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  “I hope you don't get bored, Winter,” Forsythe said, a sharpness to his voice.

  “I'm sure I won't find this boring.”

  “Tampa.” Dixon shook his head. “Most thrilling fifteen seconds ever filmed. Three methed-up hit men firing Uzis. And—”

  “Look,” Winter interrupted. “Tampa was a long time ago. I'd really rather—”

  “Want to know all there is to know about Winter?” Greg cut in. “No better friend and no worse enemy. What more does any of us here need to know?”

  Jet passed them, carrying a bowl through the swinging door into the dining room. Winter caught a glimpse of the table as the door closed. The Devlins sat facing each other across the polished walnut, again holding hands. Jet opened the door by pushing it with her hip, turned and reentered the kitchen carrying an empty pitcher. Winter glimpsed the hands again, joined in the center of the table.

  “Winter is a scholar. Got a master's degree from Sewanee. Taught at private high schools. What was it you taught? Poetry?”

  There was a muffled burst of laughter from the dining room. Winter wondered what the Devlins found so funny.

  “Literature,” Winter told the marshals.

  Martinez pushed her chair back and stood. “I'm going to catch a nap before my shift.”

  Yet another happy burst of laughter from the dining room. Winter wondered what sort of jokes a killer told his wife to entertain her. In his experience, a woman who could be in love with someone who had forfeited his soul probably had denial down to a religion.

  13

  Winter's dream might have been complex and rambling, but all he remembered of it when he awoke was how it ended. He was in a house, in a bed with Eleanor. They were very young. Rush, who technically shouldn't have been there at all, was sitting on the bed staring angelically at Winter and his mother. He talked about how wonderful it was to be able to see again and how great it was having his mother back, due to a time machine's reversing everything bad that happened the day their plane crashed. When something touched his shoulder, Winter jerked awake to find that Greg, lit by the yellow light bleeding in from the bathroom, was staring down at him. Winter sat bolt upright, and Greg jumped back reflexively, putting his hands up as if to protect himself.

  “Your turn on deck,” Greg said as he dropped down on his own bed, yawning.

  Winter swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the carpet.

  The roar of the surf drowned out every sound past the railing, ten feet beyond the wicker chair that Winter had backed up against the house, in the shadows. He had set the 9-mm Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol on the table beside the chair. Constant motion, he thought, watching the froth as the water gobbled up the shoreline. Sharks moving from birth to death, octopuses slithering from rock to rock—monsters galore, always moving in search of food. He remembered how Rush had always worn tennis shoes in the surf after he had once stepped barefoot on a crab.

  The creak of the front door opening had the impact of a sudden slap. Winter sat upright, reached for the H&K, and placed the gun in his lap. Martinez stepped out, nodded at Winter, then opened the door to let Mrs. Devlin come outside.

  Sean Devlin carried a cup of coffee in both hands as she moved to the porch rail. She stared out at the ocean, set her cup on the railing, zipped up her canvas jacket, and flipped up the collar. Then she lifted the cup and took a sip. Martinez crossed her arms against the chill.

  “You can go back inside,” Sean Devlin told her. “You're cold.”

  “No can do,” Martinez replied cheerfully.

  “He's right there,” Sean said. She tilted her head toward Winter. “How many guards do I need? Does one always have to be a woman?”

  “Not necessarily,” Martinez said.

  “Go back inside,” Winter told Martinez.

  Martinez looked uncertain. “Okay, Winter, I'll be in the security room.”

  Winter held up his walkie-talkie, then clipped it back on his belt. “If I need anything, I'll call,” he promised.

  Martinez went back inside, leaving Winter to watch over Sean.

  She seemed somehow sad standing at the banister for a silent five minutes as she stared out at the waves, sipping coffee like she was the only soul for miles. When the cook's cat leaped up onto the rail beside her she gasped, knocking her cup over the rail, where it landed soundlessly in the sand. She laughed, reached out tentatively, and touched the cat's head with her fingertips. The cat nuzzled against her and she rubbed it behind the ears. “Well, you like that? What's your name?” she asked the animal.

