The Triggerman Dance

John stood in the clearing, looking out at the buffeted landscape and feeling his slow reentry into the present. He thought about Rebecca. Here was another day, another moment he wished she could have shared. He listened for her voice in the wind but heard only the wind. He pictured her again on the asphalt in the March rain. Then the Santa Ana turned furious, bellowing up the trail toward him, howling against the oak tree, punishing its branches and hissing into the fence. There it is, he thought: The Fury. The reason I am here. He let it rage into him and he locked it inside, adding the wind's anger to his own. The dogs sat with their backs to the gusts, heads lowered, looking ashamed.

A little after six a.m., he started back down the trail with his walking stick, empty coffee cup and camera.

CHAPTER 20

Vann Holt was down by the shore in front of his cabin when John got back. A white Range Rover sat next to John's pickup truck. He could see Holt watching him as he came around the edge of the lake, but he had no idea when Holt had first spotted him. The dogs frolicked along, lending an air of innocence to the day. The penlight felt heavy in his pocket and he wondered, who needs a penlight on a morning this bright? He slipped it into his right pant pocket when Holt wasn't looking. Boomer spotted Holt and charged ahead to greet him, barking histrionically and wagging his tail. John waved.

"Hello Mr. Holt!"

Holt lifted his head in acknowledgement but said nothing until John was closer.

"Morning John. Fairly spectacular, isn't it?"

"I love these winds."

"Just like breeze off the ankles of God."

"Who said that?"

"I did."

They shook hands.

"Out for a morning walk?"

"We headed up that trail on the other side there."

"Watch for snakes this time of year. The hatchlings are out and about."

"Saw a few cottontail is all."

Holt studied him for a long moment. "Be a good idea for you to stay kind of out in the open. Lane's blood pressure rise: when he sees something in the bushes. Shoot quick and ask questions never. That's Lane."

"Wouldn't want to give him a stroke." John flicked the last drop of coffee from his mug.

"You don't want to get shot, either. Come on, let's take ; drive around the Ridge. I want you to see it."

They took the Land Rover down the road, toward the bi] house, then veered off north and into a shallow valley. At the top of a rise, John could see the groves stretching before them, perfectly groomed acres of orange trees heavy with fruit. He could smell them, too, not the sweet flowers of late winter and spring but the oranges themselves, issuing a clean acidic fragrance into the air.

They passed a row of cottages, all neatly kept. Holt waved to a stout redheaded woman who stood in a cottage driveway having chosen this dusty, blustery hour to wash her car. The stream of water shot from the hose, splashed against a door, the turned to mist. A boy of perhaps three purposefully scrubbed a a hubcab with a large sponge.

"How big are your groves?"

"Two hundred acres. Certified organic, all Valencias. Best for juice. I've got five workers on payroll right now, plus the supervisor. Harvest time, all the cabins are full."

"Do you sell the fruit?"

"Bulk of it. The best I give away. Carolyn—my wife—use to juice them and make preserves, I mean tons of preserves, bi she can't do that anymore. No more marmalade from Carolyn I've got friends all over the world, and getting fresh oranges from Southern California is a real treat for some of them. Floors 'em over in Europe."

"There aren't even any weeds."

"Smooth as a pool table was my goal. No flaws."

"I'd say you accomplished that."

"My supervisor is a duplicitous old prick, but he really gets work out of the workers."

The road was smooth too, though dirt, and the Land Rover slid along the south perimeter of the grove. John looked down the rows as they passed. The sky above them was pale blue, wit just a trace of cirrus clouds up high. John watched a silver speck and contrail move slowly from west to east.

"Have you lived here a long time?"

"Five years. It's been in the family for almost eighty. When Mumsey died, the Big House went empty. Five years ago, my wife had some problems and we moved in here. I rebuilt the Big House. Added some of the outbuildings. Pools and tennis. Aviary. Heliport. Fenced the whole shebang."

"It's like a paradise."

"It is paradise." Holt chuckled then. "To me, anyway."

At the far corner of the grove the road forked—one turning to follow the trees and one leading straight. Holt went straight, guiding the truck up a hill, then down the other side. They were in the chaparral now, though it was not as dense as on the other side of the lake. Holt swerved down a narrow dirt road, scraping the truck panels on stiff red fingers of manzanita.