The Triggerman Dance

But he has already begun to embrace his new station. He feels a fraternity with the darker side of his race; he knows sin as a participant rather than a spectator. He senses connection with that great body of offenders, past and present, who have live with the mark of Cain burned into their souls. He knows their secret, and they know his. He has done something that sets him apart from goodness and light, something that the good and the light might not even see in him. But his brothers, his fellow dark agents, they see and they know. With the Fallen, at least he can be honest. Maybe he can learn from them. Shared burdens make strength.

The entryway opens into a room that is clearly a man's. Its furnishings are functional, with little attention to style or harmony. The blinds and carpet are gray. There are three heavy cowhide sofas set around a very large Kodiak brown bear rug. There are bookshelves along two walls, and one corner of the room is piled high with African drums, weapons and carvings. Facing the window is a long heavy bench set up with Holt's reloading equipment. John can see the long-handled machines of three distinct reloading stations: handgun, rifle, shotgun.

John steps to the table. A covey of stuffed quail make their way from right to left, around the boxes of shells, following a handsome sentry male who hustles along, his head and topknot forward. There are paper boxes at the shotgun station, clear plastic for the rifle cartridges and yellow plastic for handgun loads. Each is labeled with the cartridge gauge or caliber, the shot size or bullet weight and the powder type and charge. John notes again Vann Holt's graceful, forward-leaning draftsman's writing. The table is orderly. John can see that the bulk components are stored underneath. He bends down and pokes a heavy bag of lead shot, then looks into a powder canister to find, unshockingly, powder.

He takes four exposures of the table, following the quail, right to left.

The bedroom is larger than the reloading room but emptier, too. John stands in the double-doorway and views the neatly made bed with a Pendleton blanket for a cover, the nightstand with lamp, small bookcase and stack of magazines on the near side. His eye follows the sunlight to the tall window. There are no blinds here, but a heavy purple curtain that has been tied open on either side of the glass. The curtain strikes John as a sad dramatic flourish in an otherwise forsaken space. Two worn leather recliners sit at opposing sides of the window, facing outward where a perfect tall rectangle of hills and ocean is framed by the glass.

He kneels, pulls open the top drawer of the nightstand and takes out a loose pile of occasion cards. He sees, for the first time, Valerie's handwriting. It is composed, unadorned and pleasing. There are cards for Father's Day, birthday, Easter and Just Thinking of You. Mixed in with these are cards from Carolyn, whose script is sweet chaos with occasional blurbs of lucidity. Like her mind, John thinks: what does she dream about?

Beneath the cards are four yellow legal pads, all dense wit Holt's writing. Unlike the cryptic notes of his business files, the legal pads show a more expansive and personal Holt:

Still don't know if Valerie can be persuaded to take over Liberty Operations. Either that, or she'll go on to veterinary school and heal animals all her life. I'll be pleased with either decision, but Liberty Operations could use her and she'd make potfuls of money. I don't want to go outside the organization, but choices seem limited. Laura? She'd lose interest over time. Thurmond? Too old. Lane? He's loyal as a pit bull but I don't think he has the kind of character that builds trust. He'd be bitterly disappointed not to have a shot at it, I know. Must make some decisions before the last good nap.