Inside Out (47 page)

110

When Winter got out of bed, his leg throbbed against the bandage, his back hurt, his head felt like his sinuses were filled with BBs, and every joint and muscle in his body ached. Sean helped him, standing firm while he leaned on her and eased into the wheelchair. He hated having to sit in the thing because the idea of having someone push him through the hospital like an exhibit was abhorrent to him. Winter was buttoning his shirt when an orderly wheeled Hank Trammel into the room. A cast held Hank's left arm out even with his shoulder, bent at the elbow.

“I wanted to say good-bye.”

“We're about ready to check out,” Sean said.

“Wish you'd join us at the hotel,” Winter said. “I think we earned a couple days off on an expense account.”

“Place would look like a convalescent ward, and truth be told, I'd like to sleep in my own bed, since last night I was damned sure I'd never see it again. Sean, can I get a couple of minutes with Winter to discuss some marshal business?”

“Sure, Hank.” Sean waited for the orderly to leave and then closed the door on her way out.

“Got a message from Shapiro.” Hank handed Winter an envelope, which he'd opened.

Hank,

Greg Nations and WITSEC are fully exonerated. Winter Massey and Sean Devlin cleared.

The item you sent was a (CIA only) GPS device that transmitted its location over satellite to a designated receiver. It went active when the laptop computer was turned on. With those coordinates, satellites could capture photo images, like the ones Winter saw in New York. The way it was set up, it could also send text messages typed into the computer's word processing program.

Special deputies will keep you, Winter, and Sean under guard until “certain” people are called off for good. Terms are for all concerned parties to develop full memory loss on this entire episode, which, all things considered, should be agreeable.

So it is all over. Destroy this.

“What's the computer deal?” Winter asked.

“The thing Eddie found in Sean's laptop when we got that bullet out. I told you yesterday.”

“You didn't.”

“I thought I did. Can you tear this note up for me?”

“Sure.” Winter ripped the note into small bits and Hank took them in his good hand, walked into the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet.

“Some dang deal, when it takes both of us to destroy one damn piece of paper. If we had a book to get rid of, it could take us a week.”

“So that GPS thing explains how they tracked Sean and how the cutouts located us and compiled all their satellite intelligence. It explains how those women hitters found her in Richmond.”

“It doesn't explain who planted it,” Hank said. “Who could have smuggled the gizmo into the safe house and put it into that computer? You think those killers were after her computer and not her at all?”

“The cutouts were after Dylan for Sam, but they were after Sean for Russo. It was Russo who wanted her dead and got Hoffman to do it for him. Maybe those killers on Rook intended to take the computer out too, before they were interrupted.”

“Chet said Sean was fussing over Manelli at the lodge like they were old friends and Sam had to tell them to get her away from him. He says there was a picture of a kid that looked a lot like her in Sam's bedroom. She get around to telling you what the deal was with her and those guys?”

“Sam was her father.”

“No way!”

“The whole time Sam was trying to get to Sean to protect her, Russo was trying to get her killed. If she and Sam had talked things through, Russo would have been cooked, because Sam didn't know Sean was ever a target. When you and I arrived, Russo was waiting for the cutouts to show up and wipe out Sean and Sam. He was going to kill us in the boathouse because, without our word to buck the setup, Sam would have gotten the blame for us and Sean. I'm sure Archer's bunch was set to get the credit for taking out Manelli. I think the cutouts would have clued Archer as to where Sam was after they were finished. I wonder if Archer knew Sean wasn't in that car. Maybe he'd have just sat there at that service station off the interstate until he got a call from his contact telling him to go out to the lodge. As far as Fifteen knew, nobody would have been around to contradict whatever Archer and his men said about what happened out there.”

“I knew Sean was hiding something, but
that
would never have occurred to me. Why exactly did Russo want her dead?”

“Sean was Sam's heir. Johnny is married to Sam's next-closest living relative. Hank, I'd like to keep Sean's secret between the two of us. She doesn't deserve any more pain due to an accident of birth. Protecting her was why Sam told those guys at the lodge to get her away from him. She doesn't need the notoriety of being Manelli's daughter. Might be other people who would benefit—from her death.”

