Inside Out

30

Holding aloft an enormous red and white golf umbrella, Jet mumbled to herself as she plodded over the wet pine needles that covered the sandy trail through the trees. The rain beat down on Winter's coat as he walked a few feet behind her carrying her heavy suitcases.

“I wish Miss Sean was leaving with me. She's been through hell in a red wagon,” Jet said.

When they passed the barracks, they could see the sailors' faces clustered behind two of the rain-streaked windows, reminding Winter of villagers in the old monster movies who know better than to leave the protection of their residence. A sailor with a shaved head was standing inside the doorway of the radio shack; he acknowledged Jet as she and Winter passed by.

The boat, a steel-hull diesel, had an enclosed, all-weather cabin. The stern door allowed Jet and Winter to step down onto the boat, where he handed Jet's suitcases to a crewman. Jet surprised Winter by hugging him. He hugged her back. She left Winter, walked through the cabin door, and took a seat on the bench along the farthest wall. She nodded once to Winter, then turned to look out the window. The deckhand unhooked the lines, fore and aft, and the boat pulled away slowly. Winter watched until a curtain of rain enveloped it.

As he walked up the dock, Winter noticed the sport-fishing boat moored opposite the cigarette racer. The cockpit was open and there was room on either side to walk to the bow. Except for a Plexiglas windshield and roll-up walls of clear plastic, the aft deck and lower bridge were open to the elements. A ladder led up to the flying bridge above the cockpit and the keys hung from the ignition. The Navy obviously didn't think anyone was going to steal it from under their noses.

Winter also noticed that the cigarette racer's engine compartment was propped open and the motor was partially disassembled.

“Jet's gone,” Winter told Greg in the foyer.

“I agreed to deliver an olive branch from Devlin,” he said, holding up Sean's laptop, “to express his remorse. He said he wouldn't try and talk to her again if she would read one last letter he typed into the thing.”

“They're always real sorry after they beat up their wives,” Winter said contemptuously.

“Sean reluctantly agreed to let him write the note, but she doesn't want him anywhere near her. She made me stand there while he typed it to make sure he didn't damage her laptop.”

“You should read it first,” Winter suggested.

Greg nodded, set the thing on the table, and opened the lid. It said:

After six tonight, my darling, I suppose we will be going our separate ways for good. As I fly away, I will imagine you still here with your Spic deputy pal and that faggot, Winter Massey. It is my fondest wish that you all three eat shit and die screaming.

“Sticks and stones,” Winter mused, a bitter taste in his mouth.

By five-thirty, when Greg and Winter had collected the deputies' cases and placed them out on the porch, the rain had thinned to a sprinkle. Greg went alone to Dylan's room and dropped off a bulletproof vest for him to wear. The deputies armed themselves with heavy ordnance, and each put on their ballistic vest. Shortly before six, a Blackhawk landed noisily and Winter went out to the porch to see the crew off.

All of the people leaving, including Devlin, wore matching black raincoats and plain ball caps, so that it would be difficult for anyone to single out the package.

Greg came out first. “You have Mrs. Devlin ready for transport at ten hundred hours tomorrow. There's plenty in the fridge you can heat up.” He stared at Winter solemnly. “A word of warning, Win. Whatever happens, and I do mean whatever happens, don't let Martinez cook anything. If she does, for the love of God, don't put it anywhere near your mouth. Hug the kid for me when you get home, Win.”

Greg offered his hand to Winter and for ten seconds they squeezed, trying to get the other to release first. The door opening behind them ended the contest prematurely.

Dylan wore his coat like a cape, his cuffed hands visible. “Until we meet again,” he told Winter, menacingly.

Winter didn't reply. He turned his attention to Beck, who came out next, grinning like a schoolboy.

“I did it, Winter,” he said, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.

“Did what?”

“I asked Martinez out… on a date.”

“And she said?” he prompted teasingly.

“‘What doesn't kill me makes me stronger.'”

“That's great,” Winter told him, slapping him on the back.

Forsythe came out carrying his aluminum sniper-rifle case, the Colt 9-mm automatic carbine over his shoulder.

“Take care, Forsythe,” Winter said.

“You too, Massey,” he said abruptly. They hadn't exactly become the best of friends.

Two minutes later the helicopter lifted off and was swallowed up by a hungry gray sky. Winter's assignment was all but over. He smiled at the thought of his son waiting for his return, just a couple hundred miles in the direction Devlin and Greg's detail were already traveling. As he stood there, Sean came outside and joined him.

“Can I do this?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Walk unescorted on the beach.”

“Sure, but…”

“But what?”

“You'll get wet.”

She laughed. “I don't want to, Deputy. Just wondering if I could.”

“From here on out, Mrs. Devlin, you can do whatever suits you. Within reason.”

“I feel like dancing and breaking into song.”

It was nice to see his package smiling again.