  “Midnight,” Winter volunteered.

  “Male or female?” She didn't turn her head a fraction of an inch toward Winter.

  “I think Mrs. Washington called Midnight a him.”

  “I didn't know her last name. She told me to call her Jet.” As she stroked the cat's head, it purred audibly and pressed against her hand. “You are a sweet boy, aren't you, Midnight?”

  Winter scanned the beach in both directions.

  “My mother thought dogs were unruly.” Sean Devlin spoke as if to herself. “She let me have a cat, thought they were less likely to be disruptive. I called her Punkin. She ran away and never came back. What do you suppose cats think about?”

  Winter felt less like carrying on the cat conversation than having a tooth pulled. “Probably think about where to get nine more lives,” he replied.

  She laughed. “You suppose?”

  Eleanor had been allergic to cats. Winter saw them as sneaky and untrustworthy, letting you pet them, then suddenly turning their claws and teeth on you. With dogs you knew what was up most of the time.

  Midnight promptly jumped down and trotted away. “You ever have a cat?”

  “I don't recall any.”

  She turned and leaned against the railing. “Do you have children, Deputy Massey?”

  He twisted his wedding band and wished he had left it at home. She was staring at it. “One, a son.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twelve on Sunday.”

  “Being a deputy, doing this, I suppose you are away for long stretches.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I guess you're a federal agent, not technically a policeman?”

  “More cop than agent,” he replied.

  “It must be hard on your wife.”

  Winter didn't want the conversation to go any farther down the personal path. Maybe she was a nice enough woman, but being the wife of a criminal put her squarely on the other side of the wall. “I don't imagine anyone enjoys being separated from those they care for.”

  Sean turned abruptly and started down the steps.

  Winter stood. “Hey, where are you going?”

  She bent down, held up the cup she had dropped and placed it on the floor beneath the railing. He relaxed, fractionally.

  “I'd like a walk on the beach, get my feet wet in the surf. Is that possible?”

  “If I accompany you.” He lifted the MP5 and slipped the strap over his shoulder.

  The radio was a two-way, low-frequency system very much like the walkie-talkies that mothers bought to remain in contact with their children in a mall. It had been selected because the frequency was likely to be overlooked by any eavesdropper searching for professional bands. He pressed the microphone button. “S-one, W.M. and P-two proceeding south on the sand.”

  “What's all that mean?” Sean asked.

  “S-one is control in the security room, W.M. is me, Winter Massey, and you are P-two. Cross is out here, too, and now he knows to expect us.”

  “Why P and not D for Devlin?”

  “Package. That is anyone we are watching. It's—”

  “SCJ?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Standard cop jargon?”

  “Want company, W.M.?” Martinez called out over the radio.

  “Negative that. Visibility's a solid ten. I'll stay in sight.”

  Winter walked on the shore side of her, slightly higher up t
he slope. As they walked, his eyes darted constantly, scanning the ocean, the beach, the tops of the dunes.

  Sean stopped, lifted each foot, removed her sandals, and held them by their back straps. “God, I hate the feeling of sand in my shoes,” she said.

  He didn't respond.

  “You ever been to South America?” she asked out of the blue.

  “Fugitive recovery in Colombia and Costa Rica. Never been for pleasure. Don't speak Spanish very well.”

  “I was just in Argentina looking at ranch land. I liked South America okay. Dylan loves the idea of living in Argentina, but I'm not so sure. Land is cheap, but it's so volatile economically and politically.”

  Winter visualized the scenario. Devlin commits a few murders for money, gets caught, and turns on his employers. Then, after the trial is over and everybody is in prison, he and his princess relocate to Argentina. Historically speaking, Argentines didn't make moral judgments on things like multiple murder. “I'm sure you'll love living there.” Maybe Adolph Eichmann's house is vacant. Or you could try the old Mengele place in Paraguay, or was it Bolivia?

