Holt looked more like a man after a Caribbean cruise than on who had just logged several thousand air miles for the purpose as he put it to John, of "killing rattlesnakes and putting out fires." He was tanned, trim, expansive. He was sitting with Fargo and Adam Sexton on the porch off the Big House kitchen when John joined them. It was shady under the slat redwood canopy that faced the expanse of lawn and trees. Beyond the lawn John could see the distant haze of the slough and the bright silver plate of the Pacific. The evening breeze was cool and clean and smelled of ocean and sage.
Holt finished a story about Fargo's duel with the Uganda turista, a story told at the expense of Fargo, who looked pale and miserable as he reclined on a chaise lounge in the shade. Fargo glanced back at Holt after the punchline-something about Fargo's bottled water and Holt having eaten everything native he could get his hands on-and cast his boss a doleful look. The look wandered to John, where it turned both bored and hostile. John looked at Adam Sexton, who sipped his drink an shrugged.
"Glad I missed it," he said. "I hate foreign countries. I like right here where I am. Domestic accounts-I'm made for it."
"You wouldn't last a day on the dark continent," said Fargo. Roughly, my point," said Sexton. He favored John with conspiratorial look.
"Also my point that ninety percent of the Liberty Ops profit is generated by me, right here in Southern Cal.
So go get sick on an international scale, Fargo. I'll stay here and make dough."
Holt chuckled. "Don't squabble, kids. Let's all just admit it's a good feeling to carry home several hundred grand for a few days' work." He studied John over his tumbler of Scotch and ice. "Does that kind of money interest you?"
"Depends what I'd do for it, Mr. Holt."
"What's the most you ever made in a week?"
"Fifteen hundred."
"And what did you do for that?"
"Wrote some pieces for the Journal. And did a freelance job for Western Outdoor News."
"Forty hours' worth?"
"Forty-five, I'd guess. Plus the morning of bass fishing for the News article. I wrote off the gas and lures."
Sexton chortled. "That's big money."
Holt shot him a glance. "After taxes that left you what, nine hundred and change?"
"I'd say."
Holt drank from the tumbler, the long slow sip of a man who has all the time in the world. "Here's the thing about money, John. A man needs to work. It's what keeps his feet on the ground. Work opens the soul to the idea of heaven. The harder a man works the stronger he gets. I think some of the best moments of my life have been work. I spent eight years tracking down the men who bombed Odeh. You remember, the Arab activist? Those years flew by. Seemed to last about five minutes. By the time I got close to them, I was just getting warmed up. I could have followed those murderous bastards for decades. Never would have gotten tired."
"Then the Jews let 'em go," said Fargo.
"They were detained by Israeli Mossad, but not charged," corrected Holt. "Been watched ever since."
"Some justice for blowing an Arab to bits."
"No shit," added Sexton.
Holt waved his hand. "Beside the point. Outside my purview. I completed my work. Now, the whole point is this, if you're going to work anyway-because it builds the soul-why not get a lot of money for it? You spend the same hours. Burn the same energy. Stay up the same nights. Sacrifice. So why not go for more return? Simple arithmetic." "Well, the arithmetic is simple, Mr. Holt, but finding work that pays a few hundred grand a week isn't."
Holt shrugged and grinned. "Got to work your way up to that kind of thing. How does two thousand a week sound? That' over a hundred a year."
"It sounds like triple what I'm making now."
"Would that appeal to you?"
"For what I'm doing at the Anza Valley News? Sure."
"No, for something different than what you're doing at the paper. For something more… actual. More tactile. More.. hands on."
"That could be embalming. No thanks."
"Embalming," echoed Fargo from his lounge.
Sexton laughed and crossed his ankles: loafers, no socks.
"Embalming," said Holt. "No. No embalming required."
Fargo sat up. "He's not exactly quick on the uptake, boss. Why not ask him what happened to Snakey?"
Holt twirled the ice and liquid. "See Snakey while we were gone, John?"
"No."
"Not even once?"
"Not once. I didn't know he was here."
"See Val?"
"We spent a lot of time together."
"Oh, good. Doing what?"
"Talking. Eating. Working the dogs. We rowed out to the island and had a picnic."
"Killed at least one snake," said Fargo. "That's what Val said."
"Couple hours ago."
"But you never saw Snakey?"
"No, Mr. Holt. What happened to him?"
"He disappeared."
John nodded, looked down at his Scotch. "Well, maybe he found something that pays a few hundred grand a week."
"Real fuckin' funny," said Fargo.
But Holt and Sexton were both grinning. Holt turned to look back at Fargo, then returned his amused gray eyes to John "Lane isn't-"
"-I heard a couple of gunshots yesterday morning. Maybe John shot him and dumped him in the lake."
With this, Valerie Holt sat down on a lawn chair next to her father. She held a tall glass half full of something clear that edged toward the lip of the glass before she righted it. The most graceful klutz I've seen, John thought.
Fargo, about to speak, let his mouth hang open and stared at John.
