The Triggerman Dance

In the right-side drawers he finds more files, but they are brown and more conclusively labeled: Banking, Insurance, Citrus, Guns. Some are fat with material. He pulls the Boone &c Crockett folder and scans the club's letter of congratulations to Vann Holt, upon completion of his third "Grand Slam"—ram trophies on four continents. The Kreel file is dedicated Kreel, Dr. Alfred J., whom John sees led the surgical team treating Carolyn's gunshot wound. John looks in vain for a file labeled Baum. He sees none, and knows he will see none.

So John is shocked to find the "Harris" file pregnant with clippings on the death of his secret lover. The infamous picture in which John forms part of the tragic chorus is collected from the Journal, Time, the Wall Street Journal, and several other papers.

Wayfarer's usual reading list? John wonders.

There are articles about her death, follow-up articles, follow-ups to the follow-up articles; op-ed pieces; magazine features. At least half of the clippings are not about Rebecca at all, but about Susan Baum.

John feels the sweat and the shirt on his back.

The last clip is an entire page of the Journal. John looks it over twice before he finds the relevant article, which is a simple notice in the "Listings" calendar under Lectures, which reads:

—November 22, "From John Kennedy to Rebecca Harris— The Assassination of the Spirit," syndicated columnist Susan Baum, presenter.

John photographs it. He spreads a few of the representative clips across the blotter, and shoots them, too. His hands are so tense and sweaty he can hardly grasp the little penlight head well enough to advance the film. He knows he's taking too many exposures, but he doesn't want to lose anything. No accidents.

It seems to take an hour to shoot four pictures. He is wondering if what he has found is good or not as he picks up the cordless phone and leaves the library. He is surprised to be so nervous. He feels a thousand eyes on him as he descends the stairs, puts the handset back in its cradle and walks across the cool foyer toward the front door.

He feels a big breath of relief coming, until, through the glass he sees Valerie stepping onto the porch.

He backs out of her line of sight and eases into the kitchen again, again taking up the phone. He tries to wipe the sweat off his forehead but his palm is sweaty, too. He hears the door open and slam. He hears the soft pad of her boots on the tiles, then he feels the kitchen fill with her presence.

John is standing with the phone in his left hand, his right hand poised above the keypad, a puzzled expression on his face.

He hears her gasp.

"Can you please tell me how to make a simple phone call on this thing?" he asks. His voice sounds thin, starved of truthfulness.

"John. Jesus, you scared me."

"I'm sorry. I knocked and rang and called for you."

"We had a three o'clock date, didn't we?"

"I've spent the last five minutes trying to have thirty seconds of conversation with my editor. Sorry I'm late, but this is the most complex piece of home communication equipment I've ever seen."

She looks at him with an odd expression now, partly suspicious, partly surprised, and partly hurt. She looks like she's just been slapped.

"Well, you do have to be smarter than the phone, John. Try pushing three-nine-nine."

"Is this okay? I mean—"

"—It's okay. Make your call."

"Thank you." He smiles. But his nerves are scalding and his scalp is oozing sweat. At this moment, John loathes himself. It is the first time in his life he has detested his own being so intensely. But he keeps the duplicitous smile in place, like a shield. The penlight in his pants pocket seems to weigh five pounds.

"Well, what do you know—a dial tone.”

Five minutes later they are in the meadow. It is flat and carpeted with wild fescue, soft cheat and bluegrass, all nourished by a spring that flows from the center and makes the ground damp under John's feet. The meadow is behind the Big House and Liberty Ops buildings. Beyond it rise the hills and scrub that roll for a mile toward the electric fence. There is just a touch of sweetness in the air because the Santa Ana’s are almost gone, and the smell of moist earth and grass can now waver up in the heat.

Valerie leads him to the edge of the meadow, where her dogs are still waiting on a "stay" command. Their little springer tails vibrate when they see her. She's wearing khaki shorts, a faded red plaid shirt with the sleeves cut out and a red wool cycling cap under which her hair is loosely bunched and falling out.

"Here," says Valerie, pointing to a burlap bag left in the shade. "Dizzy a bird and hide him over there by that clump of razor grass. I'll keep Lewis and Clark distracted. When I do this alone, they just watch."

"Can do."