Inside Out

by John Ramsey Miller

  “No.” Winter was trying to keep his head clear, to keep his emotional attachment to Sean out of the equation. He wanted to do what Hank suggested and maybe get into the lot so he could watch her with his own eyes, but that might further endanger her. He wanted more men. He wanted better ways to keep up with her. He wanted to know exactly what Archer's intentions were, what Manelli was thinking. He was terrified that Manelli had someone waiting in the lot to ambush and kill her. He wanted to head her off, take her out of the convertible, and run away with her and keep her safe, which he could not do.

  The telephone buzzed and Winter put it to his ear. “Guys, there's a black Caddy that pulled inside the lot, must be the covered wagon,” Chet said. “The driver is alone. He's too tall to be your guy.”

  “His driver is picking her up,” Winter said. “Chet, let me know if your guy can see her in the car when the Caddy leaves the garage. She's wearing a red and white ball cap and black leather jacket.”

  Hank kept going straight toward Canal Street after she turned and entered the lot.

  Chet added, “The van and Archer's sedan are rolling.”

  “What do you want to do?” Hank asked, slowing.

  “Pull over and wait for her to come out. What the hell else can we do?”

  “There's no place to pull over,” Hank told him. “Should I make the block?”

  “I'm thinking!” Winter snapped. He spotted the feds seated in a white Taurus that was parked at the curb. Winter, having flown from New York with the agents, recognized them. The driver was yawning.

  93

  Winter had decided to run ahead of the Cadillac carrying Sean. While he had kept it in view, Hank drove to Manelli's country home on Lake Pontchartrain, north of the Mississippi River. Hank pulled off the road and parked on a driveway that wound through a wooded lot across the road from Manelli's place.

  Gazing between the trees through the binoculars, Winter had a view of the gatehouse and the driveway up to where it passed behind the hills. The deputy following the van had told them that the FBI caravan, now including the second Bucar, the Taurus, was parked just off the Interstate behind a Texaco station a mile away. Winter didn't think they were close enough to protect Sean.

  Manelli's Cadillac came flying up the road, turned right at the intersection, and pulled up to the gate, which opened to allow the car to enter, then closed behind it. Winter, studying the lone gatekeeper, saw him reach up by the gate shack door and flip a lever before the Cadillac pulled away. The operator didn't move but watched the car. The vehicle slowed to a crawl to cross a low bridge, then the Cadillac sped off. Winter swung the binoculars back to watch the gatehouse and saw the keeper flip the lever back in the original position, then go back inside.

  Winter had nothing but respect for Sean's bravery, her calmness under fire and her intelligence. He didn't want to interfere unless he was sure she was going to be harmed.

  What was eating at him now was the fact that Sam Manelli had a well-earned reputation for staying one step ahead of everybody, so reckless or suicidal behavior—like bringing Sean Devlin to his home and killing her there—simply didn't make sense. Once Sean was inside his compound, Sam would be cornered, and if he killed her, he'd be stuck with the corpse of a person the agents knew was alive when she'd arrived.

  Both Hank and Winter had binoculars up to their eyes.

  “She's in the car, all right,” Hank said. “I can see her cap.”

  “The guard at the gate flipped that lever again after the car passed the bridge,” Winter said.

  “Some sort of signal, maybe? An alarm?”

  “I don't know. Something about the bridge.”

  The FBI radios fell silent after Archer learned that the Cadillac was back on Manelli's property. So far, according to the reports from “ears” to Archer, Sean had remained silent and only music had come over the air. After five minutes, Archer's calm voice came over the radio and asked for an update on the “cowgirl” and asked if the “range boss” was with her yet.

  The voice filled the police radio. “She's in there, sir. I heard the car doors and the barn door closing. No voices at all. Just kitchen sounds and singing.”

  “She's singing?”

  “No, a man.”

  “We wait for the words from the range boss,” Archer said calmly. “And then everybody will sit tight until I give the order to go in.”

  “Something's wrong. I'm going in.” Winter could no longer force himself to believe everything was all right. He took a pair of earplugs Hank had brought him and inserted them into his ear canals. The plugs were fitted with a valve designed to close at any sudden loud noise while allowing normal sounds to enter.

