“No, you're a multiple murderer. The bottom line is that you will do what I say, when I say to do it, or I will fry you. End of discussion.”
“Mr. Devlin,” Martinez interposed. “Nobody can win here. We won't allow you to force Mrs. Devlin to do anything against her will. Inspector Nations won't back off and he isn't bluffing. Your call.”
Dylan finally turned his head to look at the marshals on the porch and at Beck, Bear, and Forsythe, who had appeared out on the sand behind them, armed. Dylan shook his head slowly, lifted his hands, and stepped back.
“You're a bright girl, Mar-tee-nez,” Devlin said. “Calmer heads should always prevail. I'll just say good afternoon.”
Sean stared at her husband's back as he walked inside. A burst of wind hit and brought with it the scent of rain.
“He won't bother you again,” Greg told her.
“If he comes near me again I will be forced to hold the USMS responsible,” she carped more out of pride at having been shown up as a victim in front of men. She knew this wasn't the fault of the deputy marshals on the detail. Keeping her in the dark was someone else's doing. “I want to leave now—tonight,” she said, meaning it, unable to back down now.
“I'll advise Control of the situation immediately. We're all leaving the island tomorrow. I have no idea where we'll be staying after we go. Under the circumstances, we'll make arrangements for separate quarters.”
“I will not spend another day near my husband. I absolutely refuse to travel anywhere with him.”
“Let me work on that,” Greg said evenly, trying to calm her down. “He won't bother you again. You just stay in your room as much as possible. Martinez will remain with you from now on. I wish I could do better.”
“So do I,” Sean replied curtly. “I won't stay locked up in my room like a criminal because of him. He is the one who should be locked up.”
Greg handed Martinez the Taser—a stun gun—and went inside. “Don't hesitate to use this. We have more.”
26
Wednesday night
What had happened with Dylan on the porch had nearly been a disaster. It was obvious that the dynamics of the safe house were rapidly deteriorating. Greg had to make some changes to stay on top of Dylan, who was obviously desperate to trigger a confrontation. Perhaps he was just playing games to entertain himself, but the consequences of a game designed by a psychopathic mind could be both unpredictable and deadly.
Winter had been scheduled for a shift in the security room, but he wanted to be outside. Just before the shift started, Bear agreed to swap places with him. As Winter and Beck were about to leave the house, Greg appeared and took Winter aside. He waited for Beck to close the door before he spoke.
“We're taking Dylan out tomorrow evening because a night move is safer. I've got permission to leave Beck and Martinez behind with Ms. Devlin. They'll escort her out on Saturday and you'll be home for Sunday.”
Winter spent from midnight until three walking the perimeter of the house. He liked the solitude, the soft roar of the surf, the pelting of the rain on his hood. He found himself unable to stop thinking about Sean Devlin. He admired her intelligence and tenacity but was perplexed at how a woman like her could have married a man like Dylan. Even so, there was something very special about Sean: hidden depths that had gradually begun to reveal themselves. Despite her strength—the fact that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—he found himself wanting to shelter and protect her. Something in her he couldn't define had gotten to him. He hardly knew anything at all about her and he knew he shouldn't waste his time thinking about her. In less than eighteen hours he would be gone and would never see her again. But still . . .
Beck waved Winter up onto the porch.
“This is miserable,” Beck grumbled. “Who in their fucking right mind would come out here in this shit to pop that bastard?”
“Maybe killers in raincoats.”
“This island isn't even on a map.” Beck lifted an empty thermos. “Jet could protect Dylan out here.”
Winter didn't respond.
“You think she's pretty?” Beck asked.
“Too bossy for me. Good cook, though.”
“Not Jet. Martinez. She's fine. You've noticed, right?”
“She's good at her job,” Winter said noncomittally.
“I think she's hot. But she's never so much as . . . I don't know, it's weird. It's really something to see her laugh.”
“You ever asked her out?”
