“I'm Bill Cross. Welcome aboard.” Cross had an auburn crew cut and gunmetal-gray eyes. He was about Winter's size, in his midtwenties.
“Dave Beck.” Beck had obviously been awakened for the meeting. He was in his early thirties, no taller than five-six, and in need of a shave. The ball cap he wore splayed his mousy hair out over the tops of his ears. “We're all looking forward to working with you, Massey.”
“I'm Ed Dixon.”
“We all call him Bear,” Greg said.
“Ed,” Winter said, extending his hand.
Dixon shrugged shyly as he shook Winter's hand. “Bear's cool. Been my name since I was in diapers.”
“Bear” was a nickname that fit the man perfectly. Dixon was six-four and weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. His deep-set eyes seemed too small for his head, and his voice was pitched so low it vibrated.
“Bob Forsythe,” Greg said.
“Robert,” Forsythe corrected.
Forsythe was in his late thirties, and his features were acute. He wore his slick, jet-black hair combed straight back against his skull like a gangster in an old B movie. Winter's instant impression was of a thrifty man who didn't waste expressions or words. His eyes were as alert as a falcon's. He looked at Winter as though he were sizing him up as competition.
“I saw you shoot a few years back,” Winter told him.
Forsythe formed what might have been a grin if his lips hadn't been so tight. “How'd I do?”
“You came in second on account of that sudden gust of wind.”
“I took first the next year-ninety-eight,” he replied, too quickly.
“I know,” Winter said. “Then you quit competing.”
“What's the point in repeating yourself?” Forsythe said.
“We've all seen you shoot!” Bear blurted out. Then he blushed. “Sorry. It's just that you're a phenom. Like Forsythe. Naturally the rest of us wish-we just get by.”
“Get by?” Greg said incredulously. “Bear here can hold a Jeep off the ground while you change the tire and not even break a sweat.”
Winter nodded. He knew that for the past seven years every recruit entering Glynco had viewed the court security tapes of Winter's Tampa shootout. The tapes, taken as a record for the Justice Department of the trial of a drug lord, were included in the training as an example of a deputy putting himself between a threat and innocent people. That was the official excuse for showing the tapes, but it was strictly a prurient exercise of “Watch the marshal get shot at and somehow not die. Now watch him even the score. Man, that was some shooting, but don't try and trick-shoot like that, rookie, or you'll be dead.” He had been invited to speak to the first class that viewed the tapes, but he had declined in such a way that the invitation had never been offered again. Winter had never seen the tapes and didn't want to.
“And you know Angela Martinez. Okay, sailors, back in the barrel,” Greg told them. “I need to show Winter and Martinez around the island.”
Winter and Martinez accompanied Greg on a tour of the island. Starting in front of the safe house, Greg pointed at the water tower forty yards to the south. “That doubles as a shooting platform for Forsythe. It gives him a good view of our side of this island.” He pointed to the north side of the house. “The tennis courts and pool are closed for the season.”
“Hard to believe they pay us for this,” Martinez said.
“This isn't a vacation,” Greg reminded her sharply. “The Devlins are never to leave the house unescorted. Anything feels wrong, use whatever force you need to get on top of things. Neutralize the situation, ask questions later. We are authorized to use any lethal force we deem necessary, which is why this crew is made up of the people it is. Shifts are listed on the board in the security room.”
“Cherry Point is supplying heavy protection. They've moved in some combat-equipped attack helicopters and even have some SEALs bivouacked just down the coast. We sound an alarm and cavalry arrives in minutes. I'll show you the other side the island.”
After taking the path behind the house that led through the trees to the west side of the island, the marshals stood overlooking the naval facility. “Radar station is manned by six sailors,” Greg informed them. “They're under orders to stay on this side of the tree line while we're here. Cover story is that there's an admiral vacationing with his wife. As far as anybody knows we're Navy security.
