Inside Out wm-1

by John Ramsey Miller

  Sam took his tray from the guard and set it on the table. He opened the stainless-steel lid and admired the meal. The plate held a filet medium rare, scrambled eggs, baked garlic, and a slice of toasted French bread lathered with butter before it was broiled. There was a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a thermos of very strong coffee.

  Sam bowed his head and said a brief prayer. He ate slowly, saving the filet for last, chewing every small piece he placed into his mouth exactly thirty-seven times.

  The last thing Sam Manelli wanted to do was to choke to death.

  49

  Concord, North Carolina

  Winter had almost fallen asleep lying in a lukewarm bath, a wet washcloth covering his eyes. The loudest sound in the world right then was the rhythm of the drops from the faucet as each hit the surface of the soapy water. A tapping at the door brought him around.

  “Winter?”

  “What, Mama?”

  “Don't fall asleep in the tub.”

  “I won't,” he said, smiling to himself.

  “Hank is stopping by the school to pick up Rush on his way here.”

  Winter smiled. “So Hank is coming up.”

  “Well, that's what I said.”

  He heard her close the bedroom door, then reopen it.

  “You forget something?” Winter called, his eyes still shut behind the washcloth.

  “Wash behind your ears.”

  Winter let the water drain before he stood and took a hot shower. He was dressing when he heard a car pull into the driveway. Seconds later the back door opened and Lydia called out a welcome. Winter listened to Nemo's barks, Hank's booming voice, and his son's words, filtering through it all like notes from a flute. He slipped into loafers and hurried to the kitchen.

  “Is it cool for twelve-year-olds to give their father a hug?”

  Rush immediately put a clench hold around Winter's middle, while Nemo stood on his hind legs, put his forepaws on Winter's back, and licked any skin within reach of his long tongue. “I'm not twelve yet,” he squealed.

  “Nemo, get down!” Lydia said.

  “This is some homecoming.” Winter turned his gaze to Hank.

  “Chief marshal called me to say you were heading home.”

  Lydia's face reflected an insatiable curiosity, but she didn't ask any questions. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Y'all get out of my way. Go on out to the living room.”

  “I knew you'd make it home for my birthday,” Rush told Winter. “Gram said you probably couldn't, but I knew you wouldn't go back on your word.”

  It took all of Winter's resolve not to burst into tears.

  After dinner they sat out on the front porch. Winter and Rush were on the swing, Hank Trammel and Lydia sat in rocking chairs.

  “Where were you, Daddy?” Rush asked.

  “Not sure, exactly.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I did some sitting around on a porch sort of like this. I ate, I slept, I ran, did push-ups and sit-ups. Ate more. Slept some more. Sat, talked. Listened.” He battled back memories of the dead WITSEC crew and the treacherous flight across Rook Island.

  “Didn't hunt down any bad guys and arrest 'em?”

  “Didn't make a single arrest the whole time I was gone. I'll have to make two arrests next trip out.”

  “Bet you will, too!” Rush exclaimed.

  Winter usually told the boy what he had been up to, sparing him the hard-core details. He liked for Rush to believe that being a deputy marshal was no more dangerous than strolling through Walt Disney World, which was mostly the case.

  “Rush,” Lydia said, stretching. “Let's get you to bed. Let the old men jabber.” After only a mild protest, Rush kissed Winter and went inside, Nemo trailing behind.

  “Not all night, y'all,” Lydia cautioned the two men.

  As soon as Lydia was safely inside, Trammel pulled a flask from his coat pocket and poured a couple of ounces into his glass. “Chill in the air,” he offered as an explanation. There was a silence while Trammel savored the golden liquid. “Whiskey's a lot like pussy.”

  “I know, Hank. The worst you ever had was wonderful. Sort of like comparing apples to house slippers.”

  “You think? They're both sure as hell a great comfort. You want a sip?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Shapiro told me what happened.”

  “He did?” That was a surprise.

