Inside Out wm-1

by John Ramsey Miller

  “Standard cop jargon?”

  “Want company, W.M.?” Martinez called out over the radio.

  “Negative that. Visibility's a solid ten. I'll stay in sight.”

  Winter walked on the shore side of her, slightly higher up the slope. As they walked, his eyes darted constantly, scanning the ocean, the beach, the tops of the dunes.

  Sean stopped, lifted each foot, removed her sandals, and held them by their back straps. “God, I hate the feeling of sand in my shoes,” she said.

  He didn't respond.

  “You ever been to South America?” she asked out of the blue.

  “Fugitive recovery in Colombia and Costa Rica. Never been for pleasure. Don't speak Spanish very well.”

  “I was just in Argentina looking at ranch land. I liked South America okay. Dylan loves the idea of living in Argentina, but I'm not so sure. Land is cheap, but it's so volatile economically and politically.”

  Winter visualized the scenario. Devlin commits a few murders for money, gets caught, and turns on his employers. Then, after the trial is over and everybody is in prison, he and his princess relocate to Argentina. Historically speaking, Argentines didn't make moral judgments on things like multiple murder. “I'm sure you'll love living there.” Maybe Adolph Eichmann's house is vacant. Or you could try the old Mengele place in Paraguay, or was it Bolivia?

  “Your son. What's his name?”

  “Rush.”

  “Winter and Rush are both unusual names.”

  “I suppose.” Winter could have explained the origins of his and Rush's names, but he wasn't being paid to socialize. She said something else but Winter didn't hear it-something had caught his attention. The texture of the beach ahead had been physically altered, slightly churned.

  Winter grabbed Sean's shoulder, planning to press her to the ground where she would be a slimmer target as he flipped off the H amp;K's safety and put his finger inside the guard. The second he gripped her shoulder, however, she shifted her weight, grabbed his hand off her shoulder, pivoted, and forced her narrow knee straight up into Winter's testicles with perfect accuracy and surprising force.

  His vision filled with brilliant yellow light and fireworks; three distinct booming reports echoed inside his skull. The explosions were real enough. When her knee had struck home, his finger was on the trigger. The gun in his hand had fired a three-shot burst into the air. Without thinking, Winter used his body weight to pin her down. “Freeze!” he snarled as he aimed the barrel at the place where the tracks went up over the dune.

  “Get off me!” Sean yelled.

  “Shots fired!” Cross's voice called over the radio.

  “What was that?” Martinez's voice crackled over the radio. “Winter!”

  Winter keyed the microphone and managed to say, “We've got company.”

  “You under fire, Win?” Greg's voice demanded.

  “Negative, accidental discharge. But at least two sets of footprints coming in from the ocean. I'm a hundred yards north.”

  Sean stopped trying to wriggle free. Winter growled, “Lie still!” He couldn't regulate his breathing, the pain between his legs was overwhelming. His stomach seemed intent on giving up Jet's gumbo.

  Two figures bolted, sprinting over the dune away from Winter and his charge. He aimed at them, following their flight with the barrel. Both looked like divers in skintight wet suits, carrying bundles in their arms as they fled.

  The security lights mounted in the trees sprang to life, making it high noon on the beach all the way from the house.

  Sean Devlin froze under him like something dead.

  Winter called for the pair to halt, but either they couldn't hear him or didn't plan to stop. He fired a warning burst wide of the running figures, spraying sand. They fell forward, into the shadow of the dunes.

  Martinez was first out the door as three deputies rushed from the house. Cross fell in behind her; Beck bringing up the rear. In the headset Winter heard Greg shout orders for Forsythe and Dixon to stay with the package. As they closed, Winter kept the subjects covered while watching the dunes to his left for a possible third man.

  “Cross, secure my left flank!” Winter shouted into his radio. In the excitement, the initialisms were forgotten.

  Cross turned instantly and went up over the dunes with his M16 before him, his rifle's barrel leading the way. As Martinez approached, Winter signaled her to stop. She dropped to her knees beside him. “You all right?” Her eyes were wide with excitement.

