The Triggerman Dance

After dinner they turned off the houselights, sat on the patio chairs and watched the stars come out. The night was clear and the moon rose full and white over the hilltop. It was so bright John could read his watch face without pushing on the light. He looked out into the canyon and thought of the nights he'd slept back there, nights just like this with the moon radiant and the ground warm enough for a lightweight sleeping bag. He remembered the puma he'd seen out here, in the first light of a summer morning, lying on a rock outcropping only a hundred feet away, calmly eyeing him. Puma, he thought. Wayfarer.

John wondered if Joshua was reading his thoughts.

"Wayfarer," said Joshua. "You know, we still get to make the code names. Most Fed agencies went computer a long time ago. Wayfarer. I chose it. I'm glad we weren't stuck with barnyard, or crackerjack or evergreen or something. He's fared way beyond the limits, way up river."

"He's our Kurtz," said Dumars. "And you, John, are our Marlow."

Joshua looked at her in the darkness, then out to the hills "There's luck in this business, like in anything else," he said "Luck was what brought me to you, John. I spent five month' after Rebecca's death, putting together my file on Wayfarer. A first, it seemed a distant possibility, but then it became not distant at all. I weighed the circumstantial evidence against what I knew of him, and I saw how it could happen. All of this, and still nothing solid, still nothing that could convict. Sure, I could have questioned him anytime. One shot. One time. And if he was lucky which he is, and smart, which he also is—we'd have come away with less than nothing. Less, because he would be alerted— impossible to surprise."

Joshua had by now graduated from highballs to black coffee. He sipped it, then poured more from the thermos he'd brought up to the deck. "Yes, I looked at you. My curiosity was not connected to Wayfarer at all. It was a way of understanding what had happened to me and Rebecca. I just wanted to see what she had chosen. What I lacked. Your name on the envelope helped quite a bit, so far as ID went. I tracked your grief, your resignation from the Journal, your little sailing trip down in the South Pacific, your purchase of the trailer and your move out to Anza Valley. I observed you at Olie's more than once before our meeting, as you pointed out. So what did I have, except a suspect I couldn't arrest, and a mourning suitor who was disengaging himself from the world? Nothing. Nothing until the luck came in. Then, I had something to work with."

"What was the luck?"

"Oh, it was you, John. But that wasn't apparent at first. I wasn't apparent until I was poring over some Wayfarer intelligence late one night, nothing hot, just the usual kinds of thing! we collect about people who might prove dangerous. And there saw the connection. The luck hit. My ears got warm and my lip: quivered and I began to see the design of things. There is a design of things, John—it is up to us to discern it."

"And you discerned."

"Oh, did I ever. There it was, right in front of me, finally. A little window. I'm reading about Wayfarer. His habits and hobbies. His patterns. Wayfarer sails the Newport to Ensenada yacht race every year. Wayfarer spends every New Year's Eve at a party in Washington, D.C. Wayfarer makes a trophy hunting expedition every spring with two of his friends from the Boone and Crockett record book. Wayfarer flyfishes the Metolius River in Oregon every summer. Then, this oddment: Wayfarer hunts the quail opener every year down in the desert with his friends and daughter. He used to take his wife and son, of course, but no longer. They fly the company helicopter into the Lake Riverside airstrip. He brings his dogs. Dog, dogs, dogs—made me think of you and yours—dogs everywhere I looked. He's got a little home there in Lake Riverside Estates—thirty-five hundred square feet, right on the water. They spend the night, then set out in his Land Rover just after sunup. They hunt the morning, head into town for lunch and a beer at two, then go back out for the afternoon shoot. Every year for ten straight seasons. No variation. Like a clock. On goes my little light. What town do they go to? Anza Valley. John Menden's ground. Oh my, I think—oh my! Is John my luck? Is John my man? My miracle?"

"I've been called a lot of things, but never a miracle," said John.

Dumars laughed along with him, but Joshua did not.