  “Yeah, he thought you ought to have somebody to talk to, if you were of a mind to.”

  “Not much to say about it. Nothing I can change by talking. I'm fine.”

  “You did your job. You got nothing to regret.”

  “My luck is going to run out one of these days, and where'll that leave Rush? We both know I could end up like Greg. I think I should consider a career change.”

  “I 'spect Miss Eleanor would pitch a fit if you show up in heaven too soon.”

  “She'd kick my ass,” Winter agreed.

  “It's getting ready to rain,” he said, screwing the lid on the flask. “Maybe you should get some sleep.”

  “I know.”

  “I'm real sorry about Greg. Wish I'd known him better. Any people?”

  “No family. His mother abandoned him. He was raised by his grandmother. She's dead. Nobody closer than me, far as I know.”

  “You going to tell Rush?”

  “I shouldn't until they release the names.” Winter knew that he wasn't up to that yet. It just didn't seem right for someone so young to have been through so much suffering, to have lost so much.

  “I doubt it'll be a secret for long, media being the way it is.”

  Winter walked Hank out to his car and stood in the driveway watching him drive away.

  After he locked the back door, Winter went to his room and lay in bed, tired but unable to sleep. The rain started to fall in torrents. Thunder crashed and the sky lit as though artillery shells were being lobbed. Winter's door opened slowly and he turned and stared at the shapes framed in the doorway.

  “What's up, Rush?”

  “Aw, Nemo's scared. You can't reason with him when he's like this.”

  “I imagine I can bunk down a good deputy and his sidekick.”

  Winter knew the dog could sleep on an operating rifle range. Rush wasn't going to admit his fear of lightning. From the time he was an infant he had never stayed in a room alone during a storm. Not being able to see the flashes made it worse because there was no warning of any kind for him before the crashing booms.

  Winter threw the covers back for Rush. Nemo curled up on the floor. Father and son lay shoulder to shoulder listening to the storm rage outside.

  50

  USMS headquarters

  Arlington, Virginia

  It was dark outside. Sean tried not to yawn, but she did anyway. Richard Shapiro's office was one enormous space divided into three areas. In the five hours she had been there, she had read through a stack of magazines, eaten a ham sandwich, and drank more coffee than she usually did in a month.

  The chief marshal's conference room was enclosed by a wall of soundproof glass. Through it, Sean could see Shapiro railing at his men like a basketball coach. She'd seen and heard enough to know that the marshals had been shut out of the investigation into the murders. And nobody at 600 Army Navy Drive was at all pleased about having to wait for the FBI to share the information it was compiling. Sean had seen Shapiro on the phone, his face so red she was sure he would blow an artery. For the past hour his staff had been in the glass room and she had watched them like fish in an aquarium.

  Bored, she went into her briefcase, took out her computer, and turned it on. She opened the nasty note Dylan had sent her. She closed the document and, dragging it into the garbage deleted it. If only she could only erase memories as easily as she had Dylan's final message to her.

  She was beyond ready to leave. She looked up and waved at the marshals behind the glass wall. One saw her and spoke to Shapiro, who looked wearily out at her. She wa
ved good-bye to him.

  He said something to his men and they all seemed to relax.

  Richard Shapiro came out and sat near her on the couch. “I'm sorry,” he said.

  “I'm tired,” she said, thinking how stress might trigger a migraine.

  “Listen, Mrs. Devlin. We want to do everything we can to help you through this. I have a few thoughts.”

  “Can we discuss it later? As I said, I'm quite tired.”

  “Sure. You don't have to make any decisions right away. I think we can give you the equity in your house.”

  Sean made her voice firm. “I'm not your witness. I am not changing my name, and I want my belongings put back in my house, which did not belong to my late husband.”

  “Let's discuss all of that tomorrow, okay? We'll get you a death certificate so you can get to your husband's bank accounts, which as his widow, you are entitled to.”

  “Do you seriously think I would take money he made murdering people?”

