Inside Out

  Archer glared at Winter. “That about it?”

  “Just separate the boys. Talk to them individually. Don't close the door because of your ego, or what you already believe is true. If they saw anyone—”

  “Listen to me, you—” Archer hissed.

  Shapiro interrupted. “Let's drop this for now, Deputy Massey.”

  “Massey,” Archer said hotly. “I want those murdering bastards caught every bit as badly as you do. I don't believe those kids saw anything, because if they had, there's no reason on earth for them not to tell us.”

  Winter fought to keep the desperation he felt from showing through. “Sir, just let me talk to George Williams. He's the weak link. If I'm right and he knows anything, I'm sure he'll tell me.”

  “You are?”

  “What do you have to lose?”

  Archer frowned as he weighed the request. “I don't want it said later that I wasn't open to all possible avenues. And, seeing his background, I suppose it's possible that Deputy Massey may know ways to elicit information from children.”

  Shapiro nodded solemnly.

  “Intuition is a valuable tool.”

  “Nobody can say that you weren't ready to explore every possible angle, sir,” Finch agreed.

  “Very well, Massey. But I won't stand for any rough stuff. You got that?”

  44

  A female FBI agent took Matt Barnwell to the ambulance under the pretext of a hearing examination. George Williams stood out beside the command tent gazing at the airplanes. Winter walked over to him. If they were going to find the bastards who were responsible for murdering Greg and the others, he had to make a start there and then.

  “You like airplanes, George?”

  The boy looked up at Winter. “Sure. I guess.”

  “Which is your favorite?”

  George shrugged. “Fighters.”

  “You hungry?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Let's get a sandwich and I'll show you around the planes.”

  George wolfed down the sandwich as though he'd been starved for days.

  “Let's go look at those planes,” Winter said when he'd finished.

  “You FBI?” George asked as they walked.

  “U.S. marshal.”

  “Are you a whipstick marshal?”

  Winter felt his heartbeat quicken. “You mean WITSEC, George?”

  “Yeah, what's that mean?”

  “WITSEC stands for witness security. WITSEC deputies protect men who are testifying against bad men in court. They make sure the witnesses get safely to court. Where did you hear about WITSEC?” he asked.

  George stopped and seemed to be studying a King Air. “TV, maybe.”

  “Must have been some explosion,” Winter said easily. “I bet it was loud and bright. George, earlier you said that you have permission to be here.”

  George stared at him silently.

  “We're not here because of the explosion,” Winter continued. “That would require only the ATF bomb squad people out there and a few FBI agents. We're all here because some bad men hijacked an airplane with seven people in it, including a man WITSEC was protecting. Those men flew it here last night and they blew it up with you watching. The reason there are so many cops and FBI agents here is because those seven people were still inside that jet when it exploded.”

  “For real?”

  “Word of honor.”

  George seemed to be thinking it over, so Winter gave him a nudge.

  “I don't know who you guys saw, or what those people said to you, but they are murderers, and we need to find them and make sure they don't kill anybody else. And the truth is that you are the only one who can help us catch these people. I know it's hard for you to tell me about it, but it's really important that you do and I think you want to tell the truth. If anyone threatened to hurt you or your families, we'll make absolutely sure that nobody does.”

  “He said it was just a war game,” George blurted out, his eyes alive with fear and excitement.

  “Who said that?”

  “I thought he was too old to be a real general.”

  George sat silently until Winter started the recorder. Archer and Shapiro were nearby to monitor.

  “First time me and Matt saw the men here was day before yesterday,” the boy started.

  George told Winter how he and Matt were caught by the men and about their leader, who told them he was a general and that the boys had stumbled on a secret war game the general said the men were playing with the WITSEC marshals. He told Winter about the weapons and described the activity in the hangar. The general had promised the boys that if they didn't tell about the activity at the base, the pair could come anytime they liked. He even promised to give them a pass and keys to the gate, and he said a man named Ralph would give them helicopter rides anytime they wanted. George said he didn't like the general or his men—they scared him. The general had made wonderful promises, but he made threats, too, about what could happen if he and Matt betrayed his men, since the boys had been trespassing and would go to jail and their parents would lose their houses and possessions to the government.

  He and Matt had come out again late the previous afternoon to see if the men were still there. He said the general seemed to have been there alone, moving in and out of the hangar. George said the runway lights came on, then a jet landed and taxied into the hangar. The general and some men left in an airplane. After they were sure the plane wasn't coming back, the boys had come onto the base to see if the general's men had left anything worth taking.

  “How many people did you see leave here last night?” Winter asked.

  “Four.”

  “Three and the old general?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who were the others?”

  “I think one was Ralph, the helicopter pilot. They had an army helicopter, the big plane with two propellers and a smaller one they left in.

  “We were watching from outside the fence and it was dark then. We came in here after they were gone. The big explosion knocked us down. My ears didn't work. The fire went way up in the sky and it was so hot you couldn't believe it. I couldn't hear and Matt kept yelling and jumping up and down, then a police helicopter came and we hid up in the tower.”

  “What does the general look like?”

