Inside Out wm-1

by John Ramsey Miller

  “The boat is here. I want you to walk Jet over to the dock.”

  “Sure.”

  “I've just reported what happened between you and Devlin. I'm not taking you out with us. You and Martinez'll stay here with Ms. Devlin. After what happened between you and him, I can't risk an incident in transit. You'll make Rush's birthday. Word of honor.”

  “If I were you, I'd take him out of here in a straitjacket.”

  “I only wish I could,” Greg said.

  Sean could see from his expression he was telling the truth.

  30

  Holding aloft an enormous red and white golf umbrella, Jet mumbled to herself as she plodded over the wet pine needles that covered the sandy trail through the trees. The rain beat down on Winter's coat as he walked a few feet behind her carrying her heavy suitcases.

  “I wish Miss Sean was leaving with me. She's been through hell in a red wagon,” Jet said.

  When they passed the barracks, they could see the sailors' faces clustered behind two of the rain-streaked windows, reminding Winter of villagers in the old monster movies who know better than to leave the protection of their residence. A sailor with a shaved head was standing inside the doorway of the radio shack; he acknowledged Jet as she and Winter passed by.

  The boat, a steel-hull diesel, had an enclosed, all-weather cabin. The stern door allowed Jet and Winter to step down onto the boat, where he handed Jet's suitcases to a crewman. Jet surprised Winter by hugging him. He hugged her back. She left Winter, walked through the cabin door, and took a seat on the bench along the farthest wall. She nodded once to Winter, then turned to look out the window. The deckhand unhooked the lines, fore and aft, and the boat pulled away slowly. Winter watched until a curtain of rain enveloped it.

  As he walked up the dock, Winter noticed the sport-fishing boat moored opposite the cigarette racer. The cockpit was open and there was room on either side to walk to the bow. Except for a Plexiglas windshield and roll-up walls of clear plastic, the aft deck and lower bridge were open to the elements. A ladder led up to the flying bridge above the cockpit and the keys hung from the ignition. The Navy obviously didn't think anyone was going to steal it from under their noses.

  Winter also noticed that the cigarette racer's engine compartment was propped open and the motor was partially disassembled.

  “Jet's gone,” Winter told Greg in the foyer.

  “I agreed to deliver an olive branch from Devlin,” he said, holding up Sean's laptop, “to express his remorse. He said he wouldn't try and talk to her again if she would read one last letter he typed into the thing.”

  “They're always real sorry after they beat up their wives,” Winter said contemptuously.

  “Sean reluctantly agreed to let him write the note, but she doesn't want him anywhere near her. She made me stand there while he typed it to make sure he didn't damage her laptop.”

  “You should read it first,” Winter suggested.

  Greg nodded, set the thing on the table, and opened the lid. It said:

  After six tonight, my darling, I suppose we will be going our separate ways for good. As I fly away, I will imagine you still here with your Spic deputy pal and that faggot, Winter Massey. It is my fondest wish that you all three eat shit and die screaming.

  “Sticks and stones,” Winter mused, a bitter taste in his mouth.

  By five-thirty, when Greg and Winter had collected the deputies' cases and placed them out on the porch, the rain had thinned to a sprinkle. Greg went alone to Dylan's room and dropped off a bulletproof vest for him to wear. The deputies armed themselves with heavy ordnance, and each put on their ballistic vest. Shortly before six, a Blackhawk landed noisily and Winter went out to the porch to see the crew off.

  All of the people leaving, including Devlin, wore matching black raincoats and plain ball caps, so that it would be difficult for anyone to single out the package.

  Greg came out first. “You have Mrs. Devlin ready for transport at ten hundred hours tomorrow. There's plenty in the fridge you can heat up.” He stared at Winter solemnly. “A word of warning, Win. Whatever happens, and I do mean whatever happens, don't let Martinez cook anything. If she does, for the love of God, don't put it anywhere near your mouth. Hug the kid for me when you get home, Win.”

