The Triggerman Dance

"Just that I know your father was a good man. The world turned him and he went bad. He lost a lot for no reason and then he lost himself. I wouldn't have done any better in his place. What happened up there on Top of the World proves it. And I was trying to do the same thing he was. I was trying to get back something I'd lost. But I didn't get back anything at all. I just lost you. And your dad never came any closer to Pat. He just got what was coming to him for killing an innocent woman. He'd be the first to admit that. And I'll get what's coming to me, too. That's the way it should be. I'm not real smart. But I know now that hatred isn't enough to live on. It'll kill you and everybody around you. Don't live that way, Valerie. If you're lucky enough to find it, love can fill the emptiness. You've got every bit of mine if you ever need it. Ever."

She turned her head toward him again and John could see nothing in her face but the emptiness of infinite loss.

"Come here," she said.

He rose and walked over to her and put his hands very gently on either side of her head. Something hard clacked to the tile and John could see Val's revolver spinning to a stop. A big teardrop landed beside it. Then the storm hit and all she could do was cry. He held her. He had never thought a person could cry so hard for so long. It was much later when he finally left her asleep on the sofa. He made sure the blanket was snug around her and set three more logs in the fire before he walked out.

Fargo was standing in the driveway, leaning against the red Jeep. His arms were crossed, his right hand snugged under his armpit, inches away from the handle of his automatic.

"Clever guy," said Fargo.

"You're the clever one, Lane. You smelled me out from day one."

"Couldn't believe Mr. Holt didn't."

"That's what he got for trusting you."

"It bothers me that you know."

"It doesn't really matter that I know."

"Does, now that you squawked to Val."

"She's closing the Ops. Or didn't you hear?"

"She's emotional right now. She needs time to think."

"Then give her some. Anything unpleasant happens to her up here on Liberty Ridge, I might tell the man to have a talk with you."

"That won't be possible because you'll be dead."

John shook his head and looked out to the sunset gathering in the west. The sun was smearing a lot of red in the clear autumn sky, the same bright color as the Jeep behind Fargo, the same color as Holt's blood on the stone table.

"I'm not playing that one, Lane. I don't ever want to see a gun pointed at a man again. It just isn't right and there's no damned end to it. Haven't you learned a thing?"

"You've got to understand the situation. I got no boss now. I got no money out of my time building the Ops. I got no job. All I got is a dead master, a bad conscience and a lot of frustration built up. Something's gotta give."

"Well, do what you have to, but I'm walking down to the cottage to get my stuff. I'm packing that stuff in the truck. Then I'm getting in and driving away forever. Shoot me in the back if you want. It's all the satisfaction I can offer."

John started off down the drive. He could hear Fargo's boot pivoting behind him, and he could hear the quick whip of steel leaving leather.

"Turn around, motherfuck!"

John didn't break stride. He lifted a hand and waved, trotting down the embankment and into the meadow with his heart up in his throat.

The dogs charged as he got close to the cottage. Boomer crashed into him while Belle and Bonnie snarled at each other and wagged their tails. They were wet and dirty from the lake oblivious to the bloodshed of the day. He let them into the cottage anyway and they sniffed around the floor as he picked his clothes off the kitchen counter. He looked through the window toward his truck, and set the clothes back where they were.

Through the meadow, constant as the northern star, Fargo marched toward him. John studied the wide-legged gait, the purposeful swing of the arms, the odd cant of the dark man's head and the automatic in his right hand. John's heart fell and rose again as a cold sheen of sweat broke out on his face. He clicked off the safety on the birdgun, which was enough, as always, to send his dogs into a frenzy. They careened into the kitchen, sliding on the hardwood floor, yapping. No bird, John muttered, double-checking the safety and leaving the gun on the counter, pointed at the open doorway.

"No bird."

The dogs took off into the living room, noses down.

He stood where he was, behind the little chest-high bar, resting his finger on the trigger of the shotgun, not moving. He thought of Fargo shooting the video of Rebecca Harris while she took bullets in the winter rain.