John Miller - Inside Out

Albert's expression changed until it mirrored that of his late girlfriend's.

“How much of my money did Albert skim, Sheri?” Russo asked the severed head. He took Sheri's jaw in his free hand and worked it up and down. “Lots and lots,” Johnny said in a high voice. “If I'm l-l-lying, may I g-g-give head.”

The men in the shed burst into laughter.

Russo returned the head to the fridge. “What you are going to do, Albert, is go back to work and pay me back everything you stole.”

“But, I never-”

Russo slapped him so hard the chair Albert sat in fell over on its side. “Stop lying, or you can join Sheri and fatten the crabs. You will make me an additional fifty grand over last year's numbers or you'll wish you were dead a long time before you will be. Do you understand me? You'll pay me back the ten large at reasonable interest of two points a week.”

Russo took a wad of money out of his pocket and peeled off a fifty. He bent over, pressed the bill into Albert's mouth, pushing it between the man's teeth with his fingertip.

“Albert, you take that and buy your kids a little something and tell them it's from their uncle Johnny. What do you say?”

“Thank you,” Albert said weakly.

“You're welcome. Boys, get Albert dressed and take him home.”

Rook Island, North Carolina

Wednesday

The sun's rays tinted the clouds a luscious orange. As bacon sizzled, Jet stood at the stove muttering to herself. Cross sat beside Winter, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Greg wandered in, poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat across from Winter. The deputies ate in silence.

After breakfast, Winter and Jet were left alone.

“Miss Sean has bruises on her arm where that man squeezed on her,” she said in a low voice.

“That so?” Winter said, trying to keep his voice even.

“She's been under his spell, but it sure is broken now. A woman can be blinded by a buttery-talking man. Now she's gotten her first good look at him.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. She has seen his true side, and that man is gonna kill her if he gets half a chance.”

“I'll keep my eyes open,” Winter said, almost paralyzed by the inexplicable rage rising in him.

Jet looked at him skeptically.

“I promise, Jet,” he said sincerely.

After breakfast, dressed for his morning run, Winter passed through the living room.

“I have a bone to pick with you, Massey.”

Winter drew up short. He turned to face Dylan, who sat on the couch, twenty feet away.

“That so?”

“This is all your fault. Soon as Whitehead gets to the attorney general, you're history here.”

“I'll start packing,” he replied, desperately wanting to pound this cretin into oblivion.

“You shouldn't have been talking to my wife. Just what the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Devlin,” Winter said, “I didn't realize the fact that your entering the witness protection program was going to be a surprise to her. The truth will always come out.”

“I could kill you, right here, right now.”

“You want me to give you my gun and kneel so you can shoot me in the back of the head?”

“You get between my wife and me again and you're going to wish you had never set foot on this island.”

“I've wished that since I got here, Devlin,” Winter said. “What got between you and your wife wasn't me. It was her good sense.” He walked out the door.

Ward Field, Virginia

The afternoon sun lengthened the shadows of the two boys who were pedaling their bikes down an isolated asphalt road as fast as their young legs could pump. The road had been constructed before World War II by the Army Air Corps, cut through rolling wilderness of an inhospitable nature. In order to avoid any misunderstanding about who owned the road and access thereto, warning signs were posted for a mile before the riders reached the first barricade. That initial barricade was comprised of foot-tall concrete stumps that looked like worn-down teeth. The ground on either side of the road allowed vehicles with a reason to proceed, to skirt the structures. The boys quickly guided their BMX bicycles between the bumps.

Over the next hill, a large faded sign read:

U.S. Government

Restricted Area

No Trespassing

For all of the attention the two young bikers paid it, the warning might as well have been written on the surface of the moon.

George Williams and Matthew Barnwell were both twelve years old, although George was six days older. They were, by mutual pact, best friends forever. George was skinny and his hair spiked out from his head like porcupine quills. A cup of rust-colored freckles seemed to have been poured over his face, scattered ear to ear and from his chin to his forehead, with more spilling down his neck. His small canvas backpack had his initials hand-lettered on the flap.

Matthew was shorter than George by a head, thirty pounds heavier, and had skin the color of a buckeye.

George pumped along, but Matthew had to get off his bike and walk it to top the final rise in the road. He stared down at Ward Field. The main gate was located a hundred feet below them. Several miles of chain-link fence topped with barbed wire enclosed the entire air-training facility. The gate was closed, wrapped with heavy chains and padlocks. The signs on either side of the gate were ill-tempered: ARMED RESPONSE! The gatehouse door and window were nailed shut. The boys coasted down the hill outside the fence, their tires cutting narrow tracks in the tangled weeds.

George and Matthew didn't know anyone who had been inside the fence, but for years kids had passed down tales of people who had gone missing after last being seen heading toward the old base. The red and white water tower, an attractive object to young men with climbing ambitions, had been partially disassembled, and the door to the wire safety cage surrounding the first twenty feet of ladder was padlocked.

Plywood covered every window of the barracks, and the roof of one had collapsed. Quonset huts were scattered around the facility: all of the structures were joined by a system of footpaths and narrow paved roads. Weeds proliferated through the concrete runway and parallel taxiway. There were three hangars; the most recent, far larger than the other two, had been built in the Vietnam era so C-130 cargo planes with tall, wide wings and tails that rose up behind them like scorpion stings could taxi straight inside.

The first time the boys scouted the fence, at the beginning of the summer, they had discovered their entrance-a depression where runoff had carved a shallow channel under the fence. George slid under easily, but Matt needed him to pull the fence up while he squirmed under.

They started across the field of knee-high weeds toward the control tower, which was barely more than a square room built on wooden telephone poles marinated in creosote. Its narrow steps were mostly rotted away and the windows were coated black with grime. Inside, a plywood table was anchored to the wall facing the runway, and a thin mattress provided a place for the boys to sit. They had a supply of old nudie magazines, candles, matches, playing cards, and a few cigarettes. The two boys didn't visit more than every other week or so, because it was so far from home. In the weeks since they had first come out, they had never seen a living soul.

As they passed close to the large hangar, they suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of a power saw. Both dropped hastily to the ground and were hidden by the tall weeds. The racket was coming from inside the building. “Somebody's here,” George told Matthew. His heart felt hot in his chest, and his mouth had gone dry with excitement. The sounds of raised voices filtered out of the structure.