Inside Out

67

Norfolk, Virginia

Fletcher Reed closed his telephone and placed the heavy manila envelope that he had carried in his overcoat pocket into the mailbox's open slot.

United States Marshals Service

Richard Shapiro, Director

600 Army Navy Drive

Arlington, Virginia 22202

He pushed it in, hearing it land on earlier deposits.

Fletcher breathed in the cool evening air, like a man without a care in the world. He looked up into the night sky to take in the stars. He was relieved he had spoken to Massey-that Massey now knew what he knew. There was safety in numbers, but two wasn't much of a number unless one was the publisher of The Washington Post. He took out a cigar and lit it, giving the smoke to the breeze. He didn't know how rapidly the cutouts could respond, but he had assumed he had a comfortable lead. He had decided he would accept the danger if this was brought to the attention of people who could do something to right it. Six sailors' deaths had to be avenged. If Massey was the man Reed thought he was, they might have a shot at dispensing justice.

Before he had left the shore patrol office, Fletcher made a stop on the other side of the building to help ensure he succeeded in his mission. He had climbed into his Taurus and drove, constantly checking traffic in his rearview. Shadows without form might just be paranoia. There was the old saying that just because you were paranoid didn't mean there weren't people after you. He had made several quick turns, then pulled up at the line of blue drop boxes across the street from the base's post office and took up a position in front of one of them. If he was lucky, he could hide out for a day or so, and he'd be safe.

Fletcher got back into his Taurus and drove off. At the light a block away, he looked in the mirror and saw a Jeep Cherokee pull over to the line of mailboxes. A man climbed out and walked briskly around behind them. So they were on to him.

Eyes on the man unlocking the box, Reed hadn't seen the second car coming, but now he felt it. He turned his head slowly and stared into the cold eyes of the man in the passenger seat of a silver Cadillac Catera, four feet distant. His heart raced when he saw the cutout's gun rise over the base of the open window like a periscope. Fletcher didn't hear the weapon go off, but he felt a sting in his neck like a mother's corrective pinch. He jammed the accelerator pedal down. The drug's effects were immediate-his face felt numb, his muscles started to lose touch with his brain and his eyes began to rapidly lose their focus. The Cadillac was behind him, following. The speedometer's needle climbed toward ninety.

Through the closing fog, Fletcher fought to keep remembering that he was running because they would torture the additional information out of him. It would mean failure, and he and Massey were dead men as soon as they had all of the evidence in their hands.

As darkness closed in on him, he managed to jerk the wheel, and felt the car take flight.