  “I assumed you could use it.”

  “I don't need it and I'd sweep streets before I accept one cent of that blood money.”

  “We intend to compensate you for what you went through.”

  “Do that. Figure out what keeping my husband's killings a secret from me, and what I have been through in the past few days is worth. In the meantime, I want to go to a hotel and sleep.”

  “I'll have a couple of deputies-”

  “No! No more deputies, no guns, no protection. If you want my cooperation, I demand some consideration. I am not testifying against anyone. I will not agree to be watched over or followed. I do not want the United States Marshals Service knowing where I am. If no one here knows where I am or what I'm doing, nobody can tell anybody anything.” Sean was reaching the absolute limit she could take. She had to get away.

  “I'm sorry you feel that way.”

  “Tell me the truth. Do I have to accept your protection?”

  “No, I can't force you to. You can decline it, but I can't emphasize strongly enough how dangerous that might be. Mrs. Devlin, please-”

  “I am officially declining protection of any kind. Do I need to sign anything for that?” she said briskly.

  Shapiro's eyes hardened. “We can't force our protection, but the FBI can decide that you are crucial to the investigation, declare you a material witness, and take you into custody. Obviously, I'd hate to see that happen, even if it was for your own safety.”

  “I suppose if the FBI decides to do that, there's nothing I can do to prevent it,” she replied. “I'd be happy to relive that night over and over, if you'll treat me like a friend and not a prisoner. You can start by calling me a cab. I will return first thing tomorrow if you like.”

  “Very well. I accept that you have declined our protection and I will see you first thing in the morning. Fact is, we have a hotel suite reserved for you.”

  “I'll stay in the suite if you'll give me your word you won't have deputies hanging around. I've had it with being spied on.”

  Shapiro stood and nodded decisively. “I'll call you a cab.”

  Shapiro strode into the conference room and conferred with his assistant. He went to his desk, pulled open a drawer, then returned with a cell phone, which he handed to her.

  “If you need anything at all, just press star eighty-one to reach me. I can have people outside your room in minutes.”

  Sean nodded and slipped the phone into her coat pocket. She knew that, despite giving his word, Shapiro wasn't about to let her leave his office without having her followed and watched over. Now, that was something she couldn't allow.

  At the hotel, the cabdriver popped the trunk and set her suitcases on the carpeted stoop. She tipped him, as well as the doorman who carried her suitcases into the hotel lobby and placed them before the counter.

  “Sean Devlin,” she told the clerk.

  The clerk typed in her name into the computer and watched the screen. “You'll be in…” She penned the room number-1299-inside the little folder.

  Sean slipped her Visa card onto the desk.

  “That's not necessary,” the woman said. “It's been taken care of.”

  Sean left the credit card where it was. “I'd like another room for my mother, who is arriving later this evening.”

  “Your suite has two bedrooms with private baths.”

  “A single on a lower floor. My mother has a fear of fire, so nothing higher than an extension ladder can reach,” Sean said firmly.

  The clerk typed again, then ran Sean's card. She placed an electronic room key into a folder and wrote 321 inside it.

  Sean turned and saw that the cab that had delivered her was now parked across the street. Those bastards! She was angry that Shapiro had lied to her but also relieved that his action had released her from her word.

  A bellboy pulled the cart holding Sean's suitcases into the elevator and pressed twelve. Sean reached into her coat pocket, took out Shapiro's cell phone, and slid it between her suitcases on the cart. She pressed three and the elevator stopped there.

  Using her foot to keep the elevator door open, she handed the bellboy the key card for 1299 and fished a ten dollar bill from her purse. Taking her briefcase from the cart, Sean handed the bill to the bellboy and smiled. “Take my bags on up, please. I'm going to check out my other room first.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  She waited for the elevator door to close before she made her way quickly to the stairs, carrying her briefcase and her purse. She found the back entrance to the hotel and exited close behind an elderly couple so she would appear to be with them. She saw two men sitting in a Crown Victoria parked near the driveway, but neither looked at her as she passed, still sticking close to the old couple. As the couple stopped at a Lexus, Sean kept walking. Two blocks farther she saw a cab approaching and hailed it.

