Inside Out

by John Ramsey Miller

  Winter nodded slowly. He hoped it was the latter, because the former was too terrible to contemplate.

  42

  Later, while Shapiro was in the Lear with Sean, Winter wandered over to the evidence tent. He listened to the sound of the refrigeration compressor atop the chiller unit as he stood outside the tent and studied the bags littering one of the tables.

  He found himself staring at an open case, which held a badge and a scorched ID picture of Dixon beside it. Archer's voice interrupted his thoughts. “Deputy Massey, can you match some of this with individuals for us?”

  “Sorry . . . sure.”

  Inside the tent, he let his eyes wander over the articles, and he pointed to an Astros baseball cap that had been burned away to the brim. “That was Beck's.” He lifted a bag containing a watch. “This was Greg Nation's.” The watch's crystal was shattered, the stainless-steel band broken at the clasp.

  “What about this?” Archer pointed to another bag, containing a foil wrapper and a Spectra film box. “They found this outside the hangar.”

  “There are no cameras allowed in a WITSEC operation.”

  “Thoughts?” Archer probed.

  Winter inspected the box and foil through the plastic. “Opened recently, because it doesn't look weathered. Was it discarded by one of the firemen or sheriff deputies?”

  “Already checked that. No fingerprints on the package or the foil.”

  “Then I imagine the killers dropped it. Maybe they took pictures of Devlin for proof to the client that they'd succeeded. Easier than lugging a corpse around.”

  “Good guess.”

  A technician set an old Boy Scout backpack on the “incoming” evidence table. The initials G.W. were on the flap.

  “Just a minute,” Archer asked. “What's that?”

  “It was out in the debris field,” the tech answered. “There are some unusual objects inside.”

  “Did that belong to any of your team?” Archer asked Winter.

  “No,” Winter said.

  “Put it down,” Archer told the tech, pointing to a clean space on the table. The supervising agent in charge tugged his right glove on tighter, then opened the backpack. Winter watched as Archer took the contents out one at a time, placing each on the table.

  “A pair of eight-by-forty binoculars with a broken lens, a slightly used votive candle, a partially filled box of cigarettes, Penthouse magazine dated August of this year, a book of matches, and a pocket knife.”

  “Probably belonged to a kid,” Winter commented. “When was this place closed?”

  Archer called out to a rotund sheriff's deputy rinsing his hands under a flowing faucet. “Hey, Deputy, when was this place closed down?”

  “It was in full swing until after Vietnam.” He took Archer's question as a summons and approached, shaking his hands to dry them. “It was used some, here and there, until the mid-'80s. It's been locked up tight ever since.”

  “Maybe a kid of a caretaker, worker's kid?”

  “No caretaker that I know of,” the deputy replied. His chrome nameplate said SLOOP.

  “Well, some kid was in here at some point since the August Penthouse hit the racks,” Winter said laconically.

  The deputy nodded slowly and studied the backpack. “G.W. We got a pair of boys—George Williams and Matthew Barnwell—both twelve-year-olds, reported missing by their parents last night.”

  Archer turned to Finch, who stood in the nearby command tent ten feet away, watching Archer like a student. “I want a copy of that missing-persons report.”

  “Where exactly was this pack found?” Archer asked.

  “It was outside the debris field,” the evidence tech replied. He pointed to several acres defined by a fluttering line of yellow crime-scene tape that ran between metal stakes pushed into the ground. The field was being searched by at least fifty FBI and ATF technicians dressed in white jumpsuits and wearing surgical gloves. Hundreds of small plastic flags on wire rods marked the debris. Winter knew that red ones indicated where body parts had been located. Other colors stood for personal belongings, parts of the aircraft, or suspected bomb parts.

  “I can show you exactly where it was.”

  Archer called out. “I want a K-nine unit over there.”

  Several of the men inside the tent filed out into the field like swarming bees, flowing toward the place the tech had pointed out. Winter didn't accompany them. Instead, he looked again at the shattered wristwatch.

  The Omega's rear plate, he knew, commemorated the first manned landing on the moon. He remembered Greg saying once that as an orphaned child, he had stood barefoot in his grandmother's hard-dirt yard and stared up at the moon, desperately trying to see the astronauts she had told him were up there. His grandmother had told him it was a mighty long way to go to put up a little flag nobody could see. He knew then that he was standing between two worlds. One world was the only one he had ever known—poverty and hopelessness. The other was a magical place where a man could stand on the moon's surface. Greg told Winter that, at that moment, he didn't know how it would be possible, but he was certain which world he was going to live in. From that night on, he did everything he could to jump into that other world, like it was some passing train, and get a seat inside it. He had purchased the “Astronaut” watch when he was in the military so he would never forget that night—or the vow he'd made—a world away.

  Sean and Shapiro stood outside the Lear's door, still talking. As Shapiro began walking toward the tent, Sean used her hand as a visor and scanned the landscape before climbing back up into the airplane.

  When Shapiro saw Archer and the others, now a hundred yards distant, he asked, “What's happening?”

  Winter set the bag containing the watch back on the table. “Found evidence a couple of missing boys might have been here. They're going to have a dog try and find them.”

