“Some,” Dylan said.
The doctor removed the bandage, moved the foot around. “That hurt?”
“No.”
“That?”
“No.”
“Lose the shirt.”
“What, no foreplay?” Dylan said. “You know what foreplay is where I come from?”
The doctor said, “A six-pack?”
“‘Get in the truck, bitch.'” Dylan laughed. “But ‘a six-pack' works for me.”
Sean frowned at the joke.
The doctor cut the tape and bandages away from Dylan's ribs, exposing a yellow bruise the size of a dinner plate. He asked Dylan to stand and walk around the room.
Sean closed her book and watched.
“No pain?” the doctor asked.
Dylan slapped his rib cage hard, then hopped up and down on his unwrapped foot. “Good as new,” he bragged.
“You have an impressive threshold for pain. Those ribs need more time before you go slapping them, so take a few days. Use the crutches if you need to. Any pain medication?”
“I have some, but I can control pain without medication.”
Dylan looked at Winter and winked. “I can start taking walks on the beach now to protect you from my wife.”
Sean opened her book and looked down, perhaps embarrassed.
Winter stared flatly at Dylan, ignoring the killer's mocking grin.
While Winter and Greg were watching the helicopter carry the doctor away and Winter was wishing he was a passenger on it heading home, the Devlins appeared on the porch. Martinez came around the side of the building and stopped in the sand. Dylan reached up, stretched, and inhaled noisily.
“Gentlemen, my wife and I wish to take a leisurely stroll on the beach,” he announced. “Perhaps Deputy Massey would like to accompany us. If he feels up to walking, that is.”
Greg lifted his radio and asked Forsythe for an all-clear. From the water tower, Forsythe leaned the rifle against the rail before him and scanned the water, the sand, and the tree line with his binoculars, then radioed back that the turf was secure.
“Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Devlin, the beach is all yours. Winter, grab a Colt and tag along.”
Winter went into the house and got an AR-15 carbine from the locker in the security room. As he returned, Dylan was saying, “My wife is getting as dark as a Spic. Pretty soon she'll be chattering Spanish at her.” He indicated Martinez.
Martinez raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't react.
“Perhaps it is too bright for a walk,” Sean said. Her cheeks were flushed pink. “Maybe later would be better. When the sun isn't so strong.”
Dylan agreed easily. “An evening walk, then. I, on the other hand, need some rays.”
Winter figured Sean didn't want to displease Dylan. It looked to Winter that the latter exercised control by undermining his wife's confidence. Wouldn't be the first husband who operated that way. His own father had done the same to his mother.
Winter and Dylan started down the beach side by side. “Where was it my wife racked you? On the beach, I mean.”
Winter pointed at the spot at the dune's edge where the sand was still churned up. “About there. Maybe she'll reenact it with you.”
“I know who you are, Massey. I overheard Cross and Dixon talking about a little square dance in Florida a few years back with three Latino gun boys. They seem to think you're some sort of a handgun god.”
“I never cared for dancing,” he said laconically.
“Must have been exciting. Facing those machine guns, and you with only a little pistol. The marshal and the outlaws in a real old-fashioned shoot-out. I bet your blood was up-facing death, looking it in the eyes, and walking out alive. Nothing like it. No one who hasn't been there can understand being tested in the crucible and coming out in one piece.”
“A man would really have to be wired wrong to enjoy a thing like that,” Winter said dismissively.
“The elation after the kill. The adrenaline rush. Don't shit me, Massey, you felt that euphoria. We have that in common, you and I. But where I never felt the slightest pang of guilt, I bet it nearly ate you alive.”
Winter had indeed felt that euphoria. But the shoot-out in Tampa had been followed by nausea, cold sweats, and nightmares. “I sure as hell didn't kill because someone was writing me a check for it,” he said, betraying his emotions.
“Don't be so sanctimonious. They pay you, Deputy. I just get fatter checks.”
“Different theys. And my they doesn't want me to kill anybody.”
“Do you think about your own death, Massey?”