  “Your son. What's his name?”

  “Rush.”

  “Winter and Rush are both unusual names.”

  “I suppose.” Winter could have explained the origins of his and Rush's names, but he wasn't being paid to socialize. She said something else but Winter didn't hear it—something had caught his attention. The texture of the beach ahead had been physically altered, slightly churned.

  Winter grabbed Sean's shoulder, planning to press her to the ground where she would be a slimmer target as he flipped off the H&K's safety and put his finger inside the guard. The second he gripped her shoulder, however, she shifted her weight, grabbed his hand off her shoulder, pivoted, and forced her narrow knee straight up into Winter's testicles with perfect accuracy and surprising force.

  His vision filled with brilliant yellow light and fireworks; three distinct booming reports echoed inside his skull. The explosions were real enough. When her knee had struck home, his finger was on the trigger. The gun in his hand had fired a three-shot burst into the air. Without thinking, Winter used his body weight to pin her down. “Freeze!” he snarled as he aimed the barrel at the place where the tracks went up over the dune.

  “Get off me!” Sean yelled.

  “Shots fired!” Cross's voice called over the radio.

  “What was that?” Martinez's voice crackled over the radio. “Winter!”

  Winter keyed the microphone and managed to say, “We've got company.”

  “You under fire, Win?” Greg's voice demanded.

  “Negative, accidental discharge. But at least two sets of footprints coming in from the ocean. I'm a hundred yards north.”

  Sean stopped trying to wriggle free. Winter growled, “Lie still!” He couldn't regulate his breathing, the pain between his legs was overwhelming. His stomach seemed intent on giving up Jet's gumbo.

  Two figures bolted, sprinting over the dune away from Winter and his charge. He aimed at them, following their flight with the barrel. Both looked like divers in skintight wet suits, carrying bundles in their arms as they fled.

  The security lights mounted in the trees sprang to life, making it high noon on the beach all the way from the house.

  Sean Devlin froze under him like something dead.

  Winter called for the pair to halt, but either they couldn't hear him or didn't plan to stop. He fired a warning burst wide of the running figures, spraying sand. They fell forward, into the shadow of the dunes.

  Martinez was first out the door as three deputies rushed from the house. Cross fell in behind her; Beck bringing up the rear. In the headset Winter heard Greg shout orders for Forsythe and Dixon to stay with the package. As they closed, Winter kept the subjects covered while watching the dunes to his left for a possible third man.

  “Cross, secure my left flank!” Winter shouted into his radio. In the excitement, the initialisms were forgotten.

  Cross turned instantly and went up over the dunes with his M16 before him, his rifle's barrel leading the way. As Martinez approached, Winter signaled her to stop. She dropped to her knees beside him. “You all right?” Her eyes were wide with excitement.

  It was painful to stand.

  Cross's voice came through Winter's ear piece, “The dunes are clear, Massey. Hold your fire, I'm coming in.”

  “Martinez, get the package home,” Winter told her.

  “I'm really sorry—” Sean began.

  “Get her out of here, now!” Winter snapped as Greg ran toward them from the house. “Greg, can you cover Martinez and P-two—coming your way now?”

  “Affirmative,” Greg's voice came over the radio.

  Cross came over the dunes dragging a wool blanket behind him.

  The two women hurried toward the house, looking back frequently over their shoulders. Martinez had the look of a dog that had been pulled away from killed game.

  Greg, carrying a shotgun, came running up wearing a T-shirt, khakis, and no shoes. He had a bandolier of twelve-gauge shells strung across his chest like a Wild West bandit. “You two, up on your knees, hands where we can see them!” he yelled out.

  As the deputies advanced on the sprawled figures, it became obvious that instead of two scuba-diving assassins, they had captured a naked couple. The woman had dropped her clothes in the sand when Winter fired. The man clutched what appeared to be wadded-up fatigues.