  Greg offered his hand to Winter and for ten seconds they squeezed, trying to get the other to release first. The door opening behind them ended the contest prematurely.

  Dylan wore his coat like a cape, his cuffed hands visible. “Until we meet again,” he told Winter, menacingly.

  Winter didn't reply. He turned his attention to Beck, who came out next, grinning like a schoolboy.

  “I did it, Winter,” he said, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.

  “Did what?”

  “I asked Martinez out… on a date.”

  “And she said?” he prompted teasingly.

  “‘What doesn't kill me makes me stronger.'”

  “That's great,” Winter told him, slapping him on the back.

  Forsythe came out carrying his aluminum sniper-rifle case, the Colt 9-mm automatic carbine over his shoulder.

  “Take care, Forsythe,” Winter said.

  “You too, Massey,” he said abruptly. They hadn't exactly become the best of friends.

  Two minutes later the helicopter lifted off and was swallowed up by a hungry gray sky. Winter's assignment was all but over. He smiled at the thought of his son waiting for his return, just a couple hundred miles in the direction Devlin and Greg's detail were already traveling. As he stood there, Sean came outside and joined him.

  “Can I do this?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Walk unescorted on the beach.”

  “Sure, but…”

  “But what?”

  “You'll get wet.”

  She laughed. “I don't want to, Deputy. Just wondering if I could.”

  “From here on out, Mrs. Devlin, you can do whatever suits you. Within reason.”

  “I feel like dancing and breaking into song.”

  It was nice to see his package smiling again.

  31

  Avery Whitehead preferred to move through life with men in suits encircling him the way sharks ring their prey, whenever possible. He felt vulnerable alone. The federal prosecutor stood out of the rain in an open maintenance hangar, watching the window-rattling takeoffs and landings on the runway a hundred yards away.

  Whitehead stared out at a line of faintly illuminated A-10 Warthogs and the Falcon 900B he had arrived aboard. Coming down from D.C. he'd removed his jacket and flown in his shirtsleeves so his coat wouldn't be wrinkled when he saw Devlin. His gray Zegna suit was impeccably tailored, his tie a loud red splash against a crisp white wedge of shirt.

  He had come alone because there wasn't room in the jet for his assistant, the marshals, a witness, his wife, and their luggage and other equipment. His short meeting with Devlin on Tuesday had left him rattled and worried that the killer might be self-destructing and about to destroy the government's case. Just before Avery boarded the airplane at Andrews, Attorney General Katlin had called to tell him that things at the safe house had seriously deteriorated. Avery caught the implicit threat in his boss's tone: Fix it or else.

  It was imperative that Whitehead gain control of his witness before Devlin lost him his case and killed his stellar career.

  Whitehead was wondering how long it would take the two-man flight crew to empty their bladders, when he saw the pair sprinting through the rain toward the Falcon Jet. He had told them that he wanted to take off as soon as the deputies showed up, so they needed to preflight the thing before.

  They waved at him and he returned the gesture out of habit. “Yeah, you bastards get my plane ready. Christ, if all I had to do was fly around for a living like a taxi driver…”

  He checked his watch, a plain gold Patek Philippe with an alligator band. The helicopter was due any second.

  He heard the Blackhawk before
he saw it. It materialized from the sky as though it was being lowered by cables, and came to rest near the jet. Whitehead buttoned up his Burberry trench coat, snapped open his umbrella, and strode out into the rain as soon as the blades had slowed enough. He was between the Blackhawk and the passenger jet when the marshals stepped down out of the chopper. The black inspector came first, immediately followed by the others, who formed a protective circle for Devlin to step down into. Whitehead was relieved to see that Dylan wasn't wearing leg irons. He relaxed slightly. “Where is Mrs. Devlin?” he asked in a voice low enough so that only the inspector would hear it.

  “Due to an incident between the Devlins, I left Mrs. Devlin behind in the company of two deputies. They will be leaving tomorrow.”

  “The A.G. told me there was some sort of problem at the safe house.”