Beck shook his head. “I wanted to a bunch of times. I mean, sure, I hint around and sometimes she . . . I mean, I think she likes me okay. Hard to tell. I've been meaning to ask you something. You weren't betting for her, but against Dylan, right? You didn't think she would win over Cross? Hell, that was cool, the way she showed everybody her stuff. And you pissed off Devlin big-time.”
“I need coffee,” Winter said, uncomfortable discussing someone he respected behind her back.
“I'll go in and get us some,” Beck offered.
“No, I'll do it,” Winter said, eager to get out of the wet. “S-one,” Winter said into his mouthpiece, “W.M. coming in for coffee.”
There was no response.
“Maybe Bear's in the crapper?” Beck said. “Or hibernating.”
Winter instinctively slung the AR over his shoulder and drew his SIG.
“We go to the security room together. Cover my back,” he said quietly yet determinedly.
Entering into the foyer, Winter slipped to the arch ahead of Beck and aimed his gun down the hall. He nodded that it was clear and moved with stealth toward the security room door, which was open a crack. No light showed under either Dylan's or Sean's door. Winter stood in front of the security room door, pushed it open, and lunged inside, aiming his gun at the dark figure bent over Dixon. “Freeze!” Winter ordered.
Beck moved in swiftly behind Winter, aiming his rifle at the figure dressed in pajamas, bent over Dixon.
“Greg?” Winter lowered his gun and moved farther into the room. Dixon was as fully reclined as the swivel chair allowed. His eyes were closed and his face was so pale it looked like it had been bleached white.
“He's out cold.” Greg turned his attention back to Dixon and slapped his cheeks. “Wake up, Bear,” he coaxed angrily.
Winter saw that the coffeepot had started to smoke, so he turned it off before leaning his AR against the wall. He slipped his coat off and dropped it beside the rifle.
“Help me with him, then go and get me some water,” Greg told Beck as he and Winter lifted the big man from the chair and lowered him to the floor. Panicked at the unexpected turn of events, Beck left his Colt carbine propped beside Winter's and stepped into the bathroom, filling a glass.
“I was having trouble sleeping, went to the kitchen. I smelled the coffee burning,” Greg said.
“Heart attack?” Winter asked.
Greg shook his head. He lifted Dixon's eyelid. “I don't think so. He's breathing fine.”
When Greg poured the glass of water over Dixon's face the reaction was immediate.
“What thafuckeryoudoing?” he growled, flailing at them. “Jesus H. Christ,” he groaned, gripping his head.
“What's wrong, Bear?”
“My head!” Dixon moaned in agony.
“Stroke?” Beck asked Greg.
“He's been drugged,” Winter said.
“Bear, did you take anything?” Greg asked.
“Nothing. Had coffee with Martinez and she left and . . . I was just sitting there. And . . .”
Winter picked up Dixon's cup of coffee from the console, dipped his finger in just enough so he could get a drop on his tongue. “Maybe there's something in it, but with the sugar and milk, I can't tell.”
Greg removed Bear's pistol from his holster. Dixon tried to sit up, then gave up. Winter pulled his flashlight, turned it on, and locked it against the receiver of his SIG. “Dylan,” Winter said.
The three marshals left Dixon on the fl
oor and rushed into the hallway, their guns poised. Greg kicked open Dylan's door and Winter, seeing the killer sit up in bed, moved swiftly to Sean Devlin's suite with Beck. He opened the door to the sitting room and flipped the light switch on.
Martinez sat slumped on the couch. A cup of cold coffee was on the table beside her. Winter put his hand on the pulse in her neck, then left her for Beck to rouse. Sean's bedroom door was slightly ajar.
Using his foot so he could maintain his aim, Winter pushed the door open. Sean was lying facedown across the bed, wearing only panties. Winter pressed his fingertips to her neck to check for a pulse and got more than he expected. She yelled out, scrambled upright, and pressed her back against the headboard. Realizing that Winter and Greg were staring at her, she jerked a pillow up to cover her breasts. “What!” she screamed.
