The Triggerman Dance

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."

chapter 29

Holt, ensconced within the Plexiglas cockpit of the Hughes 500, watched John Menden trot a radius through the helipad circle and climb aboard the craft. A moment later Holt felt the stomach-dropping thrust generated by the powerful engine. He loved it. He stayed low over the hills until he neared the freeway, then hoisted the craft up into an October night of breeze-polished stars.

"Need some milk?" his passenger asked.

Holt was in no mood for laconic humor, John's or anyone else's. He looked over at him, then back to the red ribbon of 1-5 taillights winding out below. He banked the chopper hard to the left, very hard, which pushed his shoulders against the seat back, then corrected hard right and down, gunning the throttle almost all the way, which made his head feel like it could float off his neck. The helicopter dove like a hawk. What strong joy it was to fly a chopper when he was high on Scotch. But not too high. He'd had three doubles with plenty of ice, and a big dinner. Just right for a visit to the birthplace of it all, he thought. He looked at John, thought again of his son, then turned away.

"Little Saigon, Mr. Holt?"

"We're making a stop first."

Holt flew the chopper north, over Santa Ana, then descended in a controlled dive so steep that John, to his right, braced one hand on the instrument panel and the other against his window. Holt felt as if his heart had shot through the bottom of the craft to plummet down on its own. Using a triangulation of his usual landmarks—Charles Keating's defunct Lincoln Savings Bank on 17th Street, the darkened campus of Santa Ana Junior College, and a water tower that declared this as the "All American City"—Holt easily spotted the bright yellow logo of the fast food restaurant. Even so, the picture was a little blurred, not what it would have been only a year ago. He refused to think about his eyes. Instead, he thought about the rage he was beginning to feel, and the wonderful clarity he would feel after the rage passed. Yes, he thought, if I can make it through the Red Zone then things will become clear. He eased his fabulous rate of descent and spiraled gently down toward the building. The deceleration brought his heart back on board, returning it to his chest.

"Your gut still with you?" he asked.

"Somewhere in there."

"This is it."

Holt looked inquiringly into John's face. The young man had his usual placid expression, but the pupils of his eyes were big. Over the days, Holt had decided that John's calm was one of intelligence rather than dullness. And he thinks I'm half crazy, thought Holt, maybe more than that.