"I won't put up with any more jesting from you, John-Boy I've got my standards of behavior here, rigidly enforced. Clear on that precept now?"
"Clear."
"That's just great. Couple of the Journal people said the thought you had the hots for Rebecca Harris."
He saw the blank gray wall. "They were wrong."
"How couldn't you? I've seen pictures of her. She was young, fresh, beautiful. How could you not have had the hots for such a thing?"
"Well, there are hots and then there are hots."
His own voice was coming through to him as if from a long distance line. There was echo, lag, static. The taste of blood filled John's mouth but when he tried to swallow all he could manage was a dry, throat-catching cough.
"And which kind of hot were you, little buddy?"
"I looked at her. I never got a look back. She was engaged.
John turned to look at the big boys, got a grin and a thumbs up from Partch, then swayingly returned his gaze to Lane Fargo.
"She tell you that?"
"Gossip, I think."
"Never talked to her?"
"Coffee machine stuff."
"Ever ask her out?"
"No."
"What?"
"No."
"Then who were you seeing at the time?"
"Nobody in particular."
"Nobody even unparticular, from what I've gathered. How were you managing the urges, Johnny? Just Rosy Palm and her five sisters?"
Suddenly, John's head cleared. The ringing was still there, but he felt his sense of balance return, settling under him like a trusted old horse.
"None of your business."
He swiveled to look back, but Partch and Snakey still sat on the couch, two giants lost in cushions. Fargo was laughing.
"You're right, Johnny-that's not my business. Where'd you get that dog?"
"Dog?"
"Rusty, the hero."
"He showed up at the club one day."
"A purebred, attack-trained German shepherd just wandered up to your trailer one day and asked for a Milk Bone?"
"He was a mess. Half-starved, no collar. My labs came close to killing him."
"When?"
"Last spring."
"So you took him in?"
"That's what I did."
"Funny."
John said nothing. The siren scream in his ear was coming and going now-a piercing whine followed by a pressured silence.
"Funny that nobody in Anza Valley ever saw you with that dog. A truckful of dogs, but no German shepherd."
John shrugged off the unobservant Anza public.
"Maybe you could explain why," said Fargo.
"He liked the trailer. He was territorial and a little mean. He wasn't the best around-town dog."
"But he was a good enough retriever to take out hunting on opening day?"
"Yes, he was."
"But how did you know he could hunt, if you hadn't had him out in bird season?"
"He was always after the quail around the trailer. It was easy to see he was birdy. Opening day, I wanted to give him a try, that's all."
"How'd he do?"
"Well."
"How many birds you get?"
"The limit. Ten."
"Why weren't they in your truck at Olie's?"
"I'd gone back home to drop them off."
"So you could shoot ten more."
"Right."
"Kind of a scofflaw for such an upstanding citizen, aren't you?"
"I figure there's guys out there who don't get any birds at all. It works out."
"You could have had fifty birds back in the trailer and we'll never know, since it burned down."
"I had ten."
"Maybe you didn't have any. Maybe you weren't hunting that day at all. You can't really prove it, can you?"
John straightened in his chair and glanced back again al Snakey and Partch.
"You know, Fargo, if you want to get direct answers here, you can ask direct questions. I've got no idea what you suspect me of. But we could save a lot of small talk and popped eardrums if you'd just come out with it. I hardly talked to Rebecca Harris I took in a stray dog. I got ten quail opening day, helped Mr. Holt out of a bad situation. What in hell do you want?"
Fargo considered.
"I just want to like you, John."
Fargo laughed then, his rodentine teeth flashing behind the thick broom of mustache. "How come you quit your job with the Journal? You took a pay cut of sixty percent to move out of Laguna Beach and into a trailer. That makes no sense to me. Make sense to me, John. Let me like you."
John turned to look at the big boys, then back to Fargo.
When Fargo leans on you, it means that Holt has things to hide. When Fargo leans on you, it might mean Holt has something in mind. But just remember, you are innocent. You have your limits. You are ready, willing and able to simply walk.
"I've had enough," he said.
"Enough of what?" Fargo looked genuinely puzzled.
"Enough of you. I'm going to go back to the cottage, write Mr. Holt a thank you note, get in my truck with my dogs, and drive off. I don't need you, Fargo. I don't need the headbangers sitting behind me. I sure don't need Vann Holt."
"Awww. Have I hurt your feelings? Need mommy?" The smile again, all the latent cruelty showing through.
"Let's go outside and fight."
"You're getting kind of personal now."
John stood, wavered a little, then felt two heavy hands on his shoulders, pressing him back into the chair.
"I'm just trying to do my job, John. Anyone who spends time around Mr. Holt has to be cleared. I'm in the process of clearing you. Lighten up. It's a nice day out. You and Mr. Holt can talk. You can make your mysterious little eyes at Valerie again. The world is good. So just stay the fuck put and give me reasons for Mr. Holt to keep you on Liberty Ridge."
"I don't want to stay on Liberty Ridge."
"What you want isn't up to you. It's up to Mr. Holt. Besides, the keys to your truck are in my safe, along with your wallet, pistol, shotgun ammunition, knife and telephone pager. You can't walk far-there's a gate house on the road with my men in it, and a charged fence around the perimeter of the land."
"Why?"
"Liberty Ridge is kind of a cross between Club Med and Tombstone, Arizona. You check your guns with the Sheriff and you don't need any money because all the fun is free. It's for security. Liberty Ridge is security. The name Liberty Operations means security. And I'm not about to risk it on some clown driving around with a truckful of guns, now am I?"
"So, why did you quit the Journal job?"
"I was burned out and sick of people."
"Run out of story ideas?"
"Just about."
"Why didn't you rent out the Laguna house?"
"I thought I might go back someday."
"Not avoiding memories there, were you? Memories of a love gone bad? Or maybe a love gone dead, like Ms. Harris?"
He imagined the tall gray blank wall again, curved and surrounding him, the inside of the deep well where nothing ever happened between him and Rebecca.
"Will you please tell me why I'm supposed to have been in love with her?"
"Ever meet Joshua Weinstein?"
John's pulse jumped and he felt his scalp tighten. Joshua had figured very long odds that Holt had linked Rebecca to himself, using the Bureau's influence with the Journal to keep his name out of the paper. "No. I never met Joshua Weinstein."
"Heard of him?"
"No."
"Lying to me, Johnny boy?"
"Just the truth for you, Fargo."
"He was Rebecca's fiance."
"It's beginning to sound to me like you were the one in love with her."