Valerie swung around to look at Fargo, her honey blond hair lifting out, then bouncing against the skin of her back. "A joke, Lane. Tee-hee. You look cadaverous. Hi, Sexy."
"Hello, your highness," said Sexton.
"What time were the shots, Val?" Fargo asked.
"I just told you it was a joke, Lane. That means I didn't hear any shots. I didn't see Snakey either, thank Goodness. Dad, give Lane a raise and see if it improves his sense of humor. Or make him work for Adam a few weeks."
"You're spicy this evening, daughter."
"Sugar and spice, Daddy-o."
"Mainly spice. Tabasco, maybe."
"Hello, John," she said, turning to face him. She was scrubbed clean as a new coin, her skin aglow, hair shining, trailing a scent that was dark and unambiguous and slid into John's head like an opiate. She was wearing jeans and a green silk blouse.
"Hello, Valerie," he said.
"What am I interrupting?"
"We're talking about the pleasures of money."
"Dad, you're not showing off again, are you?"
"Just running a little test."
"Of what?"
"John's monetary IQ."
"Well into triple digits, I'd bet."
"I was seeing if a hundred thousand a year might tempt him."
"Into what, Pops?"
"Same thing he asked."
She looked at John and smiled. "Watch out. He'll have you signed on for some boring security work before you know it. I can't see you wearing a black shirt with Liberty Operations written over the pocket, Mr. Menden."
Holt sat back with a contained smile, and a glance for John, then his daughter. "We'll resume that conversation after we visit Little Saigon tonight. After you see what we can do. Ah-m y bride has arrived!"
Through the opened sliding door rolled Carolyn, in he wheelchair, guided by Joni, the night nurse. She was dressed in her baby blue flannel blouse with a high Victorian neck, her legs covered by a blue cotton blanket. Her face and hair were done carefully. They vibrated as her chair wheels passed over the flagstone of the patio. Then her face offered up a big smile when she saw her husband, who was standing now and moving toward her a Joni withdrew to the house.
John watched them embrace. Carolyn's arms were out stretched, wrapping around Holt's neck. Holt leaned down am gathered her close. They kissed each other on the cheeks several times, then once on the lips. They looked to him like mother and son. When Carolyn sat back she arranged her hair with both hands, still smiling at her husband.
"You look wonderful tonight, honey," he said.
"I feel like a million dollars. Oh, Janice!"
"Momma!" Valerie swept over and kissed her mother. "Two million at least, Mom. I love that new blouse."
Fargo had lined up behind Valerie, his posture and expression purely obligatory. With his back to Holt, he stared frankly at Valerie's butt as she bent over her mother, then looked at John When it was his turn he offered his hand and told Carolyn she lived in a family of skinflints, hiking up her looks to a cool billion.
"She's not being auctioned," said Valerie.
"I call them as I see them," said Fargo.
"Smack your way into the family," said Sexton.
"Patrick! My Patrick!"
Carolyn grabbed her wheels and thrust the chair forward nearly spilling off the first level of the patio before John caught one tire with his foot. He smiled down uneasily, then glanced a Holt. Holt nodded.
"Hello, Carolyn."
"I got your letter."
"That's good." He looked at Holt again, who held his stare then at Valerie, who looked away.
"Did you win last week?"
"No game, actually. Had the week off."
"It seems like ages since I've seen you. How long has it been, Pat?"
Sexton's jaw dropped.
John looked over to Holt, who interceded.
"You saw him last week, Honey."
"We went shopping, didn't we?"
"That was it," said Holt, a sudden exhaustion behind his voice. "Val, arrange your mum here. I'm going to make a fresh round of drinks. John, come with me."
Carolyn smiled at John as he walked past her. "He's calling you John, now?"
"Everybody is, Carolyn."
"Kiss your Mumsey?"
He leaned over and kissed her smartly on the cheek.
Holt took his arm as they headed inside to the bar. Holt motioned Joni to join the party on the patio. When she had gone, Holt said, "I'm sorry about this, but play along. By dinnertime she'll think you're Robert Goulet or Sandy Koufax, or a kid named Deke. It doesn't fucking matter what you do."
But after the dinner was over, Carolyn was still calling him Patrick, still bringing up an assortment of memories that, John gathered, were not altogether fabricated. She and Pat at the beach. She and Pat working on multiplication. She and Pat driving to Tijuana one day to see a bullfight, from which young Patrick had stormed out, sickened. He nodded along, a hollow smile plastered to his face, his own memories zig-zagging back and forth from Rebecca to Snakey to Valerie to Joshua Weinstein. With each sip of Scotch the fragments seemed to weld closer together, threatening to become one solid, unpassable gallstone of memory. He looked at Holt and Fargo, smile locked in place, wishing he could just stand up now, beat each to a bloody pulp and call in the cavalry. I didn't hire on to become a crazy lady's dead son, he thought. Poor girl.
"Excuse me," he said, then got up and went into the kitchen. He found a tall glass, pulled out the third drawer right of the fridge with his toe and peered down into it as he held the glass under the ice dispenser. On top of the neatly folded kitchen towels was a video cassette in a plastic case. He glanced outside. Only Valerie was looking in his direction, all other attention was drawn to Carolyn. With the glass still pressed to the noisy dispenser, John bent down, whisked the cassette into the pocket of his coat and stood again, nudging shut the drawer. Valerie h turned away. He filled the glass with water and carried it back outside.