“Some.”
“Are you afraid to die?”
“Not looking forward to it.” Winter could feel his blood rising and wished Devlin would get off the subject.
“How would you go, given a choice? Heart attack in bed? Bullet in the brain? Swan-diving into an active volcano?”
“I doubt I'll get to choose. Can we change the subject?”
“Man like you could be anything, and yet this is what you chose.” Dylan persisted, savoring Winter's obvious discomfort. “All the things you could have had, and you're walking down the beach, putting your life on the line for what, sixty thousand a year? I have a beautiful, rich wife who thinks I hung the moon, but I never touched a penny of hers because I make a lot of money. A lot of money.”
“I don't go hungry. I can drive only one car at a time, and I have a good medical plan with dental.”
“You're a fucking security guard, Massey,” Dylan snarled. “You know what my favorite thing is?”
“I don't care.”
Devlin stared down at the AR-15 in Winter's hand. “It's taking a target's weapon away and giving him the business end of it. Gun, knife, once it was a baseball bat. The expression on their faces is always worth the extra effort. It's the ultimate humiliation, like pissing on them-a caveman high.”
“Can I be totally honest with you, Devlin?”
“I'd welcome it.”
“I like chasing down bad guys. The sense of satisfaction I get when I put human garbage-like, say, a cold-blooded murderer-in chains is priceless. Hell, I'd do it for free if they didn't pay me to.”
“That so? So tell me one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“What's it feel like to have your balls bashed in by a woman?”
“About half as painful as talking to you.”
Dylan threw his head back and laughed. “That's a good one! You're a piece of work, Massey.” He turned back toward the house, shaking his head. “And I had hoped we could be pals.”
“Now, that's a good one,” Winter said flatly.
When they returned, Sean was in a rocking chair on the porch with the cat in her lap, rubbing its head. Winter stopped beside Martinez at the railing. When Dylan reached down to rub it, Midnight hissed, clawed his hand, and ran off.
Sean took Dylan's hand and inspected the scratches. “He seemed so friendly,” she said softly.
“Things aren't always as they seem,” her husband snapped. He sat in the chair beside her, rubbing the bloodied hand against his pants. “Nine lives. Living out here with no cars, no other cats or dogs, that little black shitter could die of old age with eight of those still tucked away in a celestial savings account.” He stroked his wife's hand, looked up at Winter, and smiled. “Unless he does something dumb.”
16
Winter watched as Angela Martinez concentrated on the puzzle in front of her, working as methodically as a jeweler checking a consignment of diamonds. She rubbed each piece of the anodized steel with a Teflon-saturated cloth and then set it on the newspaper. When she was finished putting it back together, the puzzle revealed itself as a Glock pistol. Forty-caliber shells were lined up at attention like soldiers. One by one she inserted the rounds into the mouth of the magazine, then slapped the back of it against her palm to seat the bullets. She jacked the receiver, fed the chamber, removed the magazine to add a round, and slammed the magazine home. Satisfied,
she put the gun into her hip holster and snapped the thumb-release strap.
“Think it'll shoot now?” Cross asked.
“Better than yours.”
“In a million years you couldn't outshoot me.”
“Give me a break, Cross. There's nothing you can do that I can't do faster and better.”
“Sexual discrimination suits filed by crybaby dykes and bleeding-heart judges have screwed up everything by trying to make all of us equal. Well, that's just paper equality, it can't make women physically equal to men. Strength and stamina can't be altered by court rulings.”
“You think you're stronger than me?” Martinez said, snickering. “Twenty dollars says I can take you arm wrestling,” she told Cross calmly.
“You have twenty dollars, Cross?”
Beck reached into his wallet and tossed a twenty onto the center of the table. “Arm-wrestling contest? I'm in. Even odds?”
“Whatever you can stand to lose,” Martinez told him.
“Who's covering your losses?” Cross asked.
“There won't be any,” she said with total confidence.
Five minutes later the kitchen was crowded and there was a heap of money in the center of the table. When Cross and Martinez squared off, all the money was on Cross.