  “God, if the boys ran across those people . . .” Shapiro said, then broke off.

  A sheriff's-department Explorer pulled off the road. The driver stopped, climbed out, and opened the back door. A German shepherd bounded out, straining the lead the driver was holding. After the animal sniffed the backpack, he tugged his handler toward the fence on the far side of the field. The officers and emergency personnel followed along like a lynch mob.

  “Fred Archer is the case officer,” Shapiro said abruptly.

  “That so?”

  “He broke the Morrow spy ring three years back, foiled a terrorist plot to smuggle six tons of Semtex into San Francisco last year, and recovered sixty of the sixty-two million that was taken from the New York State retirement fund six months ago. That's why he's here, why he has command of the investigation. He's the director's golden boy.”

  Winter didn't reply, just stared out at the activity.

  “Mrs. Devlin's been through an ordeal.”

  “She sure has,” Winter agreed.

  “She seems sort of numbed out. I told her I wanted her to take a few days to unwind. Talk to a therapist—weigh her options. I want to make sure she isn't in shock. Beneath that facade, she's got to be a basket case.”

  Winter found a pair of binoculars in the command tent and raised them to his eyes. The dog had led the crowd across the field. A uniformed deputy slipped under the fence, disappeared into a gully, and came out with a bicycle, which he propped against the fence. He went down again to bring up a second.

  “Pair of bicycles,” Winter said.

  Winter's body tensed with anticipation as he watched for any sign that the two boys had been located. Archer pointed back toward the spot where the dog had started tracking. Winter knew that the dog had retraced its steps from where the backpack had been located to the place where the boys entered the base. The handler would go back now and see if his dog could find and follow the scent in the direction the boys had traveled. Sure enough, the dog took off, leading his handler across the debris field and toward the derelict control tower. The dog stopped below it, sniffed around the riser
, and started to bark frantically.

  An FBI agent scrambled up on the rotted steps, balancing like a tightrope walker. Once on the deck, he pulled his gun out and moved around the building, out of Winter's view.

  “What is it?” Shapiro asked.

  Winter focused on the deck. There was movement as the agent came around the corner. And then, like apparitions materializing, two small figures walked unsteadily into view. “They're alive!” Winter murmured. “Thank God,” he said. “Finally, something.”

  The boys stood there above an ocean of armed adults, blinking like owls, covered with black smut like coal miners.

  Cheers mixed with the spatter of applause carried across the field. Winter thought of Rush, and the birthday he hoped he could still get home for.

  43

  Archer led the two boys back to the command tent, where emergency medical technicians cleaned them up, checking them over for injuries, treating their scratches, and finally pronouncing them sound.

  The Cole County deputies, emergency workers, and firemen began to cluster, talking among themselves, some smoking cigarettes. Finch ordered them to disperse. In the debris field, stooped technicians remained on task, oblivious to anything beyond the tape barrier.

  While an FBI agent lowered the canvas walls of the tent, Winter saw the sheriff approach Archer and whisper something in his ear. He heard Archer reply that absolutely no members of the press would be allowed on the base under any conditions, due to national security. The sheriff left in his cruiser. Then they went to the tent.

  Director Shapiro stood behind Archer. Winter stood alone near the side wall, to Archer's left. Across the table from Archer, the two boys sat side by side.

  A technician placed a cassette recorder on the table in front of the boys. Archer pressed the record button. He said, “FBI Supervising Case Agent Fred Archer conducting a field interview of two minor subjects found at Ward Field, Virginia.” He added the date and glanced down at a slip of paper. “The subjects being interviewed are Matthew Barnwell and George Williams, both twelve years of age and residents of Raiford, Virginia. The subjects are aware I am recording this interview.”

  Archer folded his hands on the table and smiled at the boys. “Man,” he said expansively, “we sure are glad you two are all right. You gave us all quite a scare, I can tell you. The agent who found you said you fellows had a clubhouse all set up in the tower. You come here a lot?”

  The heavier boy watched Archer. The other boy stared down at his lap. He hadn't looked up since the agents and marshals entered.

  “Okay, so, George and Matt, which one of you boys is Matt?”

  The plump boy held up his hand.

  From behind the boys, Finch said, “Speak up and answer either yes or no when Agent Archer asks you a question for the recorder. Is that clear?”

  Both boys nodded.

  “Affirmative nods,” Finch announced, for the benefit of the tape. “Again, please answer the questions yes or no.”

  “I just need to ask you a few questions,” Archer said. Over his insincere smile, his eyes were decidedly predatory. To Winter he looked like a union official at the negotiating table with a Louisville Slugger concealed in his lap in case his sugary words failed.

  “Okay,” Matt said. “Yeah.”

  “Last night there was a big explosion here.”

  Matt showed Archer a look of surprised disbelief. “Huh?” George merely shrugged.

  “You saw it?” Archer asked.

  Matt shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Yes or no,” Finch insisted.

  “Nah,” Matt said emphatically. “We weren't here.”

  The scene took Winter back to his years as a teacher. He studied the boys carefully.

  “I suspect you're not telling me the truth,” Archer said softly. “You're both blackened from the blast.”