  Winter thought about curling up in the sand like a fetus and staying there motionless for a while. A low hollow roar of pain seemed to run from the base of his spine through his testes and up to his lungs.

  Cross held up a ripped-open condom package. “This was on the blanket.”

  “Damn,” Greg said, laughing. “Winter, you shot at these people for screwing?”

  “I didn't know what they were doing,” Winter managed to say.

  “Better safe than sorry, Inspector,” Cross said. “Maybe he was planning to knock Massey over the head with his weapon after he finished using it on her. Maybe the condom was so he wouldn't leave a prick print.”

  The tension was dissipating rapidly. Winter almost laughed himself. He was never going to hear the end of this one.

  “You two, stand up! Empty hands on your heads, and turn around slowly!” Greg bellowed. They scrambled to their feet and turned.

  “Aw, that's mean,” Cross said, trying not to snicker.

  “Gotta do this by the book,” Greg said.

  “The Joy of Sex?” Cross shot back.

  An Apache gunship, probably flying night maneuvers nearby when the alarm was sounded, thundered in from out of the darkness, stopped on a dime, and hung above the beach fifty yards south of them. Greg signaled the pilot that he had things under control. The chopper tilted, pivoted, and slid out over the water, shining its blinding spotlight on the scene below as it passed by. Satisfied the situation was under control, the pilot banked the chopper and flew off west.

  Greg said, “Looks like a pair of swabbies from the other side. Let's keep a straight face, make sure we make an impression.”

  He lifted the man's dog tags and glared at him. Winter and Cross relaxed, lowering the muzzles of their weapons.

  “What the hell are you two doing here?” Nations growled.

  “Navy, sir! Ensign Signalman Lawrence Tacket, sir!”

  “Ensign—” the woman started.

  “I don't give a damn what your names are! What I asked was what the hell you are doing over here.” He scooped the clothes up and searched the pockets. He dropped a sealed condom on the sand, along with some change and a pocketknife. He opened a wallet and checked its contents.

  “We were just out for a walk,” Ensign Tacket offered.

  “And the wind tore your uniforms off?”

  Tacket was a muscular young man and he stayed at full attention, his eyes ahead as if a drill sergeant was on a parade ground inspecting him. The young woman was shivering in the evening chill, her te
eth chattering violently. Neither could have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old. The naked woman suddenly giggled nervously. “Can I cover up, please?” she pleaded.

  Greg allowed his eyes to drop down below Tacket's waist, then shook his head. “Remove that condom, Ensign. And don't drop it on my beach.”

  “Please,” she repeated.

  “Cross, give the lady her clothes.”

  Cross scooped up the woman's shirt and pants, checked them, and tossed them to her. She turned to one side and slipped them on.

  The ensign reached down, peeled off the condom, and hid it in his large fist.

  “Okay, you two. You're damned lucky my man didn't kill you both. The admiral's wife got an eyeful, and you'll be fortunate indeed if she doesn't ask her husband to skin you two alive. Next time, if you want to play ‘punch the monkey,' do it on your side of the island,” Greg said.

  The woman giggled again.

  “Don't ever let me catch you on this side of this island again. Go! Run!” They started to go up over the dunes but Greg thundered, “All the way around! Stay the hell out of my trees!”

  Winter turned and walked toward the house like a man with a broken foot. It was sobering to realize that if the two ensigns had come straight over the hill in the dark at a dead run, he might have killed them. Winter doubted Greg would make an official complaint. It was a good story that would be spoiled if Nations had to end it with the fact that he caused two kids to be busted out of the service, probably their only tickets out of otherwise bleak futures.

  Greg fell into step beside him. “What happened to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You're walking like somebody pounded sand up your butt.”

  “Strained a groin muscle, I guess.”

  The security lights died and it was night again.

  Martinez stood waiting on the porch with one hand on the doorknob. “Winter, Mrs. Devlin is really sorry about kneeing you in your noogies. She thought you were making an advance . . . of a sexual nature.”