Inside Out

by John Ramsey Miller

  47

  New York, New York

  The ebony Lincoln pulled up in front of a six-story building in lower Manhattan. The driver got out, walked around to the passenger's side, and opened the door. Herman Hoffman and four other men climbed out of the vehicle. Herman moved with the confidence of a man who was certain his brittle legs would snap if he dared go any faster.

  The driver, a blond with a tattoo of barbed wire wrapping his wrist, used a key to open the building's door. “Thank you, Ralph,” Herman said.

  The four men followed Herman inside and stepped into the elevator with him, affording the elderly man more than his share of space.

  “I'm bushed,” Herman said. “Could sleep for a week.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ralph said. “I expect we all could.”

  “First, Ralph, find out why my other team hasn't reported in. If they were captured, we have to get to them immediately. If there were casualties, we need to get them collected. If they didn't get the target—if by some miracle she made it through—we'll have to deal with that immediately. Get me all the intelligence you can compile ASAP.”

  Herman looked at the man in the corner wearing a black all-weather coat and matching baseball cap and smiled weakly. “I doubt even the hand of God could have saved the inhabitants of that house if the men made it there. If they didn't make it to the island, we'll deal with fixing that. I can't assess the situation until I have all the information.”

  The elevator stopped at the fifth floor and the four other men got out, leaving Herman and Ralph alone in the car.

  “You men get some rest and we'll meet later and see what we have left to do, or if we are done.” Herman raised his head slowly and stared at the man in the ball cap until the doors closed.

  “Sir?”

  Herman opened his eyes to find Ralph kneeling beside the chair where he had dozed off after lunch.

  “Sir, sorry, but we have word on the island team. All four were erased and their equipment was captured.”

  “I was afraid the sailors would somehow get an alarm out to the Marine base. Damn.”

  “That deputy, Massey, killed them.”

  “What?” Herman sat up, fully awake now. He had taken a risk, knowing the marines could respond before the team was done, but . . . “A deputy marshal killed four of my boys? That's impossible. The intelligence is wrong. The SEALs must have caught them in the open.”

  “The Devlin woman and the marshal are definitely alive, sir. Our four are confirmed dead.”

  “You're absolutely certain?”

  “Their fingerprints have already been put through the system. Control picked them up and Fifteen is on the phone, wanting to talk to you.”

  “What else?”

  “The radar staff was neutralized. The female marshal was, too. They got that far without a problem. But Massey turned it. He took them one by one.”

  Herman felt like a great weight was sitting on his chest. “Send the snapshots to the client as planned. We have to find Sean Devlin.”

  Herman lifted up the encrypted telephone on the table beside the chair and put it to his ear.

  “What the hell is going on?” Herman wasn't surprised that the demanding voice on the other end was icy. Herman had known Fifteen since he'd recruited him twenty-four years earlier. For the past six years his protégé controlled all of the dark cells except Herman's. After Herman's death, he would have them all. But until that happened, Herman didn't answer to Fifteen or anyone else.

  “Fifteen, how thoughtful of you to call. I need assistance with some light sweeping.”

  “I know that,” Fifteen replied. “When were you going to mention this to me?”

  “When you had a need to know,” Herman said.

  “I presume I have, now that all hell has broken loose. We have to discuss this matter, Herman.”

  “I'd be happy to talk with you anytime, Fifteen. Perhaps in a few days.”

  “So, this thing—whatever it was—is over, right? You don't plan any more surprises, do you?”

  “Very close to being done. I have a couple of loose ends. Nothing for you to worry about. Everything is hunky-dory.” Herman hung up the phone.

  “Ralph, we'll need to put some effort into finishing Mrs. Devlin before our client finds out and reacts stupidly.”

  48

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Sam Manelli took his meals alone in his cell. The Justice Department wanted to make sure he didn't have any contact with other inmates, or anyone except his lawyers, who they couldn't bar from the prison. They needn't have worried. No one in the population would have dared approach him without Sam's first instigating that contact. If he had been sentenced to life without parole, perhaps he might have been in real danger. Even Al Capone, once he was in prison, became just a middle-aged mop-pusher who was physically assaulted by more powerful inmates. Only if Manelli was cut off completely from his organization, his money, and his political influence would he be in danger, and everyone knew it.

