Inside Out

45

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.