  It was painful to stand.

  Cross's voice came through Winter's ear piece, “The dunes are clear, Massey. Hold your fire, I'm coming in.”

  “Martinez, get the package home,” Winter told her.

  “I'm really sorry-” Sean began.

  “Get her out of here, now!” Winter snapped as Greg ran toward them from the house. “Greg, can you cover Martinez and P-two-coming your way now?”

  “Affirmative,” Greg's voice came over the radio.

  Cross came over the dunes dragging a wool blanket behind him.

  The two women hurried toward the house, looking back frequently over their shoulders. Martinez had the look of a dog that had been pulled away from killed game.

  Greg, carrying a shotgun, came running up wearing a T-shirt, khakis, and no shoes. He had a bandolier of twelve-gauge shells strung across his chest like a Wild West bandit. “You two, up on your knees, hands where we can see them!” he yelled out.

  As the deputies advanced on the sprawled figures, it became obvious that instead of two scuba-diving assassins, they had captured a naked couple. The woman had dropped her clothes in the sand when Winter fired. The man clutched what appeared to be wadded-up fatigues.

  Winter thought about curling up in the sand like a fetus and staying there motionless for a while. A low hollow roar of pain seemed to run from the base of his spine through his testes and up to his lungs.

  Cross held up a ripped-open condom package. “This was on the blanket.”

  “Damn,” Greg said, laughing. “Winter, you shot at these people for screwing?”

  “I didn't know what they were doing,” Winter managed to say.

  “Better safe than sorry, Inspector,” Cross said. “Maybe he was planning to knock Massey over the head with his weapon after he finished using it on her. Maybe the condom was so he wouldn't leave a prick print.”

  The tension was dissipating rapidly. Winter almost laughed himself. He was never going to hear the end of this one.

  “You two, stand up! Empty hands on your heads, and turn around slowly!” Greg bellowed. They scrambled to their feet and turned.

  “Aw, that's mean,” Cross said, trying not to snicker.

  “Gotta do this by the book,” Greg said.

  “The Joy of Sex?” Cross shot back.

  An Apache gunship, probably flying night maneuvers nearby when the alarm was sounded, thundered in from out of the darkness, stopped on a dime, and hung above the beach fifty yards south of them. Greg signaled the pilot that he had things under control. The chopper tilted, pivoted, and slid out over the water, shining its blinding spotlight on the scene below as it passed by. Satisfied the situation was under control, the pilot banked the chopper and flew off west.

  Greg said, “Looks like a pair of swabbies from the other side. Let's keep a straight face, make sure we make an impression.”

  He lifted the man's dog tags and glared at him. Winter and Cross relaxed, lowering the muzzles of their weapons.

  “What the hell are you two doing here?” Nations growled.

  “Navy, sir! Ensign Signalman Lawrence Tacket, sir!”

  “Ensign-” the woman started.

  “I don't give a damn what your names are! What I asked was what the hell you are doing over here.” He scooped the clothes up and searched the pockets. He dropped a sealed condom on the sand, along with some change and a pocketknife. He opened a wallet and checked its contents.

  “We were just out for a walk,” Ensign Tacket o
ffered.

  “And the wind tore your uniforms off?”

  Tacket was a muscular young man and he stayed at full attention, his eyes ahead as if a drill sergeant was on a parade ground inspecting him. The young woman was shivering in the evening chill, her teeth chattering violently. Neither could have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old. The naked woman suddenly giggled nervously. “Can I cover up, please?” she pleaded.

  Greg allowed his eyes to drop down below Tacket's waist, then shook his head. “Remove that condom, Ensign. And don't drop it on my beach.”

  “Please,” she repeated.

  “Cross, give the lady her clothes.”

  Cross scooped up the woman's shirt and pants, checked them, and tossed them to her. She turned to one side and slipped them on.

  The ensign reached down, peeled off the condom, and hid it in his large fist.

