Inside Out

69

Concord, North Carolina

As Winter lay in the dark, sleepless, his mind swarmed with troubling questions he had few answers for. He wanted to do something, but he was helpless unless Reed's discovery would help Shapiro make a difference. He wanted to be able to put this horror behind him, not become obsessed with things he had no way of resolving.

The doorbell rang, jolting Winter out of his thoughts. Twelve past ten. He slipped from his bed, put on jeans, lifted the Walther, and went to the front door, passing a worried Lydia standing in the hallway.

“I'll see who it is,” he said.

He turned on the porch light and saw the top of a man's head through the half circle of glass in the door. He held the pistol behind his back as he opened the door.

The man standing there had a crew cut. A dark jacket over a knit shirt and chinos gave him a casual air.

“Sorry to disturb you, Deputy Massey.” The badge case in his hand identified him as an FBI agent.

“What can I do for you?”

“If you'll accompany me,” the man said. “Agent Archer would like to have a word with you. If you'll come with us to the airport, you should be back in a couple of hours.”

“What's this about?”

The agent smiled. “It's about new information on a case.”

Winter relaxed. He welcomed a chance to talk to Archer, hopeful that the agent had new information on the investigation. “Come in. I'll get dressed.”

The agent came inside and stood with his hands clasped behind him at parade rest. “We should hurry.”

“Give me one minute.”

Winter passed by Lydia, who was peering up the hall at the stranger standing inside the doorway.

“I'll be back in a couple of hours, Mama. Official business.”

Winter put on a cotton shirt, his running shoes, and a zip-up leather jacket. He pocketed his wallet and badge case and slid the Walther into his jacket's right pocket, cell phone in the other. He kissed his mother on his way out.

A Chrysler waited at the curb, its driver a silhouette. The agent got into the rear, so Winter climbed into the passenger's seat.

“I know this is a bit unusual,” the agent behind him said.

“Nothing is usual these days,” Winter replied.

“Ain't that the truth,” the driver said, nodding solemnly.

Winter felt the cold muzzle of a gun against the left side of his neck and the hand that came around the seat reached into his pocket for the Walther.

“Who are you?” Winter asked. He thought about Reed's concern about someone listening in on their conversations. Christ, how could he have been so stupid?

“Just stay calm and you'll be fine,” the man behind him said. “If I intended to hurt you, I'd have popped you when you opened the door.”

He supposed that was true enough. He also figured the odds of his staying alive to see the sun rise were slim.

Ten minutes later, the driver turned off onto the road to the airport. After going through the gate, the driver went down the alley formed by large hangars and pulled out to a parked Lear 35.

“We're all going to get out and walk to the plane,” the driver said.

The man who had been seated behind him climbed out and opened Winter's door. He motioned Winter out with a silenced SIG Sauer.

Winter got out. “Can I call my mother and tell her I won't be home? She'll be worried.”

“Later,” the man holding the pistol said.

Winter slipped out of the car. The driver entered the Lear's cabin ahead of Winter, the other man behind him. The pilots were going through their checklist when Winter sat down in the seat the driver pointed to and fastened his seat belt.

While the man with the pistol kept Winter covered, the car's driver reached into his pocket and took out a syringe loaded with clear liquid. As Winter stared into the barrel of the handgun, the driver pressed the needle into the side of his neck. At first, nothing happened, then slowly Winter's eyelids drooped.