After Greg moved into the room, Dylan came up behind him.
When she saw Dylan, Sean jumped up, jerked the sheet off the bed, and wrapped it around her. “All of you, get out of my room!” she yelled. “What are you doing?”
“I'm sorry,” Winter said. “Dixon and Martinez were drugged.”
“I don't understand.”
“Ask him.” Winter indicated Dylan.
“Ask me what?” Dylan said.
“He thought it would be me,” Winter told Sean.
“Thought what would be you?” Greg asked.
“I was listed on the board to be in the security room, but I traded with Dixon. Devlin planned to take me when I was knocked out.”
“You're a paranoid fool,” Dylan said, smiling. “I could take you if I was knocked out.”
Martinez was awake when they returned to the den but looked like hell.
“What happened?” Greg asked.
“I don't know. I was just sitting here.”
“You got coffee from the security room?”
“Yeah. Then I came in here thinking I would read.”
“You didn't lock the door?”
“Of course I locked it.”
“It was open,” Winter said.
“You don't suppose the wind blew it open?” Dylan asked.
“Sean's wasn't locked, either,” Winter said.
“I locked my door,” Sean insisted.
“Goodness,” Dylan mocked. “This is frightening. Someone could have harmed me.”
Without a word, Winter went straight to the security room. “What's up?” Bear asked, staring at him blearily.
“Devlin drugged you.”
“How?”
“Was he in here at all earlier?”
“For a minute, around eleven, talking to Cross.”
Crouching low and close to the coffee table, Winter spotted white residue on the surface. He pressed his finger to the powder and touched his tongue. Hurriedly, he left for Devlin's room.
Greg followed him and watched grimly as Winter started pulling open the drawers and rifling through their contents.
“Can I help you?” Dylan asked from the doorway. Winter reached into the table beside the bed, lifted out a bottle, and tossed it to Greg.
“Here you go.”
“Prescribed for pain,” Dylan needled. “You think they might be too strong for me?”
“You put them in the coffee, you son of a bitch,” Winter told him.
“That's crazy talk, Deputy. Why would I?”
Greg had poured the capsules out into his palm. “Bottle says there should be twelve. They're all here.”
“I didn't take any. You can become an addict taking narcotics.”
“Maybe you figured if you knocked us out you could talk reason to your wife,” Winter said.
“Unnecessary,” Dylan replied, smiling confidently. “She's my wife. While she might be a bit miffed, she still loves me as much as ever, probably more. Sean's a good Catholic, loves and obeys the Pope. Doesn't believe in divorce.”
Winter took one of the pills from Greg. He pulled it apart and poured the contents into his palm and looked at the granules. “It's sugar.”
“They're all sugar,” Greg said after he had emptied two more, tasting to make sure.
“Someone stole my drugs? What if I had been in pain? You can't even trust United States marshals anymore! I demand an investigation.” Devlin crossed to the bed and climbed in, snickering at them. “Cut out the light and close the door after you, boys.”
Greg suggested they account for all of the weapons in the house, even the kitchen knives. They found that every gun was where it was supposed to be—all loaded, all firing pins in place.
“Dylan didn't drug the coffee to gain access to the guns,” Winter said. “The only other reason for him to do it would be to get to Sean. He was in her room.”
“Unless Martinez was zonked, opened the door herself, and then didn't lock it,” Greg said.
“And Sean unlocked her bedroom door and forgot? No, he picked the locks.”
“Maybe he was planning to get to you,” Greg told Winter.
“There's no love lost, but I can't see Dylan risking his deal with the government to punish me.”
“Unless he could make it look like an accident.” Greg yawned. “One more thing I need to know, pal, and I want the absolute truth.”
“Yeah?”
“In all of your life, have you ever seen two more perfect breasts than Sean Devlin's?”