“Guess that explains the passport and five grand she had,” Hank said thoughtfully. “Who on Rook Island could have sent Herman's guys a message? Obviously Sean didn't know that thingie was in her computer, because she handed it over knowing I was going to open it up to get the bullet out. You were there—who else used it? It's obvious, even to me, that one of the deputies had to have done it.”

Winter's mind moved to put together a picture, to concentrate on the computer. “She typed poems into it. Just a minute! Dylan typed her a threatening letter Thursday.” Winter tried to visualize the text. “He said something like he was leaving and she was staying behind. And he had my name in the note, which would explain how the cutout on that boat knew my name. Christ, it told them when the crew was taking Devlin out. But he sure wouldn't commit suicide by tipping Herman's killers off.”

“You see him type that note?”

“No.”

“Gregory only
told you
Dylan typed it?”

“I didn't actually see Devlin with the computer, but I know Dylan typed it.”

“How?”

Winter had a clear image of the message on the screen. He could picture Greg's hands holding the computer so he could read Dylan's note. “Greg told me he did,” Winter said.

“Greg only
told
you Dylan Devlin typed it. Jesus, Winter.”

“Greg didn't hide that GPS in the computer,” Winter said with absolute conviction.

“How do you know that's the case though?”

“Greg was so electronically challenged he couldn't change a lightbulb without help, so I doubt he'd be able to hook anything up inside a computer even if he could have opened it up. And most important, he wouldn't have sold out a witness or put his people in danger any more than you would. The last reason is the only one that matters. It was in there before Sean came to Rook.”

111

At Shapiro's request, the Justice Department made the penthouse suite at the Delacroix Hotel available for Winter, Sean, and a team of WITSEC specialists for security. Originally designed for a drug importer with reason to be paranoid, the top floor, number eleven, was a secure space. The regular elevators stopped on the tenth floor, and access on up to eleven required a key. The fire door on eleven could be opened only with a six-digit code, and both landings were covered by surveillance cameras.

Deputy marshals brought Winter's overnight bag upstairs from the room he and Hank had shared for an hour the day before. Sean's suitcases had arrived from USMS headquarters overnight. The two main bedrooms, each containing five hundred square feet of space and covered balconies, had bathrooms done entirely in exotic stone with gold-plated fixtures. While it wasn't to Winter's taste, it was comfortable enough.

Sean had spent the afternoon with Winter in his bedroom, both fully clothed and on top of the California king bed, propped up against a wall of pillows. They talked and watched the news and ordered from room service. Winter's leg pain was a constant dull ache, but he refused to take anything stronger than aspirin.

Sean had never met a man like Winter. She had thought often since Rook about the first time she had seen him, climbing aboard that helicopter, and how her feelings had evolved from that day.

She stood on the balcony, aware that Winter was watching her from the bed. She liked having his eyes on her. He had saved her life twice, each time placing himself in mortal danger. And it was more than the fact that she felt safe when she was with him. She knew now that she'd never felt this way about anyone before.

Sam's death dominated the local media. There were mob experts and reporters from all over the country who told the stories of Sam's “alleged” brutality. There were interviews with people who had remained silent about the gangster and now, true or false, they were ready to talk. “I was ten years old,” one older man said. “Me and my pals were playing on the Magazine Street wharf and we saw Sam Manelli and another guy shoot this third guy and throw him into the river. As they were driving past us, the car stops and Sam hands us each a five-dollar bill. I went home and told my old man what I saw, and my daddy said, ‘You didn't see nothing.' I never told this in forty years.”

There was footage showing him at various ages, all of it taken outside, in public. The interviews with him consisted of a shouted question from a journalist and, in answer, the same dismissive wave. The media had openly called him a gangster and he had made it easy because he had never once opened his mouth to deny or confirm it.

“Hey, Sean, come here,” Winter called from the bed. “You'll want to see this.”

Charles Hunt, the stoic director of the FBI, stood at a podium. He opened a piece of paper, looked down, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to read a short statement.