Jet laid a ten down and pressed it flat. “On him to win.”
“Traitor,” Martinez said.
“Sorry. I'm a woman, but I've never been called a stupid one.”
The cat fled the room and Dylan was suddenly standing in the doorway.
“Winter, you want in?” Greg asked, ignoring Devlin.
“I don't gamble,” Winter said. He figured Martinez was going to get creamed and he didn't want to waste money, or take any of hers.
Dylan walked over to the table and thumped a hundred dollar bill down. “On Deputy Cross,” he said. “Can you cover this, senorita?” He winked. “Or maybe we can just work out some kind of a trade.”
Martinez stared down at the bill and then at Winter. He could see her confidence faltering.
“On Martinez to win, okay?” he said, taking his wallet out. He took out five twenties and tossed them near the pile.
“Sean, honey,” Devlin called out cheerfully. “Come watch your deputy get his noogies kicked in again.”
Sean came into the room and stood near the stove. Cross put his elbow on the table. Martinez slipped off her jacket.
“You can take off your shirt, too,” Cross told her. “Might distract me.”
Martinez planted her elbow on the table and straightened her forearm.
“What little hands you have, my dear,” Cross crooned, as he took her hand in his. “You want to stand up and lean in to get some leverage?”
Greg covered their hands with his. “When I let go, it begins.” He looked at Martinez. “Anybody wants to back out, do it now. There's a lot of money on the table.”
Greg counted down from three, then let go, and for a second Martinez's arm sank slowly back toward the table. Her face contorted. Cross seemed to be enjoying himself. When Martinez's arm was almost touching the surface of the table, Cross tilted his head and looked at her quizzically. Martinez smiled and started moving her opponent's arm back up to center.
Cross started to sweat. He clenched his teeth, and the veins in his temples began to bulge.
“I know how you're feeling, Cross,” Martinez said. “It's like the heavens are all out of balance and your little Super Boy world is about to collapse around you. Welcome to Club Humiliation, you smug male bastard.” She smiled as she inched Cross's hand back toward the surface. He was giving it everything he had.
“You want to stand up, for leverage?” she mocked. Cross's hand hit the table hard. He sat there, bewildered.
“Again, double or nothing?” she asked. “Left hands?”
The room was silent.
Martinez stacked the bills tidily and picked them up. She took Devlin's C-note and Winter's twenties and handed them to Winter.
“How the hell did you do that?” Dylan asked Martinez, incredulous.
“Black beans,” she shot back.
Winter pocketed the cash and repeated something to Dylan that the killer himself had said earlier. “Things aren't always as they seem.. darling.”
“I thought you didn't gamble, Massey?” Devlin snapped back, his eyes smoldering.
Winter shrugged. “I don't.”
Devlin pivoted on his heel and left the room. His wife stared into Winter's eyes for a long second, then smiled and followed Devlin out.
17
Tuesday
Winter awoke to Greg tapping his shoulder.
“Time to get up and run. Mind some company this morning?”
“Of course not. You feeling a sudden urge to exercise?” Winter asked.
“Nah. You mind running armed this morning?”
Winter's mind snapped to full alert. “Aw, not Devlin.”
“Not Devlin,” Greg replied, smiling. “The Devlins.”
“Tell you what I'll do. I'll jog with the Devlins if you'll get me home for Rush's birthday. Just one day. It means a lot to me, Greg.”
“I'll consider how best to handle your request. See, I'd need someone to take your place for just a day or two and-”
Winter sat up. “Damn, my foot hurts. Maybe I shouldn't run this morning. You jog with the happy couple.”
“Okay, okay I'll do it. Somehow I'll get you home.”
When Winter arrived on the porch, Greg was leaning against a post, watching the sunrise. The Devlins were already on the sand, stretching. Winter had done his push-ups, crunches, and stretches before he left his room.
Since Monday, Winter had been running a course that took him from one tip of the island to the other. He ran south against the tree line, followed the bow of the beach north, then back. Ten laps was a nice run.