  “Okay, you two. You're damned lucky my man didn't kill you both. The admiral's wife got an eyeful, and you'll be fortunate indeed if she doesn't ask her husband to skin you two alive. Next time, if you want to play ‘punch the monkey,' do it on your side of the island,” Greg said.

  The woman giggled again.

  “Don't ever let me catch you on this side of this island again. Go! Run!” They started to go up over the dunes but Greg thundered, “All the way around! Stay the hell out of my trees!”

  Winter turned and walked toward the house like a man with a broken foot. It was sobering to realize that if the two ensigns had come straight over the hill in the dark at a dead run, he might have killed them. Winter doubted Greg would make an official complaint. It was a good story that would be spoiled if Nations had to end it with the fact that he caused two kids to be busted out of the service, probably their only tickets out of otherwise bleak futures.

  Greg fell into step beside him. “What happened to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You're walking like somebody pounded sand up your butt.”

  “Strained a groin muscle, I guess.”

  The security lights died and it was night again.

  Martinez stood waiting on the porch with one hand on the doorknob. “Winter, Mrs. Devlin is really sorry about kneeing you in your noogies. She thought you were making an advance… of a sexual nature.”

  “Guess there's more than one way to pull a groin muscle,” Greg said, grinning.

  “Forget it,” Winter muttered. He was certain he would never again produce another ounce of semen with anything swimming in it.

  Martinez rolled her eyes and went inside, laughing. Greg followed, and Cross strolled off down the beach, still snickering.

  Winter slumped in the rocking chair. Midnight bumped against his leg. A few minutes later, Jet came out and handed Winter an ice pack.

  “Mr. Greg said you might want this for your pulled muscle.”

  When Jet went back into the house, Winter clearly heard several people whooping with laughter.

  He decided that for the remaining time on the island, whenever the deputies thought about him, the Tampa incident would no longer be the first thing that sprang to mind. He put the bag between his legs. It helped.

  14

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Monday

  The guard stared out through the bulletproof glass at the attorney as though the latter were a thief come to steal the gold out of his mouth. The man before him wore a bedraggled hairpiece. Bertran Stern had a nose like a parrot's beak and sad eyes. He was stoop-shouldered and his suit coat hung on his lanky frame like a drape. Liver spots dotted the hand with which he pressed his driver's license through the slot.

  “Here to see Sam Manelli,” Bertran said.

  “You his attorney?”

  “I am.”

  “Bertran Stern?” the guard read. He looked back up and again at the license, comparing the picture against the real thing.

  Stern nodded once.

  “From New Orleans?” the guard said as he inspected the Louisiana license.

  “Yes.”

  “Manelli had another attorney here yesterday.”

  “Mr. Manelli has several legal representatives. I am his private counsel.” Stern exhaled heavily. The guards always asked the same questions. He supposed it was some form of harassment, but he didn't care. He was already thinking about the trip back home, knowing he would be resummoned as soon as he settled in. He had never liked traveling and was terrified of airplanes. But he had been flying back and forth from New Orleans, ferrying messages between Johnny Russo and Sam, since the mobster's arrest two weeks earlier. Johnny had been running Sam's crime empire for five years and doing a pretty good job as far as Bertran could tell. Sam seemed pleased with what Johnny was telling the attorney and Johnny liked the messages he got back.

  After a few long minutes the solid steel door slid open. A female guard led Bertran to the exercise yard reserved for maximum security prisoners.

  Sam was in his early seventies but looked a decade younger. The gangster was a swarthy man, five-six, one hundred and ninety pounds, with jowls like a bulldog. His full head of gray hair was slicked neatly back, which accentuated his square skull. His meaty hands had untanned places where he usually wore his rings, and his nails were still shiny from his last manicure. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit and plastic flip-flops and had a thirty-dollar cigar clenched between his teeth. He came at Bertran Stern like he was going to stick a shiv into his heart, his intense blue eyes ablaze.

  “Follow me!” he growled. Bertran followed.

