John Miller: Upside Down

Winter thought Adams was the bad guy. Manseur grabbed his phone, called Winter's cell phone, then remembered he had ruined it in the river.

Massey was probably in the hotel suite with Nicky Green, the man who had been sent to kill him. Manseur dialed the hotel and asked to be put through to Winter's suite. Massey answered.

“Massey, thank God,” he said. “Are you alone?”

“No. What you need?” Winter replied.

“Listen to me carefully. You are in danger. I got the burned corpse's prints back, and Jesus, Massey, you won't believe it… they belonged to-”

“Nicky Green.”

Manseur was stunned. “You knew?”

“He's long gone, Michael. It's finally over.”

Winter hung up the phone. Every muscle in his body ached, and he wanted to get into a hot bath to rid himself of any remaining trace of the Mississippi River.

Just outside the door, Faith Ann, wearing one of his T-shirts, was lying on the bedroom's couch, sound asleep. She had wanted to sleep close to Winter, and she had certainly earned the right to some peace of mind. Whatever the future held for her, Winter was certain it would be vastly better than the recent past had been. The child had amazed him and everybody associated with this, especially the bad guys. He wondered if she'd had any idea how terrible the odds of her survival and of getting the evidence to the governor had really been.

Winter lifted the note he had found on the bedside table in Nicky Green's cleaned-out bedroom, held in place by the Trammel Colt. 45.

Winter,

I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoyed the exercise. I suppose sooner or later you will discover that Adams wasn't Paulus Styer, that I am. I regret what happened to the Trammels, but please believe me when I say it was for the game. You are alive because I was no longer obliged to kill you after I learned about my handler's deal with the CIA. I did stick around the rest of the evening to have some fun, which I certainly did, but I can't see the point in hanging around waiting for John Adams's pals to show up looking for me. While they might not have minded if I had killed you, I seriously doubt they will bother you now.

You know, Massey, you're a very talented man, but you have been elevated by that talent into a world of monsters where you do not belong. You should get out of the business before you find that out the hard way. Take care of the Porter kid, although going by what I saw, it may be she who ends up taking care of you. Don't think of trying to track me, figuring you might owe the Trammels some debt. If you and I ever meet again, I will not hesitate to finish what I started.

Wishing you and yours only the best.

P. Styer

Winter ripped the note into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. He undressed and slipped into the hot water, sliding forward in the long tub until the water's surface brushed his chin. He leaned his head back, placed the wet washcloth over his face, and willed his mind to slow, to find a soft place to rest itself.

The dapper Phillip Dresser sat alone at a small table in a coffee shop, watching the passersby. The night before, he'd eaten dinner at Brennan's Steak House so he could monitor the Masseys and Faith Ann, who had been seated at a nearby table.

He had decided that the safest place to hide from his enemies, who would assume he was heading back to Moscow, was in New Orleans, at the Pontchartrain Hotel. He would repay his handler for the betrayal, without even lifting a hand. Yuri Chenchenko would spend his life in a perpetual cold sweat anticipating Styer's return-seeing ghosts until he died, hopefully many years down the road.

Styer looked at his watch.

Any minute now, he thought.

Moments later they came into sight, moving along the concourse. He smiled as he watched Winter, Sean, Rush, and Faith Ann strolling toward their flight to Texas. They were headed there to bury Kimberly Porter and Millie Porter Trammel. After that they would fly back to Charlotte. In a month, Hank would be able to return to North Carolina. Styer envied the old man. Hank would spend his last years surrounded by people who loved him. He wondered if these people really knew how lucky they were. Of course they know.

Faith Ann looked directly at Dresser. The girl couldn't recognize him-she, like Winter, had been far too preoccupied to have noticed him in the crowds, disguised and shadowing their party during the past days, listening to their conversations. She looked as skinny as ever, and her butchered hair was tousled and uncombed, but the happiness he saw reflected in her eyes warmed him. You raised yourself a special daughter there, Kimberly Porter, he thought. She does you proud.

Styer had an hour before his flight to Denver. He put a new toothpick in the corner of his mouth. The wooden pacifier was something he'd picked up recently-a habit he found oddly soothing.