  The driver was obese. His face showed his disappointing effort to grow a beard, and he studied her with dull, lazy eyes. She climbed in and was instantly repulsed by the interior, which smelled as though someone had recently boiled cabbage in it.

  “I want a cheap hotel. One that rents rooms by the hour. Water beds and X-rated films are fine.”

  She saw his now curious eyes appraise her in the mirror. She glanced at his identification card. “And, Warren-one suggestive proposition out of you, you'll lose a nice tip.”

  “Lady, I know just the place,” he said. “You'll love it.”

  51

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Sam Manelli had an hour before the guard came to pick up the cell phone he smuggled into Sam each night after midnight. Sam slipped it from under his pillow and dialed Johnny Russo, who would be waiting for the call. If the numbers on the bill were traced someday, who could prove who was at the pay phone, who had made the call? Sam smiled at the thought of Johnny standing by a pay phone outside a rural grocery store in Fantee, Louisiana, in his fancy suit, fighting off hungry mosquitoes.

  “It's me,” Sam grunted. “What did the dentist say?”

  “He pulled the tooth,” Russo answered, promptly. “X-ray pictures be at your guy's office in the morning so he can check them. You want the guy to bring the X-rays so you can see, too?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You be leaving there soon, I believe,” Johnny said.

  “So, if I'm still here, I'll call same time tomorrow.”

  Sam ended the call and pondered the information.

  He was delighted that Devlin was dead and that the proof, by way of pictures of the corpses, was going to put his mind at ease. It had been expensive, but money well spent. He just couldn't believe that Johnny would even suggest that Bertran bring the pictures of a corpse to him in jail-he knew that Bertran would have refused. As much as he would have loved to see them, it was a stupid suggestion.

  Sometimes he wondered about Johnny. In order for him to make it, he was going to have to think clearer and let his emotional side take a backseat to his business mind.

  The simple fac
t was that times had changed, making crime on the scale Sam had known it almost impossible.

  Sam had done his best to pass his understanding of business on to Johnny, he couldn't help but wonder sometimes if he had put his money on the wrong horse. Perhaps his fondness for Johnny's father, and now Johnny, had clouded his own judgment.

  He was resolved to the fact that he had done his best and ultimately couldn't control what Johnny did or didn't do. All he had wanted to do was finish this one bit of business with Devlin and live the rest of his days running his legitimate businesses.

  Sam lay back on the cot, closed his eyes, and thought about better times.

  52

  Washington, D.C.

  Fred Archer rubbed his eyes, afraid he might fall asleep at the wheel. He hadn't had more than a catnap in the last forty hours, and now it was closing on midnight. He figured he could sleep at least five hours.

  Upon arriving back in D.C. from Ward Field that afternoon, he had met with his director and the attorney general. The director had told the A.G. that he had every confidence Archer would get the Rook-Ward murders solved in a matter of days-that Archer was the only man who could get the evidence to charge Sam Manelli with new counts of conspiracy to commit murder. The attorney general had stressed the importance of putting it to bed immediately and insuring that Manelli's impending release was a very short one. Although neither his director nor the A.G. had said so, the meeting's purpose was to let Archer know that either he would accomplish their goal with all due haste or he would find himself in some dismal place like the Fargo office, wearing heated socks to discourage frostbite.

  The long absences from his family, which Fred's job demanded, had taken the standard toll on his personal life. His wife, his three children, and even his dog had become strangers a long time before Fred's wife finally filed for divorce. In the first months after the divorce Fred had made an effort to visit his children, but they seemed to like it better when he didn't. Fred had stopped visiting altogether, which allowed him to work even longer hours than before-without the guilt his wife had always heaped on him.