The Triggerman Dance

"It's unbelievable. The Ops is international, you know. We just inked a deal with the Ugandan Development Ministry. What they're developing is a SWAT team to kick tribal butt fast and hard. It's a three-million dollar deal over time. But the foreign stuff is just kind of glamorous. The high-tech industrial accounts we have in Irvine alone account for a million a year. That's not including personal security and investigations."

"He told me that the Ops does vengeance. For money."

Valerie shrugged. John could feel her fingers tighten against his own. "That's not really true. Dad exaggerates."

"He sounded serious."

"There were a couple of creeps let go on legal technicalities. Real flagrant miscarriages. One was a stalker with a former for forcible rape. The other one a thug hired by an ex-hubby. They walked before trial. Both of their victims had contracts with us. Well, the pay-per-mug just plain disappeared. The stalker got squashed in a hit-and-run. I won't say anything more about them because that's all I know. I've heard a few things spoken, but nothing really said, if you get the drift."

They round the western shore. With the Big House and all its subordinate buildings now invisible behind the island, John feels the expansive privacy of a world of nature without men.

"Goodness, it's nice out here," says Valerie. "So, dad sees me as the front-woman for Liberty Ops, and Lane wants to head up day-to-day stuff. I'm not sure if Dad wants Lane in that position. I know he's trying to vett Sexton's worth. Adam's great with people but he doesn't know much about the day-to-day things. Does he want to put you to work, too?"

"I sense that. I, uh . . . participated last night. Tangentially. He gave me a little task for today."

"What?"

"Contact Susan Baum of the Journal and set up a meeting with her."

John feels Valerie's hand go stiff now, and the sudden tension in her arm. For a long while she says nothing, but John still feels the strong energy inside her.

"What?" he finally asks.

"I hate that self-righteous cunt. Dad does, too. She crucified Pat for no reason, then went after Dad. Dragged up a bunch of crap that wasn't true, published it to a million-and-a-half Orange Countians. No apologies when Teresa Descanso finally couldn't positively identify Patrick. Patrick, with the 'innocent certitude of a Mormon zealot.' Baum never even met my brother. Hardly a mention in the Journal when Liberty Ops turned over the real rapist to the cops a year later. Not hot. Not news. I can't imagine one reason on earth why he'd want you to contact her now, except maybe to . . ."

"What?"

"Nothing. I was going to say put a bullet between her eyes, but I'm a little peeved. I wouldn't have really meant it."

"Someone already tried that."

"That skinhead dweeb from Alamo West, according to the FBI and the Journal."

She looks at him, the smooth skin of her face flushed pink and her dark brown eyes aglitter. The tensile strength of her grip recedes and she squeezes his hand gently.

"I know. I have a bad temper sometimes. When it comes to the people I love—or hate."

"Do you think he'd really want her dead?"

Valerie looks up at him again as they walk. "No. Not any more."

"He did, once?"

"Sure. I did, too. It's over now. Pat's gone and the rage abates."

"He said he wants to talk to her."

"That might be hard, given that she's paranoid now. Paralyzed by fear that someone will try her again. By her own profitable, unparalyzed confession, that is."

"I think that's where I'd come in."

Valerie looks at him, then out at the water, then to the little stand of toyon trees ahead of them. "Here," she says, pulling him along. "Here's where we should eat."

They find a clearing. They each hold two corners of a soft white acrylic blanket and set it on the ground amidst the toyon trees. A little cluster of the red berries falls to the blanket, tiny red apples in ultraminiature.

Valerie reaches into the basket and pulls out a gas lantern.

"For later," she says, setting it aside.

Out come two perfect oranges, a bottle of Zinfandel, a loaf of bread wrapped in foil, a triangle of cheese and a large plastic bag filled with chunks of white meat.

"No wonder that thing was so heavy," says John.

His first long sip of the wine is a communion with Rebecca that ends in a shudder as he pictures her image from the night before. To you. His second drink is to the woman beside him.

"Cold?"

"No."

"You shivered."

"The wine."

"That makes no sense."

She moves close to him, one arm against his. "Eat your lunch."

He pulls out a fine-ribbed segment and tries it. It tastes of garlic, mesquite smoke and faintly of flesh. He has never had a firmer, subtler meat. "Catfish from the lake?"

"Not fish at all."

He examines the piece in his fingers, the thick spine and close ribs curved in unison. In his mouth it has the feel of abalone. "Oh. Now that's funny."

She giggles. "Going to be sick?"

"No. It's good."

"Freshness counts."

"You retrieve it after our walk?"