The Triggerman Dance

"If Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms gets within one mile of this case you'll have my resignation."

"What could that possibly matter to Walker Frazee?"

"Christ, Norton, we can't let ATF into this! It's—"

"—We're not letting ATF into this, we're just letting Crazy Frazee pass gas. Now, next we put Owl's toys in place, right?"

"Goddamn, Norton. Don't say things like that to me."

"It doesn't hurt for you to know where the wind's blowing back here."

"From a windbag. I just can't believe he'd even joke about—"

"—Hush, son. I said I'd take care of Walker and I'll take care of Walker. Now, do we put Owl's toys in place?"

"Yeah, if Frazee keeps the Bat Boys off the walls long enough to—"

"—Joshua, comport yourself professionally, please."

"Yes, we deliver the toys. And we start to leak news of our prime suspect."

"Blow the smoke, young man."

"Sharon will actually do the blowing, sir."

"Well, tell her I could say something that would get me disciplined as a sexual predator."

Weinstein told her.

"You're a dirty old lecher," Dumars piped across the car toward the phone, smiling but her face quite red.

"Tell her thank you, Joshua."

He told her.

Back in the Tech Services yard, Weinstein collected his tape and binoculars and checked the van with the services clerk. The billet was already stamped with a direct Washington charge number, the Bureau version of a credit line. The clerk nodded reverently to Joshua as he accepted the keys, and Weinstein nodded back at him.

Then he did something he had never done before. Without stating a business-related reason, without pulling rank, without even asking her to do the driving, Joshua asked Sharon Dumars to an early dinner—his treat.

Sharon noted his flushed face, the tightened bobbing of his Adam's apple.

"I wish I could, Josh, but I've got plans tonight. Another time?"

He blushed even more deeply, but smiled. It was the non-smile of Joshua's, she saw—mirthless, forced and false.

"Sure," he said. "Whatever."

CHAPTER 17

Early the winter when John was nine, his parents flew their new plane to visit friends in Oregon.

John stood beside the dinner table one evening as his father traced their itinerary on a map—air route in red, ground stops shown by black circles. He listened to them talk about the flight; he helped them pack.

A few weeks before their departure, he made an amulet from a fossilized sea shell, three redtailed hawk feathers, a dried thistle pod and a strip of wild gourd tendril he gathered with some forethought in a local wilderness now called Liberty Ridge. John prayed that God would instill the amulet with protective properties and not come apart.

He and his uncle Stan watched the little Piper lift off from the Martin Aviation strip and groan into the air. John could smell his mother's perfume, still on his cheek from her lengthy parting kisses. She had worn the amulet around her neck, holding it to her breast as she knelt to kiss him to keep it from getting crushed He could still see his father's ramrod straight back as he walked across the tarmac in his silk flight jacket, heading for the plan The weather was cool and clear. They would be gone one week

That night, Stan and his wife, Dorrie, were expansive, gracious, amusing. But Stan took a phone call midway through dinner, and when he came back to the table he was preoccupied and subdued. Later, John watched some television and saw them the kitchen, talking intently. Dorrie's face was resolutely tragic.

Stan seemed to be trying to talk her out of something, imploring her, palms up, head shaking, ending his plea with a thumb hooked out toward John. Then Stan joined him in the den with a massive amber cocktail.

The next day around noon, Stan and Dorrie broke the news: John's parents had lost radio contact late the afternoon before, and had not been seen or heard from since. It could mean a hundred things, Stan told him. Most likely, his impulsive father simply set down early to wait out the storm. Yes, a fairly good sized storm had blown down from Alaska. With all the interference, radio contact is first to go, anyway. Just a matter of sitting tight and waiting to hear. You know how your father can be.

The plane was listed as missing and presumed down. Search and rescue aircraft couldn't penetrate the storm front, which was all the way south to Fresno by then. That evening, as the first gale-driven drops of rain roared against Uncle Stan's roof, John stood at a window and realized—with a huge wave of relief— that no amount of raindrops could foul his father's plans. He hadn't called because the phone lines were down, too. It was reassuring, almost amusing, to watch Stan and Dorrie fret like hens. John had seen the truth already. He could clearly imagine the yellow Piper emerging through a black wall of clouds, guided by the amulet.