27
Thursday morning
Just after Martinez had left her bedroom, Sean saw the first light flares, which would be followed by nausea and blinding, incapacitating pain. She had immediately taken two of her migraine pills, then lay in the darkness waiting for them to work. She had suffered from the headaches since she was a teenager, but as long as she managed her diet and stress, they were infrequent. Since her miracle pills effectively stopped the headaches as they formed, she was never without them.
Sean propped herself up against a stack of pillows, wearing only her robe. She had never felt more angry with herself. If only her mother had still been alive when Dylan came along. Olivia Marks would have sniffed him out for what he was. She had always warned her about making friends too fast with strangers. The rule had always been that they didn't trust anybody but each other. There were things you just didn't share, and she had held to that, even with Dylan. Was it because she never fully trusted him? She wanted to believe it had been that she had sensed she couldn't trust him fully. She hadn't asked enough questions, pushed him for answers to the mystery that was his life before they'd met. He'd been guarded and so had she. She didn't think for a moment that was how normal married people behaved. If she was honest with herself now, she had suffered misgivings from the start.
He had absolutely and completely betrayed her. It was as though the disarming and handsome man she married had been kidnapped while she was in Argentina and switched with his evil twin brother. She despised and feared this alien creature who had murdered twelve people. She wanted to get as far away from him as fast as she could.
She had been in bed for three hours since the marshals left—ransacking her memory for clues she had missed about Dylan's secret life—but there were none to be found. Angela had done her best to comfort her, but Sean had wanted to be alone. Besides, what could she have told Angela that didn't make her look like an idiot, a complete fool?
It was true the marshals hadn't told her anything from the time she was seized from the airport, except that things would be explained to her as soon as she saw her husband and that he was perfectly fine. Perfectly fine how? She had taken as gospel everything Dylan told her after she'd arrived because she had wanted and needed to believe him. And that bastard had known she would.
They had never fought. In fact, she now realized, they had never talked about anything that mattered. He had listened to her opinions without disagreeing. He had always liked what she had, shared her dislikes.
She thought back to the day Dylan had walked into her life—a chance meeting in a South Hampton coffee shop. She had turned from the counter straight into h
im and doused his expensive suit with her coffee. He had been such a gentleman and was so charming that she had sat and had her coffee with him. That small entrée was all he'd needed. In the space of two months, Dylan had gone from being a total stranger to caring sensitive friend to tender lover, and finally to perfect husband. Way too perfect. Dylan Devlin had been everything she had ever wanted in a man, but she was sure now that he had become so by design. He was a consummate actor, a shell filled with lies.
In hindsight, her feelings for him had somehow become diluted during their marriage. While she had been in Argentina looking at the properties Dylan had made a list of, she had felt guilty for not thinking of him more—for not wishing that he had come with her. In fact, she had felt relieved that he wasn't with her. She had relished her privacy. Had she started to question even then, that perhaps there was someone else lurking behind her husband's bright green eyes? She knew she would not miss him, was glad to be rid of him. When Sean was done with a thing, she could walk away without looking back. It was part of her training—her nature.
After all was said and done, the most troubling part of all this was why a sociopath had chosen her out of all of the millions of women out there who were far richer, more beautiful, and more vulnerable than she. Although it was possible, she didn't want to believe he had picked her at random the way a hawk selects a single mouse from the many he watches. She had been vulnerable because she was lonely—because her mother hadn't been there to offer advice.
He's insane, she thought, and shuddered.
She had never been afraid of him before. Now Dylan had drugged marshals and crept into her room while she slept. Had he intended to harm her tonight? Had something interrupted him before he could do anything to her? What did he stand to gain?
Through the shutters she could see the sun rising. She would feel better after she showered and dressed. Getting out of bed, she slid a drawer open to select underwear and a top.
She picked out a sky-blue T-shirt, then opened another drawer for a pair of jeans and was startled to see a towel laid carefully on top of her clothes. Odd.
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