  Occasionally, when Sam was being escorted to the dayroom or the yard to meet one of his high-dollar lawyers, a mob-connected inmate in the prison hallway would meet Sam's eye and nod. Sam might, depending on his mood and who made the gesture, acknowledge this with a lowered chin. Or he might ignore it. Word in the facility was that the feds were inclined to turn their backs and allow Manelli to fall victim to foul play. Inmates knew better: No reward outweighed the hell awaiting the man who lifted a hand against Sam Manelli.

  The young guard carrying the tray containing Sam's dinner arrived on the other side of the bars. His appearance distracted Sam from his thoughts, which, these days, centered solely on the murder of Dylan Devlin. Sam was wondering when Dylan would be dead, how he would die, what he would think in his dying moments when he knew Sam had gotten to him. The gangster would have paid any amount to have the rat bastard handed over to him. He daydreamed constantly about the most painful way for Devlin to die. The challenge for Sam was to keep from allowing his temper to cause him to kill what he could keep alive but in amazing pain for days, weeks, even years.

  “Hello,” Sam said. He even managed a smile for the guard. He didn't have to be nice to the kid, but what the hell did being friendly hurt?

  The guard returned the greeting cordially and slid the tray halfway through the slot in the bars. He was set to receive the second half of twenty-five thousand dollars in cash the day Sam was released. Johnny Russo had, at Sam's instruction, been generous with Sam's money. It was easy to make sure that the men Johnny passed it to were in positions to help.

  Sam's father had taught him well, rules Sam had never broken, rules that had always before kept him out of jail. Make the right friends. Buy people who can help you. Information is life, ignorance is death. Never write anything you don't want some D.A. showing a jury. Don't be stingy. Never waste money. Use threats only as a last resort. Never go back on your word. Never apologize, never cry or show any sign of weakness. If you say you'll do a thing, do it, no matter the cost. Never trust anyone but yourself. Assume everybody steals. Know when to make an example of a thief, when to overlook theft. Pay your people right, but not too much, because that is weakness. People who owe you hate you. A friend will kill you faster than an enemy will. Mercy breeds contempt, so never show any.

  Sam knew all of the Manelli Rules. Hundreds of them—all passed down from mouth to ear. The one that made the deepest impression on him was when his father said, “Sammy, I love you more than anything I ever loved. Way more than I can say. But if someone thinks they can make me do something by threatening you or your mama, I tell you this for true. I gonna tell them, Go on and kill my wife, kill my sweet baby. 'Cause you are gonna be dead after a long time in pain you ain't gonna believe.”

  “What if they give us back?” young Sam had asked. “You just forget what they did?”

  “Of course, I'd take you back, but I'd still do to them what I said. The most important rule, Sammy, is never let love make you break any rule you h
ave to live by.”

  Then, in his old office on Magazine Street, Dominick Manelli had placed his massive hands on Sam's ten-year-old cheeks and kissed him full on his mouth. All those decades later, sitting in a cell in Atlanta, Sam could still close his eyes and feel his father's stiff afternoon whiskers. Sam could also remember the look on his father's face when, years later, just before he died, Dominick had summoned him close and whispered through his last gasps, “Sammy, listen. I want you to give the archdiocese two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In my name. Tell the priests they can pray me into heaven for it.”

  Sam had replied, “You crazy, Papa? Nothing the priests can pray will keep you out of hell.” Sam thought he'd seen a smile flicker in his dying father's eyes. Dominick had waited until the last seconds of his life to offer God money that he knew was now his son's. Dominick could have made the contribution himself when he was in control. The old man could tell Saint Peter that he had asked Sam to donate to charity in his name, so if he didn't, it sure wasn't Dominick's fault. Even in death, Dominick Manelli had an angle to work.

  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 waved 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.”