  Sam headed for a concrete picnic table under a small metal shelter, but before they arrived Sam grabbed the attorney's elbow and propelled him to an exposed table standing alone in the yard.

  Sam told Bertran to sit on the bench seat and planted himself on the tabletop so he could look down on him, for the psychological edge. In Bert's mind, Sam was ten feet tall.

  “Music would be good,” Sam said.

  “Oh, right.” Stern took a small radio out of his briefcase and turned it on to a classical station. “I guess I have jet lag. I'm getting a little old for this running back and forth.”

  “You want to swap complaints?” Sam said. “I got a list long as a Jew's nose.”

  “No, of course not.” Bertran was Jewish.

  “You don't want to come here no more, is that it?”

  “I like coming here, Sam.” Bertran's fingers were trembling. “To see you.”

  Manelli clenched the cigar in the side of his mouth and spoke around it so no one could read his lips, even with binoculars, which the feds would do.

  “How's my boy doing?”

  “He says business is normal-nothing down at all. He has some concerns if you remain here long, but he says he'll worry about that when he has to.”

  “You think he's doing good-on the level?”

  “He wouldn't say something unless it was on the square.”

  “And he ain't dumb.”

  “I haven't seen any evidence of it.” There are far worse things than being dumb.

  “Okay. What about the other thing?” Sam asked, pleased at Bert's take on Johnny.

  “The guy? Johnny says it's just a matter of time until it's handled. Things are moving.”

  “And as soon as it's done, I'm outta here?”

  “No one to talk, no evidence but the guy's word. Yes, it's certain.”

  “What about her?” Manelli said.

  Stern didn't want to give Manelli bad news, but he had no choice. “She was supposed to be back in the country Saturday,” the attorney said carefully. “Johnny was at the airport personally and he said she didn't come out of the terminal and never showed up at her house. He's got someone checking there periodically, but Johnny thinks she got intercepted by the cops and might be with him someplace.”

  Manelli growled, “I want her waiting for me when I get out of here. Tell Johnny I said that better be the way it is.”

  The mobster's eyes grew hard, his lips rigid with fury. “I got three million re
asons why they better get it done. If it don't get done, heads will boil. Make sure the old man knows that if the rat squeaks, history or not, I ain't gonna like it a lot. I want that Mick bastard in pieces so small a skinny crab would have to eat a dozen to keep his stomach from growling.”

  Stern nodded solemnly.

  “You just remember you said I'd be out in a few days, and here I sit two weeks later.”

  “When I said that, I didn't know what they had behind the charges, Sam.” Bertran's palms felt clammy.

  “By the way, how's your grandbabies doing?” Sam asked.

  Bertran smiled nervously and told Sam they were all fine. Over the forty years they had been doing business, Sam had threatened his family so many times he'd lost count. But no matter how many times he had heard the question, its impact had never lessened. Bertran Stern knew that Sam would not hesitate before having Johnny Russo take a hammer to a child, nor did he doubt that Russo would welcome doing it for him.

  15

  Rook Island, North Carolina

  Twenty minutes before the helicopter landed, Greg told the deputies on duty that it was on its way, bringing a physician to the island. Forsythe was up on the water tank. The waist-high safety rail around the tank was made of steel plate. His weapon was a tricked-out. 308-caliber assault rifle with a thicker-than-normal barrel, a thirty-shot magazine, and a scope. The mirrored sunglasses he wore gave him a decidedly sinister appearance.

  The helicopter landed, and a casually dressed man climbed down and strode toward the house carrying a black leather bag. Winter led the doctor inside, where he and his bag were searched. Greg asked Winter to escort the doctor to Dylan's room and remain with him.

  Though it was open, Winter knocked at the door. Sean Devlin was seated in an armchair, reading. Winter had not seen her since their encounter the night before. She looked up at him with amusement in her eyes.

  “Ah,” Dylan said, seeing them. “Here to make me whole again.”

  The doctor was all business. He moved straight to the bed and placed his bag on the mattress.

  “You put weight on this yet?” He nodded at Devlin's ankle.