  “Sam's guys'll shoot you for trespassing.”

  Winter's mind was suddenly filled with questions he needed answered. Where are all those bodyguards? Why hasn't Sean said anything? How do I know they knew that Sam was in there before this started?

  “Cover me, Hank.” Winter sprang from the Jeep, ran across the road, scaled the fence, and sprinted across the lawn toward the house. Trammel opened the window and aimed the AR-15 at the gatehouse as Winter ran. Hank watched Winter through the gray curtain of rain.

  The guard, visible through a window, had his back to Winter and didn't see him, but a well-hidden FBI watcher did. The voice that had first announced the covered wagon leaving the barn came over the radio once again. “Sir, Massey is over the fence, running toward the barn.”

  Archer's curses filled the airwaves.

  Hank pulled down the Velcro flaps exposing the large gold letters—U.S. MARSHAL—so the FBI didn't take him for an armed guard. Taking up the carbine, he climbed from the Jeep.

  Hank was dropping down on the other side of the wrought-iron wall, when the caravan came roaring up the road from the interstate. Archer's Crown Victoria led, the Taurus third after the van. Archer's tires screamed as Finch made a sliding turn onto the road, then slammed to a stop at the gate. Archer held his badge out the window so the gatekeeper could see it.

  As the gate opened, the step van arrived. A SWAT team member sprang out and wrestled the gatekeeper down, cuffing him. Archer blasted off down the driveway with the van trailing right behind him. The white sedan with FBI agents stopped to block the gate.

  Hank crossed the wet grass heading for the driveway where it entered the hillocks surrounding the house. He was almost there when he heard an earsplitting explosion. He turned around to see Archer's Crown Victoria stopped and enveloped in a cloud of steam. Archer's head had made a six-quart-bowl-size impression in the passenger's side of the windshield.

  The step van's driver swerved to avoid Archer's car, and went headlong into the gully. Its rear end rose dramatically as the grill slammed into the bank.

  Hank stopped dead in his tracks, staring in disbelief.

  The SWAT team members and FBI techs, who poured out the side door of the van and into the ditch, moved like they were injured, in shock, or both. As the steam faded, Hank saw that the front end of the Crown Victoria was mushroomed against the end of the bridge, which had risen into the air. There was little help he could offer them, but he lifted the phone and dialed Chet.

  “You best order up a mess of ambulances to Manelli's house, Chet,” he said. “Damn near Archer's whole bunch is in need of medical attention.”

  Sure his efforts were best put elsewhere, Hank turned and ran up the driveway, following Winter.

  94

  Winter held his SIG out in a two-handed grip as he approached the Cadillac parked in front of Manelli's house. He peered in at the rear seat, where a lifelike dummy was secured by a lap belt. Sean had never been in the car at all. Sam had somehow gotten her; no matter what Winter had to do, he was going to find out where she was.

  He was at the front door of the house when he heard two crashes behind him, but he ignored them. He went inside, moving rapidly down the wide hallway, following the sound of a man singing. He swung his gun, aiming from the hallway into every room as he
moved toward the rear of the house. Winter shouldered the kitchen door aside and, stepping into the kitchen, aimed the SIG at the Cadillac's driver, who was wearing the Braves cap Sean had on when he had last seen her. The man sat at the counter over an open sandwich, with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a mayonnaise-smeared kitchen knife in his hand.

  “U.S. marshal! Where's Manelli?” Winter demanded.

  “It wasn't my turn to watch him,” the man quipped. He set the knife down on a dish beside his dinner plate. Winter reached to the driver's shoulder holster and took out a heavy Colt Python revolver.

  “I got a permit for that in my wallet.”

  Winter placed his gun in his own shoulder rig, cocked the revolver's hammer, and aimed the magnum at its owner's forehead. “Where is she? Where did Manelli take the woman?”

  “Where's your warrant?” the man asked, unfazed. “Mr. Deputy, that pistol ain't a search warrant.”