  “This morning, Mr. Devlin drugged two deputies, decapitated a cat, punched his wife, assaulted two of my men, and put a gun to one of my people's head. He spent the day in handcuffs.”

  Avery's knees felt rubbery. “God damn it! In all of my years-Nations, I have never seen such an out-of-control sideshow as your safe house. You are the most incompetent marshal I have ever come across. As soon as I get to Katlin, I'm making sure Devlin gets a new crew. As far as I can tell, you have not yet been in control of the security situation.”

  “Your star witness is a complete psycho,” Greg said evenly.

  “I need a quick word with Mr. Devlin,” Avery told him, loudly enough for Devlin to hear. “Alone.”

  Inspector Nations shook his head. “I have to get him out of the open, into the craft.”

  “There's no danger here, damn it! We're in the middle of a fucking air base-”

  “Sorry, sir,” the inspector insisted, looking at his watch. “We have a schedule to hold to. We're on a communications blackout and due at Andrews in-”

  “Sorry, suh,” Dylan Devlin mocked, speaking for the first time since they had arrived. “We is, uhhh, all blacked out.”

  Whitehead shot Devlin a warning glare over Nations' shoulder. Dylan held up his hands to show the cuffs.

  “Dylan and me inside the plane, you and your crew outside. Give me two minutes with him. The pilot can make up that loss.”

  Reluctantly, Nations agreed. Whitehead knew that what happened while Devlin was under WITSEC's protection was all up to the inspector in charge. Whitehead was hoping that this Inspector Nations felt like he owed Avery something after the trouble at the safe house. Avery intended to see that Nations took a career hit for it. Examples had to be made.

  “Beck,” Nations called. “Check the plane.”

  After the deputy marshal searched the jet, Devlin and Whitehead entered. Whitehead positioned him out of the crew's hearing range.

  “What the hell happened on the island?” Whitehead demanded of Devlin. As he spoke, despite his best efforts, his voice rose with each accusation. “Dead cat… drugging officers, punching your wife, and, for Christ's sake, pulling a gun on a deputy marshal?”

  “A small misunderstanding. Two deputies took drugs and wanted a scapegoat. I think the cook's cat must have climbed into a drawer and my wife accidentally slammed it shut. The rest is-”

  “I'm talking about you pulling a gun on a United States deputy marshal! Where the hell did you get a gun?” Avery hissed, cutting him off.

  “He gave it to me. Easy, I was getting to that. The man is a loose cannon. Power-drunk and, Avery, he's been diddling my wife.”

  “Your deal will be history if you don't make sure this goes off without a hitch. Blow this and you'll wish you were in a cell with Sam Manelli and a blowtorch. When we get to D.C., we are going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting. The next time you make the slightest wave you are going to find yourself up shit creek. We don't get Manelli, we still have you. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Absolutely, but I've got a request about changing these guards, Avery. This detail is so fucked, I'd be safer if I was being guarded by Manelli's thugs. I have everything under control. When I testify I will be believed.” He winked. “Trust me.”

  What choice do I have? Whitehead tapped on the window to signal the marshals that it was time to go.

  As the plane filled with people, Avery Whitehead closed his eyes and prayed.

  “By the way, guys,” the pilot called back over his shoulder, “no hot chambers in my plane. I have this morbid fear of one of you guys sneezing and blowing a hole in my airplane and me getting sucked out right along with you.”

  “No problem,” Greg answered. “Guys, clear your long guns.”

  There was a series of clicks and slapping metal as magazines were withdrawn, the round in the chambers removed, and the magazines returned with a sharp rap of their palms.

  “Our copilot will be passing through to the rear, and if anyone wants to stow a coat or anything, he will handle that. We will be without a stewardess tonight because we lack room for one. This is a smoke-free flight. After we are upstairs, and I have turned off the seat-belt sign, you are free to help yourselves to a drink out of the fridge.”

  The copilot slipped from his seat and made his way to the rear.

  “Kinda cramped, ain't it?” Bear said.

  “But fast,” Beck said.

