John Miller - Inside Out

The security room was carpeted, windowless, and large enough for two chairs and a couch. Three of the monitors showed views of the house's exterior doors and porch, the beach, pool, and tennis courts. Three other monitors showed interior views: the hallway outside the security room, and other halls and rooms in the house. The view on each screen changed every five seconds.

“This is a restricted zone we're in. The sailors report any craft in the sky or on the water,” Greg said. He pointed to the panel. “Whenever an outside door is opened, that light flashes. You can zoom and pan the cameras. After dinner, Beck will show you how everything here works.”

“In an emergency, hit this red button and we get help.”

“Once it's triggered, they come to investigate,” Greg said. “A helicopter gunship arrives first, followed by a Blackhawk packed with our SEAL friends. Time to introduce you to our Mr. Devlin,” he added. “If he's receiving.”

Greg tapped on the door to the Devlins' bedroom. “Mr. Devlin, it's Greg,” he called out. “Got some people to introduce.”

“Enter, Inspector,” a male voice replied.

The Devlins were sitting on the bed holding hands. Dylan was wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt; his left ankle was bandaged.

As soon as Winter got a close look at the killer, he was sure that Dylan's smile, carrot-colored hair, and pale green eyes made him seem harmless to his victims until it was way too late. Dylan Devlin looked about as dangerous as a week-old puppy. Mrs. Devlin had changed into something casual. She didn't look directly at the deputies, keeping her eyes fixed on the bedspread. She didn't seem exactly displeased that the marshals had interrupted them, but their presence seemingly held no interest for her.

“This is the first face-to-face we've had in eighteen days. Lots to catch up on,” Devlin told them.

“I can imagine,” Greg replied. “I wanted to take a second to introduce you to the new additions to the detail, Deputies Massey and Martinez.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Dylan said, “and welcome aboard.”

He focused on each deputy in turn.

“We'll let you and Mrs. Devlin get back to your discussion,” Greg said.

“Call her Sean. My wife is far too young and lovely to be referred to as Mrs. And, please, call me Dylan. I insist.”

Sean Devlin nodded absently. She turned her gaze for the first time and met Winter's eyes for a fleeting moment, her honey-colored eyes communicating nothing at all.

Party's over, lady, Winter thought. And here's the bill.

After they left the Devlins' bedroom and were back in the living room Greg turned once more to Winter and Martinez. “Always keep in mind that Dylan Devlin is a professional-a psychopath who can listen to Mozart while dismembering a body in a bathtub and eating potato chips. A badly sprained ankle and some busted ribs have slowed him down, but he'll be mobile soon enough. There's always a possibility he might decide that life on the run is preferable to showing up in court and exposing himself to the possibility that another stone killer like himself will take him out.”

“So Mrs. Devlin is here as an anchor,” Winter said.

Greg shrugged. “The A.G. wants him to be content.”

“Ain't domestic bliss wonderful,” Martinez said.

Winter realized suddenly what being in Devlin's room reminded him of. The reptile house at the Audubon Zoo.

There was very little talk during dinner, because the food was too good. Jet ladled rich, dark gumbo into deep bowls half-filled with steamed rice. There were loaves of broiled-to-a-crunch French bread, the center wet with garlic butter, and a salad that had a distinctive citrus twang. Compliments flew from the deputies.

A large black cat rubbed against Winter's leg. It peered up at him with fluid golden eyes and tilted his head, requesting a crumb from the table.

“Midnight!” Jet roared as she swooped up the animal in a well-practiced motion. “Let these people eat in peace.”

She crossed the room and thrust the feline out the back door. The cat stood on the porch and stared in through the screen. “That cat's always messin' with something. Midnight's not much company, but some's better than none. I could say the same thing about my last husband,” Jet added.

After the meal was over, Greg helped Jet clear the plates. Then he sat back down and got serious. “What we do here is about prevention, about keeping someone safe from being a target. That's WITSEC. Winter here is accustomed to staying in motion, handing out summonses, escorting prisoners hither and yon, and hunting down fugitives. Two different worlds.”

“I hope you don't get bored, Winter,” Forsythe said, a sharpness to his voice.

“I'm sure I won't find this boring.”

“Tampa.” Dixon shook his head. “Most thrilling fifteen seconds ever filmed. Three methed-up hit men firing Uzis. And-”

“Look,” Winter interrupted. “Tampa was a long time ago. I'd really rather-”

“Want to know all there is to know about Winter?” Greg cut in. “No better friend and no worse enemy. What more does any of us here need to know?”

Jet passed them, carrying a bowl through the swinging door into the dining room. Winter caught a glimpse of the table as the door closed. The Devlins sat facing each other across the polished walnut, again holding hands. Jet opened the door by pushing it with her hip, turned and reentered the kitchen carrying an empty pitcher. Winter glimpsed the hands again, joined in the center of the table.

“Winter is a scholar. Got a master's degree from Sewanee. Taught at private high schools. What was it you taught? Poetry?”

There was a muffled burst of laughter from the dining room. Winter wondered what the Devlins found so funny.

“Literature,” Winter told the marshals.

Martinez pushed her chair back and stood. “I'm going to catch a nap before my shift.”

Yet another happy burst of laughter from the dining room. Winter wondered what sort of jokes a killer told his wife to entertain her. In his experience, a woman who could be in love with someone who had forfeited his soul probably had denial down to a religion.

Winter's dream might have been complex and rambling, but all he remembered of it when he awoke was how it ended. He was in a house, in a bed with Eleanor. They were very young. Rush, who technically shouldn't have been there at all, was sitting on the bed staring angelically at Winter and his mother. He talked about how wonderful it was to be able to see again and how great it was having his mother back, due to a time machine's reversing everything bad that happened the day their plane crashed. When something touched his shoulder, Winter jerked awake to find that Greg, lit by the yellow light bleeding in from the bathroom, was staring down at him. Winter sat bolt upright, and Greg jumped back reflexively, putting his hands up as if to protect himself.

“Your turn on deck,” Greg said as he dropped down on his own bed, yawning.

Winter swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the carpet.

The roar of the surf drowned out every sound past the railing, ten feet beyond the wicker chair that Winter had backed up against the house, in the shadows. He had set the 9-mm Heckler amp; Koch MP5 machine pistol on the table beside the chair. Constant motion, he thought, watching the froth as the water gobbled up the shoreline. Sharks moving from birth to death, octopuses slithering from rock to rock-monsters galore, always moving in search of food. He remembered how Rush had always worn tennis shoes in the surf after he had once stepped barefoot on a crab.

The creak of the front door opening had the impact of a sudden slap. Winter sat upright, reached for the H amp;K, and placed the gun in his lap. Martinez stepped out, nodded at Winter, then opened the door to let Mrs. Devlin come outside.