“That big building is the barracks and the one just behind it is an equipment shed. The radio room is the building with the dish tower on top of it. The ramp beside it leads down to the pier. Store boat normally delivers supplies on Thursdays and ferries sailors as necessary. The cigarette racer and the sport-fishing boat are for the brass.”
“How long we here for?” Martinez asked.
“Devlin is set to testify before a congressional committee on organized crime early next week. I doubt we'll be returning here after that. With this guy, if the Justice Department gets nervous, we could be asked to make a move onto a military base without warning.”
“How do you get orders?”
Greg smiled and reached into his pocket. “This is a Palm organizer bought by some civil servant's wife-it can communicate wirelessly through an account in her name. I send encrypted e-mails, our people reply. It's about as immediate as a phone call and absolutely secure. There's not a working phone on our side of the island.”
Martinez said, “Great food, sun, surf, hazardous-duty pay, and an army over my shoulder. They'll have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming.”
Greg chuckled. “Please don't throw me in de briar patch!”
Back at the safe house, the trio of marshals found Dave Beck sitting at a console watching the monitors hooked to cameras covering the entire western side of the island.
The security room was carpeted, windowless, and large enough for two chairs and a couch. Three of the monitors showed views of the house's exterior doors and porch, the beach, pool, and tennis courts. Three other monitors showed interior views: the hallway outside the security room, and other halls and rooms in the house. The view on each screen changed every five seconds.
“This is a restricted zone we're in. The sailors report any craft in the sky or on the water,” Greg said. He pointed to the panel. “Whenever an outside door is opened, that light flashes. You can zoom and pan the cameras. After dinner, Beck will show you how everything here works.”
“In an emergency, hit this red button and we get help.”
“Once it's triggered, they come to investigate,” Greg said. “A helicopter gunship arrives first, followed by a Blackhawk packed with our SEAL friends. Time to introduce you to our Mr. Devlin,” he added. “If he's receiving.”
Greg tapped on the door to the Devlins' bedroom. “Mr. Devlin, it's Greg,” he called out. “Got some people to introduce.”
“Enter, Inspector,” a male voice replied.
The Devlins were sitting on the bed holding hands. Dylan was wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt; his left ankle was bandaged.
As soon as Winter got a close look at the killer, he was sure that Dylan's smile, carrot-colored hair, and pale green eyes made him seem harmless to his victims until it was way too late. Dylan Devlin looked about as dangerous as a week-old puppy. Mrs. Devlin had changed into something casual. She didn't look directly at the deputies, keeping her eyes fixed on the bedspread. She didn't seem exactly displeased that the marshals had interrupted them, but their presence seemingly held no interest for her.
“This is the first face-to-face we've had in eighteen days. Lots to catch up on,” Devlin told them.
“I can imagine,” Greg replied. “I wanted to take a second to introduce you to the new additions to the detail, Deputies Massey and Martinez.”
“Pleased to meet you both,” Dylan said, “and welcome aboard.”
He focused on each deputy in turn.
“We'll let you and Mrs. Devlin get back to your discussion,” Greg said.
“Call her Sean. My w
ife is far too young and lovely to be referred to as Mrs. And, please, call me Dylan. I insist.”
Sean Devlin nodded absently. She turned her gaze for the first time and met Winter's eyes for a fleeting moment, her honey-colored eyes communicating nothing at all.
Party's over, lady, Winter thought. And here's the bill.
After they left the Devlins' bedroom and were back in the living room Greg turned once more to Winter and Martinez. “Always keep in mind that Dylan Devlin is a professional-a psychopath who can listen to Mozart while dismembering a body in a bathtub and eating potato chips. A badly sprained ankle and some busted ribs have slowed him down, but he'll be mobile soon enough. There's always a possibility he might decide that life on the run is preferable to showing up in court and exposing himself to the possibility that another stone killer like himself will take him out.”
“So Mrs. Devlin is here as an anchor,” Winter said.
Greg shrugged. “The A.G. wants him to be content.”