After the dessert was served, Carolyn motioned Joni over, then whispered in her ear. Joni looked at her askance, but obeyed Carolyn's dismissing wave. The nurse went upstairs and returned with a cane.
The conversation ended and a silence crept over the dim table.
"I feel just great tonight," Carolyn announced. "Seeing Patrick makes me feel young again."
"Don't get carried away, hon," said Holt.
"A few small steps for womankind," said Carolyn.
"May I help?" he asked, pushing back his chair.
"You may stay right where you are. I'll walk these four steps to Patrick on my own. Patrick, rise."
"Mrs. Holt," said Fargo, "you haven't walked in months. Remember last time?"
"Put a lid on it, Lane," snapped Valerie.
Carolyn smiled. "Patrick, rise."
John stood.
Holt cast a warning glance at Joni, who nodded and moved up close to the wheelchair. The nurse removed the blanket from Carolyn's lap, locked each tire in place, then knelt down and Carolyn's apparently lifeless shoes on the pavers. Care scrunched forward on the seat, then set the four rubber-tip legs of the quad cane down on the patio in front of her. She cleared her throat. Valerie quietly moved behind her.
"Well, I'd say the old feet feel good, but they don't feel at all."
"Get your balance first, Mom."
"I've got that, Val. Ready… now… okay… forward ho."
Carolyn Holt's face went red. Her hands-on the cane handle -went white. Her entire body shivered and her dark eyes focused somewhere in space before her. She lifted up, perhaps inch, then settled back to her seat again with a sigh. She smiled to herself. She was breathing quickly.
"Nice try, Mom. Damn nice try."
"Whew! What was it that McMurphy said in Cuckoo's Nest? Warming up? Just warming up? Well, that's me."
Then she gathered herself to the end of the seat again and her eyes locked into space in front of her and her cheeks exploded with color and her hands whitened against the cane handle again and a hissing exhale escaped her mouth as her body lifted from the seat, then lifted more, and she froze there, bent forward like a swimmer prepared to start, all her weight resting on the four small cane feet that now wobbled greatly upon the patio. Her legs quaked. Her arms trembled. And slowly she unfurled herself, like the stem of a new flower. Her legs swayed, then steadied; her torso swayed, then steadied; her head swayed, then steadied as she lifted the ferocious concentration of her gaze from some private point in space to the speechless face of John Menden.
He was surprised how tall she was. And even with the sedentary months in bed weighing her down, he saw that her frame was once both strong and fine. Composed now, Carolyn looked at him and shook back her hair, as a model might before a stroll down the runway. She exhaled.
Her right foot moved up, forward, then down. An inch maybe, John thought. One whole inch.
Then her left.
Her eyes widened, never leaving John. And in spite of the intensity of her gaze and the rigid determination of her face, the corners of her mouth quivered upward-just slightly-in the most tenuous and fragile of grins.
John was moved by her courage even more than by her damage. Each confronted him from the single spirit of Carolyn Holt, the battling twins of her being. Each was so clear and strong, so contradictory and unmistakable. The courage fought the damage; the damage fought the courage. He had never seen these essential polarities of the living locked in such close contest. With his heart he willed her forward. With his feet he took two steps toward her, matching her own.
Then Carolyn focused her willpower again.
Foot up, out and down. Another inch.
Foot up, out and down. Another.
Four steps.
She smiled at him before collapsing, like a telescope, into herself. Valerie and Joni caught and straightened her, then eased her back into the chair. Through the sweat running down her face and her rapid breathing, her dark eyes still bore into John's.
The applause rang clear and dry against the night. Valerie leaned over and hugged her. Joni hugged her, too. Fargo shook her hand, taking it off her lap himself because Carolyn was toe dazed to understand why he was standing there. Then John took the hand, just released by Fargo and still airbound, and kissed the back of it. Carolyn's eyes relaxed as she studied him.
"Welcome home, son."
The only thing he could think of to say was, "Nice to be here."
He glanced at Valerie, who beheld him with an expression he could not decipher.
When John finally turned to Vann Holt, all he saw was an empty chair.
A moment later he heard the loud roar of an engine starting down on the helipad, then the accelerating swoosh of blades moving through air.
Holt appeared, apparition-like in the near darkness of the driveway, waving John toward him. Then he vanished back toward the blurred propellor of the chopper.
"Go," said Valerie. "He wants you."
"Hey, John-Boy," said Fargo, his eyes glittering deep within the twin caves of his dark sockets. "I found Snakey's tape recorder in his room. It's a little log of what he was doing before he disappeared."
John looked from the chopper to Valerie, then Fargo. "Then maybe that's where you ought to be looking."
"Right, John-Boy. Good luck with Holt. Shoot straight. Be impressive."
"Hey John," said Sexton. "I'll give you a call tomorrow. We should talk."