how'd you ever miss Snakey? Boot marks everywhere out there, Menden. Yours.'
'Pit your hefty IQ against this one, Lane. Marks don't put us there at the same time, do they? I probably got there first, and Snakey probably watched me from a bush or something. That seems about like Snakey's speed-I can see him watching from a bush, hunkered right down in the middle of it like a big tick. When I left-which was after about twenty minutes-he came up and crabbed around and wandered back down the house some other way. There's enough brush and rocks and sandstone up there, he could pick a way down an Apache couldn't track.'
John stood up and looked at his watch. 'I hate to be rude and imply that you're wasting my time, but you are.'
Fargo stared at John, all his reigned menance concentrated in his gleaming, recessive eyes. 'I just saw Val on my way over. Looked kind of shook up. Hardly even looked at me. I don't like to see her that way. She'll see through you before very long. She's bright.'
'What's she going to see, Lane?'
'I don't know, yet. And it frosts my balls not to know.'
'Sorry to keep disappointing you. Keep trying and you'll be able to bust me for something, but it won't be for disappearing Snakey. By the way, I want my wallet, guns and truck keys back.'
'Right here,' he said, looking at the grocery bag. 'Not the gun, though. Won't need it. Mr. Holt's orders.'
'He tell you when to pee, too?'
'He'll tell me when I can bust your head.'
'Bring help.'
Fargo studied John again, his ugly little smile breaking mustache. 'I don't think you appreciated that slap on the ear he gave you last week. I think you're just cool enough to pop a man for that if you could get away with it. You're ulterior.'
John held out his hand toward the door, palm up. 'Must get tiring, being wrong all the time.'
'I hardly ever am, about people's characters. You and Adam getting kind of cozy? Touchy-feely through the e-mail?'
'Print them out and read them.'
'Have.'
'Happy trails, then.'
'That's not a bad idea.'
The door shut and John cursed himself for the stupid invitation. What if Fargo did go back up the trail and take another look around for Snakey?
He downed the beer and cracked another. He fed the dogs on the deck, then stood there for a while and watched them eat. He watched Fargo disappear into the rough packing plant that was his home. He felt the wind beginning to move in off the desert now, warm, dry and with a hint of the great power behind it.
In the shower his knees felt rickety, his hands shook and he felt again that something terrible was gaining on him.
His dreams were filled Rebecca and Valerie. Both women opened their mouths to talk but he couldn't hear their words. So he just took off, flying over them with a bed sheet stretched between his hands, riding the wind up off the earth and into dark heavens.
CHAPTER 37
By Saturday night the wind was strong. It folded the blades o: meadow grass and exposed their paler sides, washing Liberty Ridge with the astringent smell of the desert. John walked to ware the Big House. Holt had invited him to dinner, 'big doings.' He looked out at the ocean where a yellow sun sank toward bronze water. There were too many things to think about so he picked the most important: Don't rock the boat now. By noon tomorrow, you will be finished.
He was surprised to see the dining table set up on the expanse of lawn that fronted the Big House. A green- and-white striped canopy rocked in the wind, its rounded edges flapping against the poles. Two servers-Liberty Ops trainees, John guessed-moved across the lawn with large chafing dishes on wheeled carts. Behind them came Carolyn in her wheelchair, pushed strenuously across the grass by her evening nurse. He could see Laura and Thurmond Messinger standing at the wet bar with Lane Fargo and an older couple John had never seen before. Adam Sexton waved at him.
He crossed the lawn, stepped under the snapping canvas canopy and onto the parquet flooring, then headed toward the bar. Laura greeted him with a handshake and a peck on the cheek, surrounding John in a brief front of perfume. She had on a pair of jeans, a low-necked white blouse and a black jacket that showed off her ample front and ample suntan. Thurmond nodded to him over the rim of a cocktail glass, and extended his hand when his wife was finished. He was a balding man who wore the oversized black-framed eyeglasses John associated with eccentrics, clothing designers and old-time talent agents.
The wind yanked the cocktail napkin from Thurmond's hand. 'Heck of a night for outdoor dining, I'd say.'
His wife untangled a strand of long dark hair that had blown into her lipstick. 'Damn Vann doesn't have the brains he was born with.'
'What makes you think he was born with any?' asked Fargo, his smile putrid as always and his short black hair peaking down over his forehead. He wore a black silk jacket, adorned with images of shrunken heads, over his invariable black t-shirt.
'He is keeping you around,' said Laura, solicitously.
'Why wouldn't he?' asked Fargo. He acted affronted at first, then John saw it was not an act at all. Fargo caught him noticing this, then covered up by sipping his beer.
'John,' said Laura, taking his arm, 'I'd like you to meet Scott and Mary Holt of Salt Lake City. Scott is Vann's older brother.'
Scott offered John a grave smile and a gentle handshake. He was a shorter, leaner version of his brother, with the same prying gray eyes, stubborn jaw and abundant gray hair. He looked to be ten years Holt's senior. His wife was broad-faced and handsome and smiled at John as if he had done great things in life. They both held glasses of what looked like sparkling water, with lime wedges afloat on the ice.
'Just in for a visit?' John asked.
'Well, quite frankly, we don't quite know why we're here,' said Scott.
'Vann practically had to beg him,' said Mary.
'That's not true, Mary.'
'I mean… L.A.'s not our favorite place.'
'Pat! Pat!'
John caught the aghast expressions on Scott's and Mary's faces as he listened to Carolyn's voice, hesitated, then turned to greet her.
'Hello, Mrs. Holt.'
'Oh, don't you Mrs. Holt me, my clever little prince. Kiss, my son?'
John bent over and kissed her, then stood and awkwardly shook her hand.
She looked up from her wheelchair at Scott and Mary, an expression of confusion on her face. 'I'm so sorry, but we haven't met, have we?'
'Scott,' said Scott. 'We just-'
'-and I'm Mary, Carolyn. Nice to meet you, again.'
'Oh, of course. The Ides of March. How could I be so forgetful? You remember my son Patrick, of course? Back from the White House?'
'Well, sure we do,' said Scott, casting John a look of profound doubt. 'Um-hm. The White House?'
'Well, you know,' said John.
'Top secret,' said Carolyn. 'Where on earth has my president gone?'
'He'll be right out, Mrs. Holt,' said Joni, putting her hands on Carolyn's shoulders. 'Here he comes, right now!'
Grateful for the diversion, John turned to watch. Holt walked across the lawn buttoning his blue blazer,