“Ain't domestic bliss wonderful,” Martinez said.
Winter realized suddenly what being in Devlin's room reminded him of. The reptile house at the Audubon Zoo.
12
There was very little talk during dinner, because the food was too good. Jet ladled rich, dark gumbo into deep bowls half-filled with steamed rice. There were loaves of broiled-to-a-crunch French bread, the center wet with garlic butter, and a salad that had a distinctive citrus twang. Compliments flew from the deputies.
A large black cat rubbed against Winter's leg. It peered up at him with fluid golden eyes and tilted his head, requesting a crumb from the table.
“Midnight!” Jet roared as she swooped up the animal in a well-practiced motion. “Let these people eat in peace.”
She crossed the room and thrust the feline out the back door. The cat stood on the porch and stared in through the screen. “That cat's always messin' with something. Midnight's not much company, but some's better than none. I could say the same thing about my last husband,” Jet added.
After the meal was over, Greg helped Jet clear the plates. Then he sat back down and got serious. “What we do here is about prevention, about keeping someone safe from being a target. That's WITSEC. Winter here is accustomed to staying in motion, handing out summonses, escorting prisoners hither and yon, and hunting down fugitives. Two different worlds.”
“I hope you don't get bored, Winter,” Forsythe said, a sharpness to his voice.
“I'm sure I won't find this boring.”
“Tampa.” Dixon shook his head. “Most thrilling fifteen seconds ever filmed. Three methed-up hit men firing Uzis. And-”
“Look,” Winter interrupted. “Tampa was a long time ago. I'd really rather-”
“Want to know all there is to know about Winter?” Greg cut in. “No better friend and no worse enemy. What more does any of us here need to know?”
Jet passed them, carrying a bowl through the swinging door into the dining room. Winter caught a glimpse of the table as the door closed. The Devlins sat facing each other across the polished walnut, again holding hands. Jet opened the door by pushing it with her hip, turned and reentered the kitchen carrying an empty pitcher. Winter glimpsed the hands again, joined in the center of the table.
“Winter is a scholar. Got a master's degree from Sewanee. Taught at private high schools. What was it you taught? Poetry?”
There was a muffled burst of laughter from the dining room. Winter wondered what the Devlins found so funny.
“Literature,” Winter told the marshals.
Martinez pushed her chair back and stood. “I'm going to catch a nap before my shift.”
Yet another happy burst of laughter from the dining room. Winter wondered what sort of jokes a killer told his wife to entertain her. In his experience, a woman who could be in love with someone who had forfeited his soul probably had denial down to a religion.
13
Winter's dream might have been complex and rambling, but all he remembered of it when he awoke was how it ended. He was in a house, in a bed with Eleanor. They were very young. Rush, who technically shouldn't have been there at all, was sitting on the bed staring angelically at Winter and his mother. He talked about how wonderful it was to be able to see again and how great it was having his mother back, due to a time machine's reversing everything bad that happened the day their plane crashed. When something touched his shoulder, Winter jerked awake to find that Greg, lit by the yellow light bleeding in from the bathroom, was staring down at him. Winter sat bolt upright, and Greg jumped back reflexively, putting his hands up as if to protect himself.
“Your turn on deck,” Greg said as he dropped down on his own bed, yawning.
Winter swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the carpet.
The roar of the surf drowned out every sound past the railing, ten feet beyond the wicker chair that Winter had backed up against the house, in the shadows. He had set the 9-mm Heckler amp; Koch MP5 machine pistol on the table beside the chair. Constant motion, he thought, watching the froth as the water gobbled up the shoreline. Sharks moving from birth to death, octopuses slithering from rock to rock-monsters galore, always moving in search of food. He remembered how Rush had always worn tennis shoes in the surf after he had once stepped barefoot on a crab.
The creak of the front door opening had the impact of a sudden slap. Winter sat upright, reached for the H amp;K, and placed the gun in his lap. Martinez stepped out, nodded at Winter, then opened the door to let Mrs. Devlin come outside.
