The Triggerman Dance by T. Jefferson Parker Read Free Book Online Page A

but it overlooks the coast. It backs up against Pendleton Marine Base. It's got a lake. It's got oak savanna, coastal scrub, two hundred acres of orange trees. There was only one road into it, and Puma kept it that way. He built an eight-foot fence around it and wired it full of voltage. There's a guard house where the road comes into his property. He could have afforded electricity, gas and water, but he installed generators, propane and wells instead. He rebuilt the old mission-era house, which ran him almost a half a million dollars. When it was ready, he moved in with his paralyzed wife and his daughter. He began a business that is now thriving. And since then, no one sees him. He's there, of course—I don't mean he's disappeared—but he rarely leaves the place. Oh yes, it has a name. Liberty Ridge."

Liberty, thought John. He liked the sound of the word, though it wasn't a word you heard much anymore. And he knew the land that Weinstein was talking about. It was gorgeous land, tough land, filled with wildlife, nourished by the lake, with a commanding view from its peak. As a kid, John had hiked it, camped it, scavenged it for fossils and rocks and reptiles a hundred times.
    John looked around the room, at the bare walls, the blank television monitor, the pale green carpet. For a moment, Puma's paralyzed wife and Liberty Ridge were just blips on the screen of his awareness. But then they grew in size, and he remembered why his stomach had tightened and his heart was now beating so loudly inside his rib cage. Puma was behind Rebecca.
    Rebecca.
    "Now," said Weinstein, "we need to. look forward, to the van used in the . . . assassination. Rather, to the repair shop from which the van was lifted. Sharon? You're on."
    With this, Sharon Dumars rose and began pacing. At first she went back and forth in front of the screen, then extended her run to include the entire perimeter of the room. She looked for all the world, thought John, like a female version of Joshua.
    "The shop is owned by someone whose name you don't need to know," she began. John detected the relish of power in her voice, the pride of one who commands. "This man has a brother-in-law. Brother-in-law works for Puma. Coincidence? Maybe or maybe not. Let's say it is. Puma, we learn, is a competent amateur engraver. He actually earned money during college working for a trophy company, even though his family was rich. Coincidence that the bullet casings left behind for us were engraved? Let's say that's a coincidence, too. Then, there's this—Puma loves to hunt big game, and big game hunters use big rifles, sometimes a .30/ 06 caliber because it's powerful and accurate. Puma—and the men he hunts with—have taken and made four hundred and eighty yard shots. We know this because he's listed in the Boone &c Crockett record books, and in the Safari Club International record books. Coincidence again? Yes, let's call it all coincidence, again. We can afford to be generous."
    With this, Dumars stopped at the table and drained the rest of her water. John noted the sheen of sweat on her forehead and the way her hair stuck at the temples.
    "Then," she continued, "there's the fact, too, that Susan
Baum broke the story about Teresa Descanso—the shooter' aunt—accusing Patrick of rape. It was explosive. The accuse* murderer dumped the public defender because he couldn't get results on Patrick, and let Glory Redmond take the case pro bono. You can imagine the circus she made of it. She didn't even try to link Patrick to Descanso with physical evidence, which was smart. What better could they do—Redmond argued—than ai eyewitness? All the while, Baum crusaded in print, with a series of articles in which Descanso, then another woman, accused Patrick not only of the rape, but of solicitations for prostitution public drunkenness and aggravated assault. Baum argued to he readers what Redmond was arguing to her jury, that a white male-establishment-Orange County DA was ignoring