Inside Out

15

Rook Island, North Carolina

Twenty minutes before the helicopter landed, Greg told the deputies on duty that it was on its way, bringing a physician to the island. Forsythe was up on the water tank. The waist-high safety rail around the tank was made of steel plate. His weapon was a tricked-out. 308-caliber assault rifle with a thicker-than-normal barrel, a thirty-shot magazine, and a scope. The mirrored sunglasses he wore gave him a decidedly sinister appearance.

The helicopter landed, and a casually dressed man climbed down and strode toward the house carrying a black leather bag. Winter led the doctor inside, where he and his bag were searched. Greg asked Winter to escort the doctor to Dylan's room and remain with him.

Though it was open, Winter knocked at the door. Sean Devlin was seated in an armchair, reading. Winter had not seen her since their encounter the night before. She looked up at him with amusement in her eyes.

“Ah,” Dylan said, seeing them. “Here to make me whole again.”

The doctor was all business. He moved straight to the bed and placed his bag on the mattress.

“You put weight on this yet?” He nodded at Devlin's ankle.

“Some,” Dylan said.

The doctor removed the bandage, moved the foot around. “That hurt?”

“No.”

“That?”

“No.”

“Lose the shirt.”

“What, no foreplay?” Dylan said. “You know what foreplay is where I come from?”

The doctor said, “A six-pack?”

“‘Get in the truck, bitch.'” Dylan laughed. “But ‘a six-pack' works for me.”

Sean frowned at the joke.

The doctor cut the tape and bandages away from Dylan's ribs, exposing a yellow bruise the size of a dinner plate. He asked Dylan to stand and walk around the room.

Sean closed her book and watched.

“No pain?” the doctor asked.

Dylan slapped his rib cage hard, then hopped up and down on his unwrapped foot. “Good as new,” he bragged.

“You have an impressive threshold for pain. Those ribs need more time before you go slapping them, so take a few days. Use the crutches if you need to. Any pain medication?”

“I have some, but I can control pain without medication.”

Dylan looked at Winter and winked. “I can start taking walks on the beach now to protect you from my wife.”

Sean opened her book and looked down, perhaps embarrassed.

Winter stared flatly at Dylan, ignoring the killer's mocking grin.

While Winter and Greg were watching the helicopter carry the doctor away and Winter was wishing he was a passenger on it heading home, the Devlins appeared on the porch. Martinez came around the side of the building and stopped in the sand. Dylan reached up, stretched, and inhaled noisily.

“Gentlemen, my wife and I wish to take a leisurely stroll on the beach,” he announced. “Perhaps Deputy Massey would like to accompany us. If he feels up to walking, that is.”

Greg lifted his radio and asked Forsythe for an all-clear. From the water tower, Forsythe leaned the rifle against the rail before him and scanned the water, the sand, and the tree line with his binoculars, then radioed back that the turf was secure.

“Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Devlin, the beach is all yours. Winter, grab a Colt and tag along.”

Winter went into the house and got an AR-15 carbine from the locker in the security room. As he returned, Dylan was saying, “My wife is getting as dark as a Spic. Pretty soon she'll be chattering Spanish at her.” He indicated Martinez.

Martinez raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't react.

“Perhaps it is too bright for a walk,” Sean said. Her cheeks were flushed pink. “Maybe later would be better. When the sun isn't so strong.”

Dylan agreed easily. “An evening walk, then. I, on the other hand, need some rays.”

Winter figured Sean didn't want to displease Dylan. It looked to Winter that the latter exercised control by undermining his wife's confidence. Wouldn't be the first husband who operated that way. His own father had done the same to his mother.

Winter and Dylan started down the beach side by side. “Where was it my wife racked you? On the beach, I mean.”

Winter pointed at the spot at the dune's edge where the sand was still churned up. “About there. Maybe she'll reenact it with you.”

“I know who you are, Massey. I overheard Cross and Dixon talking about a little square dance in Florida a few years back with three Latino gun boys. They seem to think you're some sort of a handgun god.”

“I never cared for dancing,” he said laconically.

“Must have been exciting. Facing those machine guns, and you with only a little pistol. The marshal and the outlaws in a real old-fashioned shoot-out. I bet your blood was up-facing death, looking it in the eyes, and walking out alive. Nothing like it. No one who hasn't been there can understand being tested in the crucible and coming out in one piece.”

“A man would really have to be wired wrong to enjoy a thing like that,” Winter said dismissively.

“The elation after the kill. The adrenaline rush. Don't shit me, Massey, you felt that euphoria. We have that in common, you and I. But where I never felt the slightest pang of guilt, I bet it nearly ate you alive.”

Winter had indeed felt that euphoria. But the shoot-out in Tampa had been followed by nausea, cold sweats, and nightmares. “I sure as hell didn't kill because someone was writing me a check for it,” he said, betraying his emotions.

“Don't be so sanctimonious. They pay you, Deputy. I just get fatter checks.”

“Different theys. And my they doesn't want me to kill anybody.”

“Do you think about your own death, Massey?”

“Some.”

“Are you afraid to die?”

“Not looking forward to it.” Winter could feel his blood rising and wished Devlin would get off the subject.

“How would you go, given a choice? Heart attack in bed? Bullet in the brain? Swan-diving into an active volcano?”

“I doubt I'll get to choose. Can we change the subject?”

“Man like you could be anything, and yet this is what you chose.” Dylan persisted, savoring Winter's obvious discomfort. “All the things you could have had, and you're walking down the beach, putting your life on the line for what, sixty thousand a year? I have a beautiful, rich wife who thinks I hung the moon, but I never touched a penny of hers because I make a lot of money. A lot of money.”

“I don't go hungry. I can drive only one car at a time, and I have a good medical plan with dental.”

“You're a fucking security guard, Massey,” Dylan snarled. “You know what my favorite thing is?”

“I don't care.”

Devlin stared down at the AR-15 in Winter's hand. “It's taking a target's weapon away and giving him the business end of it. Gun, knife, once it was a baseball bat. The expression on their faces is always worth the extra effort. It's the ultimate humiliation, like pissing on them-a caveman high.”

“Can I be totally honest with you, Devlin?”

“I'd welcome it.”

“I like chasing down bad guys. The sense of satisfaction I get when I put human garbage-like, say, a cold-blooded murderer-in chains is priceless. Hell, I'd do it for free if they didn't pay me to.”

“That so? So tell me one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“What's it feel like to have your balls bashed in by a woman?”

“About half as painful as talking to you.”

Dylan threw his head back and laughed. “That's a good one! You're a piece of work, Massey.” He turned back toward the house, shaking his head. “And I had hoped we could be pals.”

“Now, that's a good one,” Winter said flatly.

When they returned, Sean was in a rocking chair on the porch with the cat in her lap, rubbing its head. Winter stopped beside Martinez at the railing. When Dylan reached down to rub it, Midnight hissed, clawed his hand, and ran off.

Sean took Dylan's hand and inspected the scratches. “He seemed so friendly,” she said softly.

“Things aren't always as they seem,” her husband snapped. He sat in the chair beside her, rubbing the bloodied hand against his pants. “Nine lives. Living out here with no cars, no other cats or dogs, that little black shitter could die of old age with eight of those still tucked away in a celestial savings account.” He stroked his wife's hand, looked up at Winter, and smiled. “Unless he does something dumb.”