Sean Devlin carried a cup of coffee in both hands as she moved to the porch rail. She stared out at the ocean, set her cup on the railing, zipped up her canvas jacket, and flipped up the collar. Then she lifted the cup and took a sip. Martinez crossed her arms against the chill.
“You can go back inside,” Sean Devlin told her. “You're cold.”
“No can do,” Martinez replied cheerfully.
“He's right there,” Sean said. She tilted her head toward Winter. “How many guards do I need? Does one always have to be a woman?”
“Not necessarily,” Martinez said.
“Go back inside,” Winter told Martinez.
Martinez looked uncertain. “Okay, Winter, I'll be in the security room.”
Winter held up his walkie-talkie, then clipped it back on his belt. “If I need anything, I'll call,” he promised.
Martinez went back inside, leaving Winter to watch over Sean.
She seemed somehow sad standing at the banister for a silent five minutes as she stared out at the waves, sipping coffee like she was the only soul for miles. When the cook's cat leaped up onto the rail beside her she gasped, knocking her cup over the rail, where it landed soundlessly in the sand. She laughed, reached out tentatively, and touched the cat's head with her fingertips. The cat nuzzled against her and she rubbed it behind the ears. “Well, you like that? What's your name?” she asked the animal.
“Midnight,” Winter volunteered.
“Male or female?” She didn't turn her head a fraction of an inch toward Winter.
“I think Mrs. Washington called Midnight a him.”
“I didn't know her last name. She told me to call her Jet.” As she stroked the cat's head, it purred audibly and pressed against her hand. “You are a sweet boy, aren't you, Midnight?”
Winter scanned the beach in both directions.
“My mother thought dogs were unruly.” Sean Devlin spoke as if to herself. “She let me have a cat, thought they were less likely to be disruptive. I called her Punkin. She ran away and never came back. What do you suppose cats think about?”
Winter felt less like carrying on the cat conversation than having a tooth pulled. “Probably think about where to get nine more lives,” he replied.
She laughed. “You suppose?”
Eleanor had been allergic to cats. Winter saw them as sneaky and untrustworthy, letting you pet them, then suddenly turning their claws and teeth on you. With dogs you knew what was
up most of the time.
Midnight promptly jumped down and trotted away. “You ever have a cat?”
“I don't recall any.”
She turned and leaned against the railing. “Do you have children, Deputy Massey?”
He twisted his wedding band and wished he had left it at home. She was staring at it. “One, a son.”
“How old is he?”
“Twelve on Sunday.”
“Being a deputy, doing this, I suppose you are away for long stretches.”
“Sometimes.”
“I guess you're a federal agent, not technically a policeman?”
“More cop than agent,” he replied.
“It must be hard on your wife.”
Winter didn't want the conversation to go any farther down the personal path. Maybe she was a nice enough woman, but being the wife of a criminal put her squarely on the other side of the wall. “I don't imagine anyone enjoys being separated from those they care for.”
Sean turned abruptly and started down the steps.
Winter stood. “Hey, where are you going?”
She bent down, held up the cup she had dropped and placed it on the floor beneath the railing. He relaxed, fractionally.
“I'd like a walk on the beach, get my feet wet in the surf. Is that possible?”
“If I accompany you.” He lifted the MP5 and slipped the strap over his shoulder.
The radio was a two-way, low-frequency system very much like the walkie-talkies that mothers bought to remain in contact with their children in a mall. It had been selected because the frequency was likely to be overlooked by any eavesdropper searching for professional bands. He pressed the microphone button. “S-one, W.M. and P-two proceeding south on the sand.”
“What's all that mean?” Sean asked.
“S-one is control in the security room, W.M. is me, Winter Massey, and you are P-two. Cross is out here, too, and now he knows to expect us.”
“Why P and not D for Devlin?”
“Package. That is anyone we are watching. It's-”
“SCJ?”
“Sorry?”
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