldn't?"
"I can think of quite a few."
"So let me ask you-these thinking men you know-would you call them friends, hunt with them, spend time with them, want to know them and their families?"
"I never have."
"Can you respect a man who has no concept of conviction and follow-through?"
Follow-through, thinks John: one of Josh's pet phrases. Did Josh imagine it coming from his secret hero?
"No. I actually can't. And that's why, Mr. Holt, for you to buy me a trailer or make some big gesture would make me feel small. I think I'll just say thank you, no, and leave here tomorrow. I'll take a sense of having done something decent along with me. It's a good feeling to have. I hope I don't seem ungrateful, either. I mean, Valerie must have spent two grand today, just for clothes."
Holt considers. "I understand that a gift might seem demeaning to your intentions, but we also have to be practical sometimes. Look at it this way, too-if you won't take the trailer, you're denying me a chance to be generous."
"I wouldn't want to do that, Mr. Holt," says John, with just a trace of irony in his voice.
Holt hears it and smiles. "Look. What if you think about it for a few days? During that time, stay here with us. There are a few things you might help me out with."
"Like what?"
"Val could use some help with the dogs. Now that she's out of school it's dogs, dogs, dogs. Headed for vet school next fall, probably out of state. So… well, anyway, she's still field-training her pups."
John sensed that there was something on Holt's mind left unsaid. He waited, but Holt was silent.
"Nice offer, Mr. Holt, but the paycheck calls."
"Lane talked to Bruno today. As of yesterday you didn't have any vacation time coming, but now you've got a paid week. Lane helped him see the value of your complete convalescence."
"You're bluffing now."
"I don't bluff. Bruno wants the story filed by tomorrow afternoon. Then you're free for a vacation. Don't tell me some R amp;c R on Liberty Ridge would pollute your sense of chivalry, young man."
"Well, it's tempting."
"Settled."
Holt extends his hand and John shakes it. His grip is strong, dry and warm. "I was surprised to learn you used to write for the Journal. But when Fargo mentioned it, I remembered your columns. Nice stuff. Very un -Journal."
"Thank you."
"Do you know Susan Baum?"
John feels his heart tighten, then speed up.
"Not well."
"In touch with her?"
"Not really."
"Could you be?"
"I hear she's kind of in hiding, since the shooting."
"That's what I've heard. Guess I would be, too."
When John finally returns to his lakeside cottage it is almost midnight. He can see his dogs on the porch, lying next to a chair in which a figure sits, rocking slowly. His heart shifts a little, and the ringing begins in his ears again. Somehow he can remember the smell of Valerie's perfume, a light, feminine scent that he was not even aware of registering.
"So, what did you say?" asks Fargo. "Going to stick around?"
John's heart tightens again and a cool sweat creeps over his scalp. The dogs knock against his legs. "I said I would."
"No big surprise."
"Thanks for the vacation time."
"That was easy."
John steps onto the porch and Lane Fargo stands. In the darkness they face each other.
"So, Valerie bought you some clothes today."
"I guess that's pretty obvious."
"Pretty obvious. You like a little dig now and then, don't you?"
"Hard to pass up, sometimes."
Fargo nods. "You're hard to figure."
"How so?"
"I really don't know yet-you're a puzzle."
"You might be overcomplicating me."
"But I might not be. There's two kinds of people in my world, John-Boy-people I trust and people I hate. On you, the jury's still out."
"Well, thanks for the status report."
"Sleep tight."
For the next three days John stayed on Liberty Ridge, the rewarded Samaritan, the model guest. He shot pistol and shotgun with Holt and Fargo. He enjoyed Holt's tales of African safaris. He endured Fargo's taunts and brooding stares as he outscored Fargo on the sporting clays course.
The three of them shot Holt Alley three times each, the best score going to Holt-32 proper kills, no innocents and a time of 3:25. John came in last with a 28 in 3:30. Walking away from the building there was a silence during which John knew both Holt and Fargo were wondering how a mediocre pistol shot like him had managed to clip a biker's shoulder without clipping the girl next to him.
"Tough course," he admitted.
John felt naked and exposed, like a hermit crab scuttling between shells. He tried to forget his purpose. During the hours he spent with Valerie in the meadow behind the Big House he almost managed to succeed. There, they drilled her dogs with dummies and live birds and lead lines while John's labradors sat enviously in the shade and watched. Boomer just howled sadly.
John went about the hours as if they were his own and he was an actual man doing actual things. The very forbiddenness of Valerie Holt made him all the more comfortable in her company. He enjoyed her talk, he admired her skills with the dogs. He was surprised by her easy intelligence and her sense of control. He silently noted her beauty and relished the covert glances he could steal. He was thankful for his sunglasses. Only once did she catch him, but she blushed deeply and looked away, catching her boot on a rock. She was so bold at times, he thought, and so timid at others, so graceful, then such a clod. He tried to remember back to being that young.
He recognized in himself the simple excitement of attraction. How long since he had felt that for Rebecca, and even then, how impacted and joyless.
For the rest of the afternoon he thought only of Rebecca and the commitment he had made to her, letting the dark aura of her memory enclose his waiting, cunning heart.