  Dylan yawned and closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”

  The pilot turned in his seat and looked back into the cabin. “I would appreciate it if you'd close the shades until we are at altitude.”

  Whitehead closed the shade beside him and, as he turned back, saw the pilot on his feet, holding a silenced pistol in his hand, a tattoo of barbed wire on his right wrist. Whitehead felt like ice water had been thrown in his face. He hadn't been paying attention to the things around him. This pilot was not the same man as the one who'd flown him down. This man was younger, taller. As Whitehead was about to call out, the pilot in front of him and copilot at his back opened fire.

  Avery Whitehead's last thought was not that the marshals were dying around him. His last thought, which was interrupted by a Glaser round through his brain, was whether, earlier in the day, he had locked his car door at the airport.

  32

  The radio shack on Rook Island was Signalman Lane Nash's duty station for another three hours and twelve minutes. It was a concrete bunker with a steeply pitched roof covered in sheets of terra-cotta-colored aluminum. The wires and cables ran up the wall like bright vines, secured to the girders and then routed out to the tower through a weatherproof nipple. The copper and fiber-optic material connected the console's monitoring instruments to the sensory devices. Those sensors, located on the tower above the shack, gathered information about things in the atmosphere or on the water and conversed with the satellites that circled the planet in swarms.

  There were no windows in the bunker. The console table was ten feet long and had metal cabinet doors at both sides of the operator's seat. There were storage cabinets for parts and equipment, two swivel chairs, and a bathroom that held only a toilet and sink. A single door that opened out from the room was protected from the weather by an awning.

  Lane concentrated on the radar screen. The young radio operator had set his paperback aside on the console and was using his shoulder to hold the red receiver against his ear as he spoke to the air-traffic controller at Cherry Point.

  “I got the first return just after that King Air passed four miles to the east of here.”

  “He was having radio problems and was warned off to the east,” the controller said. “He stayed clear of your position by a half mile.”

  “I got returns after it passed.”

  “Returns looked like what? I didn't show anything on our end.”

  “Soft returns. One sweep showed a spot at four miles, altitude unknown, four sweeps later there was one a half mile from me, then a few later almost onshore.”

  “Birds come to shore, right? Go out and shoot a goose.” The controller laughed. “Nothing substantial fell off that King Air. I have it sixty-nine miles south
of your position at twenty-five thousand feet, two hundred and thirty-nine knots true.”

  “Probably. Just birds,” Lane agreed. He took one last look at the screen and signed off with his controller. He ran his hand through the stubble on his head and picked up his book.

  The operator was at a particularly good part when the lights over his console flickered, then went out. It had been storming, but the electricity was almost never interrupted, because it was fed by underground cable to the island. The backup generator was supposed to cut in if the main failed, so the operator waited. It didn't come on.

  “God damn it,” he muttered.

  He flipped on his flashlight, walked to the switch, and flipped it up and down. He went to the breaker panel. Nothing. Planning to check the generators, he opened the door.

  A gloved hand seized his wrist, and a man dressed completely in black, his features hidden behind a black nylon mask, pushed a remarkably large knife under the place where Lane's ribs met, three inches above his belt buckle. Lane looked down and saw the knife go in, but it didn't hurt. The sensation was like the first twinge of a bout of indigestion. He wanted to push the man away, but he couldn't. He felt so weak, so sleepy.

  His vision started closing down like a camera aperture being twisted, the image darkening from the outside in. He just wanted to lie down and close his eyes.

  John Ramsey Miller

  Inside Out

  33

  Winter flipped his final card, an ace of spades, facedown onto the stack of discards. “Gin.”

  “You dog!” Martinez complained. “I'm not even going to count up my hand. What's another few hundred points among friends.” She turned to Sean, who had started playing with them then decided to read. Despite the relaxed atmosphere, Winter and Martinez kept her constantly in sight, their weapons close.

  “Anybody besides me want coffee?” Sean asked.

  As soon as Sean was out of the room, Martinez said, “God, I wish she would settle somewhere.”