  “He's really old, and his hair is white and dandruff falls out of it on his clothes. He has about a million wrinkles. Oh, and big brown freckles on his hands. And he has a weird blue eye where the little black hole part of it goes down in the blue part so it's like those old door holes you can look in.”

  “What about Ralph?”

  George thought for a moment before replying. “He has muscles like a wrestler, and sunglasses that's got purple glass in them and stuck-up hair that's white and a tattoo of a barbed wire on his wrist. That's all I can think of.”

  “The other men?”

  The boy shrugged. “I didn't really look at them much.”

  “How many were there? Beside Ralph and the general?”

  “A whole lot. Maybe seven or eight. I'm not sure. I know they all had muscles and short hair, too. We didn't talk to them, just to Ralph and the general.” George placed his palms on the table. “I guess that's all I know.”

  “George, could you help an artist draw some pictures of the general and Ralph?” Archer asked.

  “Sure,” he said, then seemed to clam up again. “You don't think he meant what he said—about our parents' houses and jail. Do you?”

  “No. You're safe. You won't be seeing him again, George,” Winter said, patting the boy's shoulder before he left the tent.

  Archer joined him outside. This time his smile looked genuine. “Deputy, I owe you an apology. You read those kids right.”

  “Agent Archer,” Winter said, “we're on the same side. Just find those bastards.”

  “I intend to,” Archer said.

  Winter was relieved that Archer sounded sincere.

  45

&nbs
p; Inside the Gulfstream II, Chief Marshal Richard Shapiro stood up from a gray leather couch, opened a cabinet, and removed a bottle of Oban. He handed Winter a glass with an ounce of the golden liquid in it. Shapiro poured one for himself and reached over to touch his glass to Winter's.

  “You're off duty,” Shapiro said. “Drink up.”

  The scotch ignited a velvet fire that burned the length of Winter's throat.

  “Another?” Shapiro offered.

  “No, thank you, sir.” If I start drinking now, maybe I won't ever stop.

  “The FBI has a good start, thanks to you,” Shapiro said. “The Citation will take you home as soon as you're ready. I want you to take some time off.”

  Winter was relieved—he desperately wanted to go home and resume his life. He looked through the window at the water tank and his mind painted Forsythe standing at the rail, on the island.

  “That's odd,” Winter said.

  “What?” Shapiro's eyes narrowed.

  “That professional killers felt secure enough to stage this operation from here. They were smart. Their planning was perfect. They modified a King Air. Flew in and out. They stole a helicopter from the Navy. They killed maybe sixteen people like it was nothing. They blew up the jet in the hangar to destroy any evidence they might have left behind to lead to them. But those same killers let two kids who could identify them walk away. Why would they do such an obviously stupid thing?”

  “The boy said they threatened and bribed them,” Shapiro reminded him. “Perhaps they didn't want to harm kids. Maybe they were afraid if they killed the boys there would be a search, they'd be discovered.”

  “There's something wrong,” Winter insisted. “Like they believed it wouldn't matter if the kids told.”

  Shapiro shook his head and got to his feet.

  “What about Mrs. Devlin?” Winter asked him.

  “No reason they'd bother her. She's just an ex-witness's widow now. We'll take care of her, watch her just in case.”

  “I'll get my things,” Winter said and started down the steps.

  “By the way,” Shapiro called from inside the plane, “the A.G. wants this all to stay classified for the time being. So, you weren't here, or on Rook, either. Media blackout is in force. The A.G. wants us to sit on everything. We don't want those bastards to know the FBI's right behind them.”

  Winter intended just to grab his bag and leave. Sean sat in the rear of the Justice Department's Lear 31 and fixed him in her gaze as he entered. She closed the computer in her lap and set it aside. Her face looked like porcelain, white and as hard, the bruise under her bottom lip like a water stain. Winter reached into the cargo hold and retrieved his duffel. “Guess this is good-bye.”

  “I suppose so,” she replied. “I'm so sorry about your friends.”

  “They were doing their jobs, and we all accepted the risks knowing something like this could happen. Someone paid those men to kill your husband and they figured out a way to do it.”

  “You're an interesting man, Winter Massey. Don't guess I'll be seeing you again,” she said softly, smiling faintly.

  “Not likely. I'm going back to Charlotte, where it's quieter.” God, he hated to leave this fascinating woman he longed to learn more about.

  “What's next?”

  “FBI will take all the evidence they have, identify the unidentified dead subjects, and go out and catch the others.”

  “What about the man behind this? Does he win?”

  “It depends on whether or not the government can convict him without Dylan's testimony. The A.G. will most likely have to drop those charges associated with Dylan's killings, maybe try and go for something else. They might have to let the old gangster out of jail unless they can prove conspiracy to commit murder. They'll probably dangle death sentences over the weakest of the killers, and probably one will turn over Manelli to get off with a slapped hand and join WITSEC.”

  “Manelli?”

  “Sam Manelli.” Winter realized, too late, he shouldn't have revealed his name. Dylan obviously hadn't told her, either.

  “From New Orleans?”

  “The Justice Department has been trying to get him in jail for forty years,” he said, privately cursing his stupidity.

