Puzzled, Sean lifted the towel away.
The thing she saw there, a nightmare lying between the stack of folded pants, made her scream in horror.
28
Winter was in the security room watching the monitors when he heard Sean. Drawing his handgun, he ran out into her bedroom just behind Martinez. Sean, her face as white as porcelain, stood pointing at the open drawer. Except for the fact that its severed head had been placed inches from its body, the cat looked as if he had climbed into the drawer and curled up to nap.
“Midnight,” Sean murmured.
“Jesus wept,” Greg muttered over Winter's shoulder.
“Hee-yere kitty, kitty, kitty,” Dylan sang out cheerfully from his bedroom.
Sean sat on the edge of her bed and sobbed. Martinez sat beside her and put her arm around her.
Winter lifted Midnight from the drawer, wrapped him in the towel, and carried the animal past Dylan's open door without looking in.
“Whut has happened to mah pussy?” Dylan called out as Winter passed. His laughter filled the house like acrid smoke.
“He killed Midnight,” Winter said gently, when Jet saw the bundle.
Tears of grief and anger rolled down her cheeks. “That man's the devil. He drugged me, too. Came into my bedroom and took Midnight.”
Winter wrapped the towel containing Midnight in old newspaper and secured the bundle using twine. Greg sat beside Jet and placed his hands on hers, speaking in a voice so low that it was impossible to hear what he was saying.
“Winter,” Greg said, his voice choked with anger, “Jet will be leaving on the store boat as soon as it gets here for the Thursday delivery.”
“I'm sorry, you'll have to get another cook. I can't stay here now.”
She stood slowly, as if her bones were brittle, and put on her raincoat. Gently, she took the bundle from Winter and went out the back door.
Greg went to the doorway and gestured for Dixon.
“You feeling all right, Bear?” he asked. When Dixon nodded, he said, “Then go out back and help Jet bury her pet.”
“Sick son of a bitch!” Winter's temper was blazing. “He did all that just so he could kill the cat and plant it so Sean would find it. That miserable, sick bastard.”
“This is a Taser,” Winter explained to Sean. “It's nonlethal, but it will knock Dylan on his ass for several minutes, which will give you time to get away from him.”
Sean weighed the plastic handgun-shaped object in her hand.
“It's instinctive, like aiming a gun. Point it like you're pointing your finger and squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it.” Winter instructed her. “Fires tiny darts that pull wire leads out, darts stick into the target, completing a circuit from a nine-volt battery in the handle.”
“Isn't that much electricity dangerous?” she asked, hoping he'd say yes.
“No amps, just voltage.”
“It makes the muscles seize up. If you ever have to use it, yell for help while you're running away,” Martinez added.
“So, do I just carry it around in my hand?”
“When we're close, you won't need it,” Martinez told her. “Tell you what. Take my jacket. There's a pocket inside for my duty piece. That okay, you think, Winter?”
“If it makes her feel safer,” Winter said.
Sean was comforted by the control over Dylan the strange weapon could offer her.
An hour later in the living room, when she looked up from her book and saw Dylan coming, it was too late to reach inside the jacket for the Taser. As he loomed over her, his expression was one of amusement. Martinez was coming back and Beck appeared at the door to the dining room, then started across the room. “I see your escort isn't any better than mine.”
“Back off, Mr. Devlin,” Martinez ordered, crossing the room.
“Stay where you are, Deputy,” Dylan said, his voice icy calm. “Still don't want to talk, Sean?”
Sean knew that Dylan could hurt her, perhaps kill her, before Martinez could stop him.
“What's the matter, darling? Cat got your tongue?”
Sean was frightened until he said that, but after the words registered, she felt white-hot rage. Before she knew she was going to do anything, she had lashed out, striking Dylan's cheek with her open hand hard enough to rock his head.
Beck and Martinez rushed to intervene, but Dylan's response was instantaneous. Sean saw stars and had a numb realization that she had been punched square in her mouth. Martinez tried to grab him, but Dylan pushed her away. Sean reached into her jacket and drew out the Taser, but before she could fire it, he grabbed her hand and twisted it. Sean wasn't sure whether she triggered the weapon or Dylan did, but when the apparatus popped loudly, Beck fell heavily to the floor, convulsing.
When Dylan drew back his fist to hit her again, Winter seemed to materialize out of thin air. He caught Dylan's wrist, spun him around, and punched him hard on the nose.
In a blur of motion the two men fell backward. Dylan now had Winter's wrist, and he used Winter's weight to pull him off-balance. When Winter landed on the floor, Dylan was straddling his chest, pressing the muzzle of Winter's pistol, which he had managed to grab in the struggle, against the supine deputy's forehead.
Blood ran in dual streams from Dylan's nose, dripped from his chin onto Winter's shirt.
“With your own gun, you meddling piece of shit,” Dylan told him calmly.
Sean was afraid, but Winter merely looked defiant. His arms were stretched out, his hands resting on the rug, palms open.
Suddenly Greg had his gun inches from the back of Dylan's skull. Martinez aimed at Dylan's temple and Cross at the rear quarter of Dylan's head.
Greg barked, “Think, Devlin. You pull the trigger, you'll be all over this room.”
Sean didn't care if the deputies shot Dylan. Of the two men with guns aimed at them, she cared only about Winter.
“Maybe I won't kill this faggot, if he begs.”
“Dylan,” Sean said in a steely voice, “you're making a complete fool of yourself.”
“I'm not bluffing,” Greg said calmly.
Dylan placed the gun flat on Winter's chest and stood. “Next time, son,” he said to Winter.
“Cross, see that Mr. Devlin gets packed immediately. We're leaving here at six to meet the plane,” Greg announced. “Devlin, that was your last stunt. You are going to be in handcuffs until we get you to D.C.”
“What about my wife?” Dylan asked.
Sean's heart was pounding. She held her breath, waiting.
“She's staying here,” Greg told him.
A wave of relief surged through her, and when she smiled, the pain caused her eyes to tear up. Sean put her fingertips to her lower lip and they came away smeared with blood.
29
Sean's lip was split open and bloody. Winter took a tissue from a box on the coffee table and handed it to her.
“Should get some ice on that,” he said.
“I thought he was going to kill you,” Sean said.
“It crossed my mind,” Winter admitted.
“Thank you for stopping him. He would have killed me,” she said.
“Did you see Dylan move?” Greg said incredulously.
“He's faster than he looks,” Winter said.
“You okay?” Greg asked him.
Winter straightened and Sean saw him wince. “I'm fine.”
Martinez knelt to help Beck sit up. “I think I can get up,” Beck said, dismissing her assistance.
Winter caught his eye and shook his head. Don't be an idiot!
“Maybe I could use a hand,” Beck capitulated. “That Taser hurt like hell.”
“Come to the kitchen,” Winter told Sean, taking her arm until she was seated at the table.
She watched as Winter filled a sandwich bag with crushed ice. When he placed it against her numb lip, tears flooded her eyes—tears of anger, not pain.
She held the bag against her lip. “He is utterly and totally insane.”
>
“What's his military training?” Winter asked.
Sean looked baffled. “He was in marketing and public relations. He never said anything about being in the military.”
“He didn't learn those moves at an ad agency.”
“I think he ran track in high school,” she said.
“That would explain it.”
“Was that sarcasm, Deputy Massey?” she asked, trying to smile.
“Absolutely.”
Greg entered the room, pocketing his Palm organizer.
“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 e
mpty 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.
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