Inside Out

12

There was very little talk during dinner, because the food was too good. Jet ladled rich, dark gumbo into deep bowls half-filled with steamed rice. There were loaves of broiled-to-a-crunch French bread, the center wet with garlic butter, and a salad that had a distinctive citrus twang. Compliments flew from the deputies.

A large black cat rubbed against Winter's leg. It peered up at him with fluid golden eyes and tilted his head, requesting a crumb from the table.

“Midnight!” Jet roared as she swooped up the animal in a well-practiced motion. “Let these people eat in peace.”

She crossed the room and thrust the feline out the back door. The cat stood on the porch and stared in through the screen. “That cat's always messin' with something. Midnight's not much company, but some's better than none. I could say the same thing about my last husband,” Jet added.

After the meal was over, Greg helped Jet clear the plates. Then he sat back down and got serious. “What we do here is about prevention, about keeping someone safe from being a target. That's WITSEC. Winter here is accustomed to staying in motion, handing out summonses, escorting prisoners hither and yon, and hunting down fugitives. Two different worlds.”

“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.