  Winter saw something in Sean's brown eyes that he hadn't seen before, not even during the life-or-death battle of the previous evening. Anger? Bewilderment?

  “Sean, what is it?”

  “Its nothing.” Her smile seemed uncertain. “It's just that I know who Manelli is—who doesn't, but it never crossed my mind that Dylan worked for him. Now, this all makes more sense . . . sort of.”

  He offered his hand and Sean gripped it like a child being left at a nursery the first time. “Thanks for protecting me from Dylan, for saving my life and for making me feel safe. And, for being my friend, I suppose.”

  “You are safe. Talk to the USMS psychiatrist. His specialty is these kinds of emotional roller coasters. I've talked to him a couple of times myself. He'll make you feel better. I promise.” He smiled, studying her features one last time to lock them into his memory.

  Her eyes turned up into his. “Maybe someday I'll come to Charlotte, buy you dinner, and you can tell me how all of this turned out.”

  He remembered that Fletcher Reed had said pretty much the same thing on Rook Island, the night before. “It would be my pleasure,” he said meaning it.

  When he lifted his bag from the seat, she stood up, put her arms around him, pressed her cheek against his, and hugged him. “Good-bye, Deputy,” she told him. “God bless you and keep you safe.”

  Winter turned at the door and looked back at Sean, who waved tentatively. Maybe it was his imagination, but it looked as though her bottom lip quivered. He nodded one final time, stepped down from the plane and walked toward the waiting Citation. The sensation of her cheek against his stayed with him for a long time.

  46

  Sean waited five minutes, then descended from the Learjet to watch the Citation carrying Winter Massey lift off. She kept the plane in sight until it was a speck in the Virginia sky. She had met very few men of Winter Massey's equal. Now he was out of the equation, and she felt both sorry and relieved.

  She realized her hands were shaking. She had never been more surprised than when Winter said that Dylan had been involved with—had crossed—Sam Manelli. No wonder Dylan had wanted to keep her in the dark. No wonder the killers found them. If only she had known, she would never have joined Dylan on Rook Island. Dylan was lucky—he obviously had died fast.

  She scanned the base as if memorizing the positions of the vehicles, the men and women who dotted the landscape. She spotted Archer in the command tent and stiffened. Manelli's name meant everything was different now and everybody had to be evaluated anew. She knew better than anyone that when it came to his influence, his money, anybody could be an enemy.

  A female deputy strode from the Gulfstream toward the Lear. Her boxy body looked hard and her face, beneath the USMS cap's visor, rigid. “I'd like you to get inside the plane, Mrs. Devlin, and remain there until further notice,” she ordered.

  “I just came out.”

  “It's a security matter.”

  “If you can explain how I might be in danger here, I'll consider your request.”

  “If you do what I say, we'll get along just fine.”

  Not a chance. “Could you please tell your boss, Director Shapiro, I want to have a word with him?”

  “The chief marshal is busy. Tell me what you want and I'll relay the message.” It seemed to be an effort for the deputy to keep her voice even and pleasant.

  “Tell Chief Marshal Shapiro that I will be leaving now. I'd like my things removed from the jet and I want someone to drive me to the closest airport or bus station.”

  Sean went back inside the Lear. Through the window she could see the woman speaking with two male deputies, one of whom went into the Gulfstream. A few seconds later, Shapiro left the G-II and headed her way, just as she had ex
pected.

  “You want to leave?” he asked her.

  “I intend to,” she corrected.

  “We'll need to work some things out first. We need to consider what's best for you. We're going to request some psychological help so you can deal with what you have been through. We certainly owe you that.”

  “First, I never asked to be involved, but now that my husband is dead I assume I am no longer needed to keep him occupied. I haven't committed any crime and I don't have any information to give anybody. I have no intention of remaining here in this horrible place while people pick through that pile of rubble. And I won't spend another instant in the company of ‘our lady of the perpetual sneer' out there. If you will call me a cab, or have one of those policemen drive me out, I can take charge of my own life from now on.”

  “You don't even know where you are,” he protested.

  “I assume wherever we are is connected somehow to roads which lead to towns and eventually to a commercial airport. At this point I'd hitchhike before I'd stay here in this cracker box another ten minutes.”

  “I'll take you back to Washington within the hour. And if Deputy Munsen isn't to your liking, I'll replace her.”

  I doubt your deputy is to anyone's liking, except the man who sells her steroids, she thought.

  “Mrs. Devlin, you are our guest. We feel a responsibility for you and we will do everything we can to make you comfortable. I'll have your bags moved to my plane,” he said solicitously, hoping to appease her.

  “Sir,” she replied, “I have not yet been comfortable being your guest. I just want my life back. And a stiff drink.”

  Shapiro lifted her briefcase. “If you will follow me,” he said, “the United States Marshals Service will make every effort to oblige you.”

  Two minutes later Sean was seated in the Gulfstream holding a scotch on the rocks. She swiveled the chair, looked out, and caught Deputy Munsen staring up at her sourly from the tarmac. Sean touched her glass to the window and smiled.