  Winter shifted the magnum slightly and fired. The explosion was a muted whomp to Winter, thanks to the earplugs, but deafening for the driver. First vaporizing the lobe of the man's left ear, the bullet punched a black circle into the refrigerator door. The muzzle blast also blew the Braves cap off and left a comet-shaped powder burn the width of a silver dollar on his cheek. Blood trickled down the man's neck, staining his collar bright red.

  The shocked driver reached slowly up to cover his ruined ear with his hand. “You shot me?”

  “Wrong!” Winter yelled. “You shot yourself with your own gun and I couldn't stop you.” Winter spoke loudly so the driver could hear him over the ringing in his ears. Immediately Winter swung the barrel to the left, aiming at the other ear. “And you are going to keep shooting pieces off yourself until you tell me where they are.”

  “You're a cop!” he shrieked.

  “Not today.”

  “I don't knooow!” the man hollered, his terrorized eyes now the size of quarters.

  Trammel exploded into the room aiming the AR-15 before him. He was red-faced, wet from the rain, and breathless, but obviously relieved to find Winter was all right.

  “He shot me!” the driver wailed.

  “He'll do that,” Hank said. “I'll see you kids aren't interrupted.” Hank pushed the door open and took up position behind the doorjamb so he could see down the hall to the front door and have cover.

  “I swear ta God! I don't know! They took her off in the green van. That's all I know,” he pleaded.

  “Who took her?”

  “I don't know!”

  “Blow his dick off!” Trammel called out. “That's an order.”

  Winter dropped his aim accordingly and the man collapsed into a fetal position on the floor tiles. “What make van?” Winter yelled.

  “I don't know where or why. An eyeless Ford! Mr. Sam and some of his guys.”

  “What do you mean, eyeless?”

  Three ambulatory members of the SWAT team came in through the open front door and scattered through the house, yelling, “FBI! FBI!” Special Agent Finch hobbled in behind them.

  “United States marshals!” Hank hollered.

  The Crown Victoria's airbag had skinned Finch's forehead and nose, and he was walking like a hunchback in an old Frankenstein film. The knees of his trousers were open and bloody flesh was visible through the holes. He stared down at the driver and then up at Winter holding the driver's pistol. “Where are Manelli and Mrs. Devlin?” he asked. Finch managed to bow and lift the Braves cap by the bill from the floor. “This is our bug,” he said. “Where is she now?”

  “Manelli outsmarted you,” Winter said acidly. “Did you people even make sure that he was here to begin with?”

  “We didn't have enough time,” Finch protested.

  “She was never in his car! This putz put your cap on a dummy so you would think it was her. There's nobody else here—not so much as a guard. They are somewhere else, you idiot. Where's Archer?”

  “There was some kind of a booby trap in the road. I never saw it. Archer's dead,” Finch said solemnly.

  “Know how you said that lever the guard threw before the Caddy rolled in might have something to do with that bridge? Winter, the end of that damn bridge shot straight up in the air and Finch here drove right slam into it—Archer's head did its best to go through the windshield, but I guess it broke his fool neck,” Hank said.

  “He didn't have his belt on,” Finch said defensively.

  “House and basement are clear!” a voice yelled from the hallway, bringing Finch around a little.

  “Maybe there's hidden doors, false walls . . . a secret cave,” Finch said.

  “Secret cave?” The driver, still lying on the floor, laughed.

  “He knows where they are,” Winter said, pointing down at the driver. “Leave us alone and I'll get it out of him.”

  “He's FBI,” the driver said. “He ain't gonna let you shoot me no more. You crazy ass-bite. I'm suing all you bastards!”

  Finch shook his head and stared at Winter. “You interfered with an FBI operation, Massey. The attorney general is going to—”

  “The only thing I interfered with was that bastard making a sandwich, you moron,” Winter snapped. He wanted to scream with rage and beat the truth out of the driver. The FBI had screwed up and he had followed right along with them. Finch sat down on a stool and stared at the half-made sandwich. The SWAT team leader came in. “The houth is keer, thir,” he said. The words sounded wet and soft because he was missing his front teeth and his lips were like torn pillows filled with meat.

  “Check all the walls for—” Finch started.

  “Secret caves,” Hank offered.

