The Triggerman Dance

The long evenings of autumn give them over two hours of sunlight after John's work day at the Anza Valley Lamp. It is hard to picture a better place for this kind of training. It is out of the way, accessible only by one road that is rarely traveled, and the kind of area where gunshots, hand-to-hand drills and endless roadwork wouldn't turn a head. Any air surveillance would be immediately apparent. Most importantly, it allows John to continue his work at the paper, which he knows is an important factor in the operation, though he doesn't know why. Weinstein has installed a small trailer—purchased under billing code, "Wayfarer"—alongside John's for the nights when he or Sharon Dumars are simply too tired to drive back to Orange County.

Under the soothing evening sunlight, John shoots pistols and revolvers, puncturing human silhouette targets with tight groups at ten feet, good groups at twenty, fair ones—still all in the black—at fifty.

He spars with Weinstein and Dumars, learning close-in self-defense.

He listens carefully to their guidance regarding the array of micro-cameras they supply for training. He concentrates on the lockpicking, but is not particularly adept.

He retains the memory boosters and mnemonic devices.

He runs, and he runs, and he runs.

Seven miles a night now, on the punishing, hilly dirt road leading into the High Desert Rod and Gun Club, he runs along a barbed wire fence, watching the deadwood fence posts reel past, huffing to himself with the thudding of his shoes, Re-bec-ca pause, Re-bec-ca pause,

Re-bec-ca pause.

Re-bec-ca.

Her name is the punctuation of his thoughts, the increments of his clock. It is his blueprint, his refrain, his true north. Her memory is his atmosphere and his sustenance. Her justice is his reason.

Weinstein is pleased to see that John is a natural. He is already better with a sidearm than either he or Dumars, which proves a little embarrassing. Weinstein vows to improve his skills at the indoor range when he can get the time. John's short-term memory, even considering the effect of the alcohol he continues to consume, is excellent. The micro-camera photography goes easily, because all the student has to learn is to shoot documents at a consistent range—the camera is best inside three feet—and to grid off the subject in such a way that nothing will be lost along the borders. A child could do it, Joshua reminds him. Lockpicking is a little tougher, but it is something that Weinstein believes will be of lesser importance. Besides, the real problem with locks these days are the alarm systems keyed into them. So far as the hand-to-hand self defense goes, Joshua believes it stupid to teach in the first place, but he does so anyway due to Bureau protocol. Weinstein notes that John is fast and strong enough to land effective blows to the well-padded Dumars, but even his good reflexes can't keep him from receiving them in turn. John is tough up to a point, Weinstein is happy to see, but he is also happy to see that John knows when to give up and when to play possum. After one particularly fierce battle, his nose bloodied and his eyes glazed, he simply went to his knees in the dust and, groaning, told Dumars, "finish me off." Then he caught her padded foot just in front of his face, and twisted her down to the dirt. Joshua sees to it that John develops a working knowledge of the choke-hold used to render an enemy unconscious. Joshua teaches both the throat blow and throat pull, which puncture the trachea by splintering the delicate bones beneath the jaw, killing fairly quickly. Weinstein has John practice on a dummy they name Amon.

They run. They shoot. They run. They fight.

For Weinstein, the road work is hellish, all three of them jogging down and sprinting up the hard, dusty trail. They start at three miles a day and work up from there. Even for a nonsmoker, Menden's endurance is very good, though the first thing he does after finishing is light up a cigarette and open a beer. Weinstein hears John's rhythmic grunts begin after mile two, and on the third day he realizes that they are the syllables of Rebecca's name.

Most of the training is, in Joshua Weinstein's mind, silly. Silly because, should John need to employ any of this side arm or combat training, he will most likely get killed for his efforts. Bureau experience has proven that. And certainly, whether John Menden runs a six-or a seven-minute mile wasn't going to matter a bit if things went wrong. You can't outrun a bullet. In truth, the training is intended more for John's mental fitness than his physical prowess; it is always to the good if an informant goes in feeling strong. Invincible, no, but strong.