  “We were,” George said to his lap. “We . . .”

  Winter clearly saw Matt kick George's ankle under the table.

  “We were just walking in and it knocked us down. We were scared and we hid,” Matt explained. “We didn't want to get in trouble for being here.”

  “Boys,” Archer said sternly. “Think about this very, very carefully before you answer. Before the explosion, did you see anything? Any people coming or going? Any vehicles leaving the area?”

  “Nah.” Matt crossed his arms across his chest. “We didn't see nothing but that explosion, then police cars and fire trucks.”

  George put his finger in his right ear and shook it, glaring at Matt. Winter knew Matt was lying. Why couldn't Archer see that, he thought.

  “So you hid in the tower because?”

  “We didn't want to get blamed for it,” Matt blurted out. “We didn't see nothing, did we, George?” Matt pressed the sole of his sneaker against George's ankle. George shook his head. Winter looked around and realized that he alone had a view of what was going on under the table.

  “No,” George agreed after a few long seconds.

  “Are you both absolutely sure?” Archer asked.

  Now, Winter thought. This is where Archer starts poking and prodding.

  Archer's pager went off, interrupting. He read the number and frowned.

  Archer looked back at the boys, smiling at them.

  “And, I think we all know the rest,” Archer said, putting his notebook away, turning off the recorder and standing.

  “Great. If you two young men remember anything later, you get your parents to call the FBI, okay? Do that for us? Let's get their parents out here and reunite them.” Archer's interview completed, he walked out.

  Winter couldn't believe what he'd just seen. The interrogation was done? What the hell was wrong with Archer?

  Finch cut the recorder off and told Matt, “Your days of trespassing here are over. They'll fix that fence, bulldoze the tower.”

  “We have permission,” George said softly. Winter didn't hear it, he read the boy's lips.

  Winter left the hut and went after Archer.

  “That's it?” Winter demanded.

  Archer snapped his cell phone open and, looking at his pager's display for the number, began punching it into the keypad. “Is what it, Deputy Massey?”

  “The interview . . . it's over? Those kids are hiding something. They're lying to you.”

  “I doubt it,” Archer said. “If you'll excuse me, I—”

  Winter snatched Archer's phone away and closed it. The agent's expression was one of shock and outrage.

  Shapiro appeared beside them. “What in heaven's name is going on?” he demanded.

  Handing back Archer's cell phone, Winter spoke softly but forcefully, “The special agent in charge of this investigation just turned his back on what could very well be key evidence!”

  “That's enough, Deputy,” Archer demanded, turning his eyes on the people crowding behind Shapiro. “Doesn't everyone have something to do?” he called out. The agents began moving slowly away, with the reluctance of kids forced to abandon a school-yard fistfight.

  “What evidence?” Shapiro asked Winter.

  “Archer—”

  “Special Agent in Charge Archer,” Shapiro snapped at Winter.

  “Those boys lied. They know something. They saw something. They were here all night after the explosion. Maybe they were here earlier and saw the plane land. Maybe they are afraid.”

  “We put them at ease,” Archer said.

  “Look, maybe they were threatened by someone.”

  “Nonsense,” Archer said. “Finch, do you agree with Deputy Massey?”

  “Totally absurd. They're just children who obviously didn't see anything useful.”

  “So this evidence would be what, Massey?” Archer asked sarcastically.

  “Whenever George tried to expand an answer or volunteer anything other than what Matt said, Matt kicked him under the table. Just after you left, when Finch said they would never be allowed back, George said, ‘We have permission.' Present tense. From whom? Thei
r parents reported them missing so who gave them permission to stay? Finch, you were standing close enough to George that you must have heard it.”

  “I didn't hear any such thing,” Finch protested.

  “But you heard it?” Shapiro asked Winter.

  “I read his lips. They were here when the plane exploded. Maybe they were here before that. I know they saw a lot more than they've admitted to.”

  “You read lips? You see underneath tables?” Archer asked.

  “You have a crystal ball, too?” Finch mocked.

  “Did you see the boys kicking each other?” Archer asked Shapiro.

  “No,” Shapiro said. “But if Deputy Massey says he did, I believe him.”

  “You'll excuse me if I say that I hardly see Massey as impartial here. Understandably, he is in shock, if not temporarily mentally unbalanced by grief and the deadly combat he went through. So, I'll let it go . . . this time.”

  “Perhaps,” Shapiro insisted, “this is something we could discuss privately.”

  “I've got work to do,” Archer said,

  Shapiro added. “If the interview with those boys was a little more superficial than it could have been, there's no good reason it can't continue—”

  “I disagree,” Archer interrupted. “And let me remind you that I'm calling the shots. If Deputy Massey can't control himself, if he ever lays a hand on me again or creates a scene, I'll have him in a psychiatric facility undergoing evaluation.”

  “Agent Archer,” Winter said, with a calm he didn't feel, “I'm sorry. I'm not myself. People I cared about have been murdered. My best friend is scattered across the landscape. Last night I killed four men. What you said about my state of mind is true. Even so, I taught boys that age. I have a son that age. I know how boys that age act and think when they're hiding something.”