  “We're done here,” Winter said. “Let's go, Hank.”

  “You're both under arrest,” Finch said.

  “I got a permit,” the driver said. “I wasn't doing nothing wrong and he shot me!”

  “Massey, put that gun down,” Finch said. “It's obvious that she informed the driver about the cap. No telling where she is.”

  “No way she did that,” Winter snapped. He put the driver's gun on the sandwich. “You think this is gonna stay a secret, Finch? I know Archer wanted Sam to kill Sean and that he planned to have your SWAT team kill Manelli. I know it and so does Director Shapiro, and soon the world will, too. You're finished and Archer is going to be glad he's dead. And if anything happens to her you'd better hide where I can't find you.” Winter started from the room with Hank behind him.

  “Hawt!” The jar-headed SWAT team leader aimed his MP5 at Winter's back.

  “You planning to stop me, Finch, you tell him to kill me.”

  “Let them go,” Finch said, resigned.

  Winter stopped at the open door to Sam's den. On his way up the hall earlier, he had looked in. Now he was drawn into the room by the multiple cabinets packed with guns.

  95

  Sean clenched the wheel as she steered through the French Quarter. Two blocks from the parking garage, light bloomed in her periphery and, seconds later, again. She could only pray the aspirin tablets could stop the migraine, or slow it. She cursed herself for having left her pills behind at the hotel in Arlington. Dear God, not now. Archer either hadn't believed she was getting sick or didn't care. She fought back the urge to panic.

  Squinting now just to see, Sean drove up to the fourth floor of the garage, where the Cadillac's driver, facing her from the far ramp, flashed his headlights at her. The brilliant lights brought the headache whipping into her brain like a tornado. Sean pulled into the first open space, her left tire rolling up over the concrete stop. In her pocket she carried a note that she had written in her hotel room: FBI following me. I'll call after I shake them. All she had to do was somehow get Archer's stupid baseball cap inside the Cadillac while the driver was reading the note. If the FBI would just follow the Caddy a few blocks—long enough for her to get away. She had made no plans beyond surviving the day.

  The plan. She fought to keep her thoughts ordered despite the pain in her head. She wanted no
thing but to curl up in the backseat.

  She forced herself to climb from her car, steadying herself by putting her left hand on the roof. The driver slid the window down. She was looking at him as though through a dimly lit tunnel. She had the note clenched in her fist, but before she could pass it on, she was aware of the sounds of someone approaching fast. Before she could turn, a hand covered her mouth. Another set of hands felt her roughly all over. Someone snatched off her cap and she caught sight of a man opening the Cadillac's back door and slipping the hat on a figure seated in the rear. While the men wrestled her inside a van parked nearby, the Cadillac pulled off, tires chirping. She was trying to fight, to escape. This is all wrong! Not yet! Please, God! The men pressed her into the bench seat between them and one of them belted her in.

  “Calm down before you hurt yourself,” Sam Manelli said from the seat just behind Sean. He leaned forward, his warm breath on her neck. “We jus' give the feds a little time to get after the car.”

  Through the pain and darkness, she managed to say, “Migraine.”

  She was aware that the guard beside her handed Sam the note she had failed to pass to the driver. As he read it, he squeezed her shoulder with his free hand. Behind her, a radio came to life. “Covered wagon is headed to the barn. Cowgirl is in the back. Signal track is ten-ten.”

  “The FBI is all idiots,” Sam said with total conviction as he crushed the note into a ball.

  Through the curtain of pain in her skull, Sean was aware of these things: that her neck was surrounded by Sam's thick arm, that if he chose he could crush the life out of her, and that she was helpless to do anything about it.

  “Go by Merle's place,” Sam instructed the driver. The driver crossed Canal and parked in an alley off Baronne Street. Sam stepped out of the van and the man in the front passenger seat accompanied him to a door. Sean closed her eyes. After what seemed like a couple of minutes, Sam and his bodyguard returned. As he climbed in, Sam handed a paper bag to the man seated beside Sean. Sean had to squint to see what was happening. The man reached into the sack to remove a syringe already filled with a few CCs of liquid.