“Last evening, as part of a complex international criminal conspiracy, specialized teams of agents from the FBI and the United States Marshals Service set out to serve arrest warrants on Sam Manelli in New Orleans and Vladimir Dobrensky of New York. Dobrensky was taken into custody without incident and will be arraigned this afternoon in federal court. The serving of Sam Manelli was unfortunately not without incident. One FBI supervising agent was killed, and two US deputy marshals were wounded. In addition to three Russian mercenaries, twelve of Mr. Manelli's bodyguards were killed along with Mr. Manelli. John Michael Russo, Manelli's crime captain, was seriously wounded and taken into custody. He died an hour ago after slipping into a coma early this morning, but after furnishing evidence of the link between Manelli and Vladimir Dobrensky. While we regret the loss of life during the operation, our agents were merely reacting to being fired upon.”

Without shifting his stance or moving anything except his hand, Charles Hunt turned the page over.

“There will be a joint press conference tomorrow morning at noon to fully explain the connections between the arrest last night and the loss of life on Rook Island, North Carolina, and Ward Field, Virginia. Due to last-minute developments in the investigation, I will not be taking any questions at this time. At the news conference tomorrow the attorney general will give a full explanation and your questions will be answered.”

The reporters all raised their hands regardless, and when Hunt didn't respond immediately, started yelling out questions. The FBI director folded the piece of paper. He answered the shouted questions in the way Sam Manelli always had—with a single dismissive wave as he stepped down from the stage and strode away.

“I guess they need more time to work up an official story,” Winter said.

“They've got their work
cut out
for them,” Sean retorted. She took the remote and turned off the set.

112

After dinner, while Sean showered in her bathroom, Winter lay in bed, unable to stop thinking about Greg. It was over, but even so, something was gnawing at him. If not Greg, who could have planted the GPS? How could he be so wrong about a man he was so close to? He had to figure out an alternative, or admit to himself the unthinkable.

When Sean returned to his bedroom wearing a robe, she didn't knock; which seemed perfectly natural to Winter. Her hair was still wet, brushed back. She closed the door, pulled the drapes, and came to his bed without saying a word. As Winter watched, she dropped the robe to the floor and stood beside the bed, naked. He didn't think the angry bruise on her shoulder, a gift from the ten-gauge goose gun's recoil, detracted from her perfection in the least. She came to him and their first kiss went on and on and swept Winter away. That kiss made everything they had been through seem like some vague memory. After making love, they lay together, side by side for long minutes, caressing each other, kissing.

“Winter, what are you thinking about?” she asked.

“You.”

“Besides me,” she laughed.

“The thing I still don't understand,” Winter said, “is how that GPS device got into your computer.”

“I don't know.”

“Try to remember. When was the laptop out of your sight?”

“Well,” she said, thinking as she rubbed his stomach, “Dylan gave it to me a few days before I went to Argentina as a first anniversary gift. It was pretty much always with me in South America. The marshals in New York turned it on to check it out after we were in the first safe house. Greg brought it and my suitcases to me after he searched everything. Greg took it back to Dylan so he could type me a nasty message.”

“I read it.”

“From there, I had it with me until Hank took it.”

Winter's dream, where Greg turned into Fletcher Reed, suddenly played in his mind. A change from one into the other. Why? Metamorphosis is a change of identity.

“Sean,” he said, leaning up on an elbow. “Can you look in my bag and see if the material Reed sent me is in there?”

She went to the dresser, opened the bag, and brought Winter the envelope. Winter emptied it and flipped rapidly through the pages, finally stopping on one and pushing the others away.

“What is it?” Sean asked.

He took two of the sheets and used them to cover the lower faces of one of the young soldiers Reed had identified as a cutout possibility. He stared at the young soldier with the American flag in the background. He was eighteen, ears sticking straight out from the shaved scalp, the features soft. Suddenly, he knew what the dream he'd had about Greg meant—what his subconscious was trying to tell him. Everything made sense.

“What is it?” Sean asked again.

“Nothing.” Winter stacked the sheets and fed them back into the envelope, dropping it onto the floor beside the bed.

“You sure? It didn't seem like nothing.”

“Just a thought I had that didn't pan out.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It doesn't matter. Everything's fine. The criminals are all dead and everybody is satisfied.” Winter looked into Sean's eyes and smiled reassuringly. “Only one thing to do now,” he said, pulling her to him for a long kiss.

“Aren't you afraid you'll injure that hip?”

“No pain, no gain.”

Winter hated to lie to Sean, but telling her what he knew would serve no purpose. If he was right, he would tell her later, when all of this was far behind them.