The Triggerman Dance (18 page)

None of those thoughts came to Vann Holt as he stepped quietly through the low grass and watched Sally work a ground patch. Instead, next to the pride he felt watching Valerie, what he felt most strongly now was his focused anticipation of the birds that would soon be rising. He could hear them, chirping alarmedly out there in front of Sally. He could feel the perfect balance of the Remington in his hands. He noticed the heightened perception of his eyes, though he knew that they were failing him. Even his sense of smell was acute now, the astringent perfume of sagebrush and desert scrub, the dankly human odor of the gourds, passing straight up through his nostrils and into his brain. Like nothing else in the world, hunting made Vann Holt feel alive.

Then, the ground before him seemed to bunch and gather and the air above it exploded with dark shapes as the covey rose with the wooden knock of wings. Holt's heart jumped into his throat, the same way it had for the three decades he'd hunted here, no diminishment of the rush at all, a charge of purest adrenaline streaking through his body. There were ninety of them, he guessed, bringing up the gun and flicking off the safety. He picked out a large male and shot it, then another, then another. Sally jumped to the first bird while Holt stood and watched the cove bend away in front of him and toward the others, fingering three more shells into his magazine without having to look at then getting them pointed in the right direction by feeling for the brass base. Shotguns popped to his left now, as the birds accelerate across the meadow. He saw Titisi blasting away into the cove hitting nothing. Then Randell picked up a single as the birds sped toward Valerie. Holt watched her drop two, then saw her loyal little springers—Lewis and Clark—nosing their way toward the first bird. God, she's great! On the far side, Lane Fargo shot double at about sixty yards. When Holt stepped toward his dog, two stragglers came up, wings whirring, necks straining, together. He shot the male first, then rode out the hen and knocked her down just as she started her turn. He stood, marking the falls and sliding two new shells into his gun. Sally dropped the first bird at his feet, pivoted and bolted back toward the second.

The covey disappeared, almost as quickly as it had risen. Holt watched them put down mid-meadow, happy that they were still naive enough to allow a second jump. By noon, he knew, they'd be skittish, and in one week so spooked you'd have to get them the first time because there would be no second. That was when the hunting was a true challenge.

To his left, Titisi cursed and examined a handful of shells as if they were responsible for the fact that he had missed. Randell found his bird on the outskirts of a cactus patch. Lewis and Clark managed to come up with Valerie's first quail, but proceeded to fight over it, which brought Valerie bounding forth to land a boot squarely on the butt of each dog. Lane Fargo just stood there and watched, having already collected his kill. Sally, methodical as always, followed Holt's hand signals and easily found all four of his other quail. Holt picked up each one as she dropped it on his boots, felt their warmth and heft, admired the handsome plumage of the cocks and the more subtle beauty of the hens, then slipped them one at a time into the game pouch on his vest. Five birds in the first jump, he thought: it's going to be a good day.

After Holt pocketed his last bird he reached down and gave Sally a hearty "attagirl," rubbing behind her ears with his hand. She sat and looked up at him, her little stump of tail vibrating in the dirt. Before he even straightened, Sally was off again, nose down, zigging and zagging her way thirty yards ahead of him— never more—looking back every few seconds to make sure her master was paying attention. Holt shot a single that had stayed behind only to burst into the air almost at his feet. Lane Fargo did likewise, out to Holt's far left. Randell and Titisi unloaded on a pair of stragglers, hitting nothing but air. Lewis and Clark started to sprint after the flying birds, but responded nicely when Valerie called them back with her whistle. Tough to call a young dog off a bird, Holt thought, that's why a good shooter makes a good trainer. With pride he watched Valerie praise her dogs as they returned; she slipped a little something to each of them from her pocket. Holt never used food reinforcement for his dogs, but Valerie always did, and her results, he thought, were superb. He looked out to the rising sun, and breathed deeply the fine clean air of the desert. The birds in his vest were warm and heavy against his back. Sally, he thought, is probably the best dog I've ever had. Fleetingly, he remembered Patrick—how beautiful he was out here with his own dog, how gentle he was with her, and how he didn't really care if he shot ten birds or none. But he let Patrick's image flutter on past, like a quail, going out of sight. Sometimes, he reminded himself, you have to remember to forget.

By 9:30, Holt had his limit of ten quail. Valerie had nine an Lane Fargo had thirteen. They all hunted until almost eleven, giving Titisi and Randell a chance to knock a few down—which they did.

By 11:30 they had cleaned the birds, put them on ice, and loaded into the two Land Rovers for the drive into town. Holt was hungry now, and he could almost smell those burgers on the grill. Best in the desert, he thought.

"My treat at Olie's," he said, happy for the moment, glad to be thinking about nothing but birds and burgers and Valerie who sat in the passenger seat beside him, holding his hand on her lap.

