Free The Triggerman Dance by T. Jefferson Parker Page B

"He needs to believe more in us. He needs to depend on us."
"He'll come to do that," said Weinstein. "We're trying to build a relationship with him, not offer a one-night stand."
"I don't trust pretty men," said Norton. "They lack character, period."
"He's passed every phase of his training perfectly. It's not his fault he's got a pretty face. That's what got us all here, isn't it?"
Norton nodded, acknowledging this reference to Rebecca. "How does he react to pressure?"
"The most pressure we've put him through was today, your questions about Rebecca."
"Based on that, I'd say he's liable to become pissed off."
"I think he can keep his head."
"Does he sprint at the end of his runs?"
"Always. Why?"
"He looks like a quick-comer to me. He might need endurance, Joshua. If he saves enough mustard for a sprint after seven miles, all the better. Has he shown any interest in Sharon?"
"A little. Not much. I could be wrong, though."
"Hmm. I'd sure like to have more pull with him than just you."
"Rebecca's the pull, Norton. Not me, or Sharon, or anyone else. He's single-minded."
"No use trying to change that, I suppose."
"Let's use it while it's there."
Norton and Weinstein stood and shook hands. Monica took a chair at the table.
"Things in Washington are okay," said Norton "Frazee is still too interested in Wayfarer, but I don't know how to correct that. And the more I try to shade him away, the more control he wants. He's like a kid with toys. I hate bureaucrats. Of course he's worried sick about the Hate Crimes money we got from the White House—worried about it going away. He's always whining about no money. So he's determined to keep this operation small and deniable. No show of force from us. No Ruby Ridge. No Waco."
"We've all got our crosses to bear," said Monica. "You're Joshua's, and Frazee is yours."
"Whose are you?"
"My husband's, I hope."
Weinstein remained standing when Norton sat back down. Joshua's stomach was trembling a little, and he felt uncertain in his knees. "Well?" he asked.
    "Nice work," said Norton. "Move ahead."
CHAPTER 9
They dropped John in front of a little house on Sun Valley Drive a small street off of Laguna Canyon Road, then headed for town to pick up some groceries for their celebration.
He stood there for a while, noting the fresh asphalt under his feet, the ivy choking the Chinese elm in his front yard, the wooden fence he'd built to contain the dogs, the old brick chimney and the forlorn face of the house he had once happily called home. Mrs. Gorman from across the street waved at him uncertainly, focusing on him with her weak eyes as if he were someone returned from the dead. He nodded, walked down the driveway and let himself in through the squeaking gate for the first time in almost five months.
The yard was overgrown, in shambles. Luckily, it was hidden from the neighbors by the ivy-covered fence. The lawn furniture seemed to have sunk into an abyss of weeds. The vegetable garden was profuse with zucchini, and pocked by gopher mounds. A ground squirrel, squash in mouth, hurried away toward the woodpile by the side of the house. The needles of a bristlecone pine lay deep beneath the tree, lashed loosely together by a silk skein of spiderwebs and funnels that shone dustily in the afternoon sun.
John sees Rebecca there, under that tree, sitting in a bead chair with a book open on her lap and her long pale legs stretched into a patch of late December sun.
"Wine?" he asks.
"You," she answers.
John worked the key in a lock gone stubborn with disuse. Finally it turned. Then the familiar clunk of the heavy door sucking inward, and the ambience—aged by absence but intact— reaching out to greet him as he stepped inside. Dust. Heavy air. The smell of loss. Shapes of things still firm in their places, matching perfectly the shapes and places in his memory. Sunlight diffused through the dirt of windowpanes. A potent silence. Home.
"Oh," he muttered.
He gathered up the sheets he'd placed over the couch and