The Triggerman Dance

"And when you came here, John. I wondered, is this the dark one or the light one? Is this the guy who's gonna make my dad disappear. Or the guy who's gonna love me? Then I realized it's one and the same guy—that's what the dream's about—it's about one thing turning out to be the other. And here it is a few weeks since you arrived and you do what the light guy does and Dad's sure enough gonna die. What the hell am I supposed to make of all this, John?"

"Not sure."

"What's your real name?"

"John Menden."

"Just checkin'."

"Hold me."

"I am."

"I should barf."

"Come on, then."

He helped her off the bed and into the bathroom. Through the closed door he heard the toilet flush, then flush again, then flush once more. Water running, splashing, the sound of a soap bar thudding against the sink. Then the door opened and she came out with an air of minor replenishment.

"Okay?"

"Little better. I still got the spins."

"Lie down."

"Think I'd better sit up straight."

She sat in a big armchair that overlooked the railing and faced the window of the living room. She put her feet up on the wooden staves of the railing. John stayed where he was, on the foot of the bed, still holding the now-warm washcloth.

He stared out the window on which their reflections blended with the darkness outside, with the sycamores by the lake shaking in the wind, with the lake surface rippling left to right in the broad path of light where the moon beamed down. Looking at the glass it was hard for him to tell where one thing ended and another began. He tried to see one image at a time, clearly, because he wanted to feel in his heart one thing at a time, clearly. He did not want confusion, complication or compromise. He did not want to believe that for some questions there are no good answers, for some problems no solutions. So he tried to isolate the outline of a tree against the water. But the thin autumn branches became the ripples and the tree was gone—not lost to the water, really, but joined into it. Same with the reflection of Valerie. She became the room behind them projected back from the window, then became the water itself, her shining eyes just another pair of silver flickerings on the lake.

This woman can mean nothing to you because Rebecca meant everything.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked her reflection.

She wrapped her arms around herself. He could see her head swaying very slightly. Her hair fell down around the sides of he face and in the window the white polka dots on her dress became the stars.

"A cure for Dad. A declaration of your undying true love for me. Something for my head."

"I'll get some aspirin. You get in bed."

"One outta three. Not bad. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For what happened to your girl."

She was under the covers when he came back. Her voice was just a whisper now, fading:

"Thank you for taking care of me."

"It's an honor."

"You always say the right. Thing . . ."

"I mean it."

"Scariest thing. Scariest thing tonight was the way Lane looked at me when I said I'd run the Ops."

"Lane wants it for himself."

"Mine, now."

"He's going to fight you for it."

"Can take him. Easy. Easy . . ."

Soon she was breathing deeply.

Downstairs he checked his messages:

THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE SOME FRIENDLY MAIL. STILL

SHAKING FROM ALL WE DID TOGETHER. MUCH TOO SOON TO

SAY I LOVE YOU BUT I DO SO ALL COMPLICATIONS STEMMING THEREFROM ARE YOURS . FEEL A CELEBRATION COMING ON TONIGHT. YOUR EX-VIRGIN QUEEN-

VAH

AM UP AND RUNNING AND FEELING BETTER. STAY IN TOUCH. SNAKEY

LIKE THE MOVIE? KNEW THEY WOULD. WHEN'S IT ALL GOING DOWN?

He played me well, thought John. Kept me dancing under pressure when he knew all along. Had he found the toys? The hole? Had the waitress at Olie's ID'd Joshua somehow, put them together? It really didn't matter how. It was Fargo's job to know, and he had done it.

What did matter was that Fargo had landed outside the Bureau's net for now—and if he'd destroyed the soundtrack, he might stay that way forever. Holt might talk, but it wasn't likely.

That left Valerie. What would be in store for her, alone on Liberty Ridge with a killer and a traitor? A thousand reasons to leave control of Liberty Ops to him? Certainly. And those failing, as they were likely to fail on as stubborn and devoted a daughter as Valerie, then what? A good, old-fashioned hunting accident?

He walked outside and stood on the deck. Boomer, Bonnie and Belle looked up from sleep but showed him little interest, their tails knocking slowly on the wood. He looked out at the profile of Fargo's darkened packing plant of a home.