"Number of ways to go about it," says Randell, nodding.

"Competent, responsible men," says the Ugandan, somewhat obligingly, as he looks at Holt, then back to Randell. "The kind of men who can organize, train, lead. Men like you."

Holt hands out the plastic-covered menus, feigning disinterest in the business. Consultants, he thinks: young armed men willing to take risks for money, willing to kill for it. Mercenarie or the trainers of mercenaries—what was the difference?

Of course, Randell knows this, and Titisi knows he know it, but there is a certain latitude regarding definitions that must be offered at this stage. It is a courtesy. There is always the chance—very remote here, but possible just the same—that Titisi has been spun by the Federals, and his real mission is to offer Liberty Operations an opportunity to hang itself. Holt has had those opportunities before, and he is expert at keeping his company on the legitimate side of international law as it applies to security, investigations and military consultation. But gray areas do exist. Holt knows he can smell a rat from about ten miles away, though Titisi has thus far emitted a reassuring air of greed and menace, good indicators of honest intentions and trustworthiness. It always amazes Holt how cruel governments can be to their own people, in the name of helping them. On the other hand, Holt knows that Titisi can be thinking the same thing: that Vann Holt, ex-Federal, may have finally been manipulated into blowing the whistle on certain clients. It is little comfort to Titisi that he and his nation are the smallest of potatoes. At this stage, the Holy Trinity is vagueness, optimism, courtesy.

The burgers arrive and are great. Valerie, who does not like red meat, gets a grilled fish sandwich and a big salad loaded with thousand island. Lunch goes along perfectly.

Until, from outside, comes the rumble of motorcycle engines, the deep, throaty, unmistakable rasp of America's fine; the Harley-Davidson. Dust rises up in the sunlight beyond the swinging doors. The engines are gunned, then killed. To Holt it sounds like a half-dozen of them. When the doors blast open and the boots hit the wooden floor and the men barge into the quiet of Olie's Saloon, Holt sees that he is off by two. There are four men, two of them large, one skinny and tall, one simply gigantic. These are not the kind of people Vann Holt prefers as lunch guests. He looks briefly at them, then turns to his daughter and asks about Lewis and Clark.

The bikers are still taking a table when a voice carries through the disturbed atmosphere of the saloon.

"That one looks good enough to eat."

Holt ignores it, though his pulse has risen and he feels a coolness crawl across his scalp. Valerie glances at the men, then quickly back to her father. She's trying to explain how Lewis and—

"I said, hey cupcake, you look good enough to
eat!”

It is impossible to ignore him now. Holt sees that it's the tall skinny one, sitting already, while his huge minions shuffle and bang around the table. Skinny has red hair, a darker red beard and a blue bandana wrapped around his head. His eyes are bulging and blue, and look ready to burst from their sockets. His arms are taut as wires, coming through the holes of the stained denim vest. They are covered with tattoos. He looks at Valerie with the dullest of smiles. His cohorts all look at Valerie, too.

She stares back at them. "Try it, and I'll blow your fucking lungs out," she says in a voice so cold it completely startles Holt.

All four of the bikers break into serious laughter, a guttural roar not unlike the sound of their machines.

Then Holt has to laugh too—does my little girl really talk like that? —and Titisi and Lane Fargo, and finally even dour Rich Randell are laughing along, though Fargo's hand slides inside his jacket to certify the readiness of whatever he is carrying in there.

After the laughter trails off, the sounds of the talking bikers fill the room and the incident appears to be forgotten, just another colorful little postcard in the lives of minor outlaws.

Holt's stomach relaxes some and he continues to eat. The pressure he feels in his head when angry, abates. He glances over at the bikers to find them deep in beer and roaring talk, blatantly insulting the waitress, arguing over what should go on the pizzas. With a little discipline and a little education, he thinks, those pigs might amount to something. Big. Strong. They might even make good Liberty Men someday. Perfect for Titisi. Maybe not so dumb as they act. Degeneration of the race, pure and simple.

Titisi finishes his second cheeseburger and focuses his attention on the double order of fries. He leans to Randell, whispers something, and they both chuckle knowingly. Lane Fargo, upright and attentive as always, has that glazed look that Holt recognizes: it means Fargo's attention is everywhere at once. Valerie has gone quiet. Holt understands that her heated little outburst embarrassed her, and now she's trying to regain composure. He knows from raising her from infancy that Valerie not a natural combatant, but rather thrives on harmony, accomplishment and love. Patrick was the same way. Yes, Carolyn clear-eyed, even temperament dominates Valerie over Holt's own reactive and heated disposition.

Suddenly the bikers stand and the giant yells back tow the kitchen: "Stuff your fuckin' pizza."