Winter stepped down onto the sand.
“I hear you're quite a runner,” Dylan commented.
Winter didn't respond.
“Inspector Nations, didn't I hear you say something the other day about Winter competing in the Ironman? That the illustrious deputy finished in the top twenty twice. That's biking, swimming and running. Man's a triple threat.”
“Y'all better get going,” Greg told him curtly.
“What hasn't our deputy accomplished?” Dylan mocked. “I wouldn't be surprised if his turds came out shrink-wrapped in cellophane.”
“Dylan!” Sean scolded. “That's crude.”
Dylan's eyes registered the reprimand, but he didn't shift his gaze from Winter. “I'm sorry, dear. I get crass and crude mixed up. If I called the inspector there a jigaboo-would that be crude or crass? Sambo, crude or cute? Nigger, crude or factual?”
“Dylan?” she murmured placatingly. The color had drained from her cheeks.
“Darling, didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't correct family in front of the help,” Dylan told her, his voice icy. She looked away, embarrassed, perhaps angry.
Greg smiled. Winter knew that, under other circumstances, Devlin would have been sifting through the sand for his teeth. Winter swallowed his anger at Dylan's remarks.
“Best go on your run now, Win,” Greg said. “Before the sun rises and sets Mr. Devlin there on fire.”
It appeared to Winter that Devlin was trying to see how far he could push before someone took him on. The killer knew how valuable he was to the attorney general, and he knew he could push pretty hard before anyone would dare push back. Winter had seen it before, a criminal who had to admit to himself that he had turned into the one thing all criminals hated-a rat-then needed to take his self-loathing out on others.
They started running north along the surf.
Dylan was quiet for the first hundred yards. Then he said, “Your boy sure was touchy this morning. Probably not getting enough sleep. You keeping that buck awake?”
“You here to run or talk, Devlin?” Winter said.
“Here to run, ironman.” Dylan sprinte
d ahead, showing off.
Winter stayed even with Sean. Her stride looked effortless; her arms and legs showed muscle definition from a pattern of exercise.
“We have a gym in the house,” she said, as if reading Winter's mind. “Weights and Nautilus machines. Dylan works out and runs every day. He says staying in shape is the single most important thing there is. You get lazy, let the workouts slide, and everything slows down: stamina, strength, eye-hand coordination. Even your mental ability.”
Winter managed a grunt.
“Winter-may I call you Winter?”
“Sure.”
“I want to apologize for my husband's remarks. He's never been remotely like this before. He's on edge, and who can blame him, really?” She sounded as if she was almost trying to convince herself.
“You don't need to make excuses to me.”
She stared ahead. “Dylan really isn't racist. He just-”
Winter had had enough. “No disrespect intended, ma'am, but I don't care what he was like before all this. We refer to the people we protect as packages, footballs, or units. The package's prejudices don't mean anything to us. An apology to Martinez or Greg won't make any difference, because they don't give a damn what Mr. Devlin thinks or says-just what he does. But as far as I can see, the idea that any of the deputies on this crew might get hurt trying to protect his life is an absurdity of biblical proportions.”
The effect of Winter's words was immediate. Her lips tightened, and she lengthened her stride, pulled ahead of him, and caught up with her husband.
Winter watched her body as she ran. It was a thing to admire. He would have liked to leave them, but he had to make sure nobody appeared from out of the water or behind the dunes and blew Dylan's brains out.
Something like that, while erasing an impurity from the surface of the planet, wouldn't look good on Winter's record.
18
“Assistant U.S. Attorney Avery Whitehead from the New Orleans District is visiting us today, kids,” Greg Nations announced at breakfast. “Let's look sharp.”
When Jet came through the kitchen door, Winter caught sight of the Devlins at the dining room table. Sean Devlin's expression was unreadable, but she was not holding hands with her husband-nor was there any laughter. That seemed like a healthy development. He couldn't help but wonder if Sean might be taking a fresh look at the wisdom of her spousal choice.
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