John Miller - Inside Out

Winter told Reed who the dead men were and gave him an overview of the FBI's evidence on Greg Nations. As Winter went over it, he was struck again by what little sense it made. “The only thing a WITSEC inspector like Greg could furnish Manelli with on a continuing basis would be an occasional location of a witness he was baby-sitting, which just doesn't add up,” he told Reed.

“Unless he'd been selling the intel to someone like an information broker who then sold it to people who wanted the witnesses not to testify.”

“Then how come no other protected witnesses have been killed?” Winter countered.

“Maybe it was about people who had left the program. Those people get killed from time to time, don't they?”

“I'd have heard about that through the USMS grapevine.” He told Reed that if Greg had an offshore account, the money had come from legitimate sources.

Reed pointed out how naive that sounded. “Basically you're not open to any evidence to the contrary to what you believe? I got nothing to offer, Massey,” Reed said finally.

“Fingerprints.”

Reed sighed. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think the FBI screwed with their fingerprints,” Winter said. “Those killers sure as hell weren't Russian soldiers. If they were ours, the FBI knows it and for whatever reason aren't going to admit it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Come on, Reed. I think the FBI's showing Shapiro what they had was a trial balloon. Get the lies past Shapiro and me, and who else would raise a flag?”

“The FBI can't afford another scandal,” Reed agreed.

“For some people, fabricating evidence is no more difficult than you or me backdating a sales slip.”

“You're talking about a conspiracy between the FBI, the Russian government, the Navy, and the CIA. Hell, maybe even the Marshals Service. It sounds like the two hundred people who were in on framing O.J.,” Reed said.

Winter couldn't blame him for being skeptical. “They wouldn't all have to be aware of the entire picture to be directly involved. Just a handful of people at the top would have to know why they were doing what they were doing. They'd just have to control who knows what. You know how some people will follow any order.”

“Those four guys were definitely soldiers,” Reed mused. “Why not Russians?”

“How many Russians speak with a cracker accent? How many Russians have tattoos removed that leave a scar in the shape of a SEAL trident? I couldn't help but notice that the naked corpse was circumcised. What was he, a Russian-Jewish shock trooper?”

There was a long silence. Then Reed asked, “So all you want from me is to run four sets of fingerprints, which I wasn't supposed to keep? If I did accidentally hold on to a dupe set, as soon as I run them, the FBI will know all about it. This conspiracy cabal of yours involves the FBI.”

“Would it be possible to run them against military fingerprints, just within the Pentagon's database?”

“Maybe.”

“I think those four killers were once members of our military. I think the FBI already knows that because they have all the soldiers in the active database. If they were ours, I need to know who they really were. I need anything you can scrape up. If you draw a blank, at least I'll know I've done everything I can.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Reed said.

“You believe me?”

“I only believe that the tale you're spinning is slightly more intriguing than what I spent the morning doing-plaster-casting motorcycle tread marks on the seventeenth green on the officers' golf course.”

“Thanks,” Winter said.

“This is probably a waste of time, but just for the sake of paranoia, take down my private cell number and give me yours.”

Richmond, Virginia

Sean luxuriated in the tub for an hour. She didn't feel safe but, for the first time since she'd returned from Argentina, she felt relaxed. When she'd told Paul Gillman her abusive husband was a federal agent, she'd unconsciously cast Winter Massey in the role. But Winter was probably one of the least violent people she had ever met. He'd killed to save her life. It was a strange feeling to have such a strong emotional bond with a stranger. Winter was a complex individual who had gotten more interesting with every conversation. Why couldn't she have met Winter instead of Dylan? Would she, could she, have told him the truth?

Her skin was wrinkling so she got out, toweled off, and went into the bedroom, where her coat was hung over a chair. She reached into the pocket and removed the cash and the passport.

Sally McSorley's passport had a five-year-old picture of Sean Marks in it because it was the phony passport her mother had acquired for Sean's emergency kit. In the picture, Sean had auburn hair tucked behind her ears. Sean decided the picture made her look innocent. Had she ever been innocent? As a young girl in Catholic schools? As a college student? As the bride of a murdering son of a bitch masquerading as a human being? Had she ever had any choice? She wasn't going to waste time feeling like a victim-self-pity was a waste of energy.

She snapped open the revolver and looked at the shells in the cylinder. They might well come for her, but one thing was certain-she'd be one kill that somebody was going to have to work hard for.

After dressing, she picked up the backpack containing her computer, and slipped the pistol into her coat pocket. She considered dipping into the bundle of cash hidden inside a secret pocket in her duffel, a feature that Hoover had used to sell her the bag, but decided to leave it and her passport alone. After closing her door, Sean hooked the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob.

In the lobby, she got five dollars' worth of quarters from Max and walked to a pay phone down the street. She dialed information.

“United States Marshals Service. How may I direct your call?” The young woman's voice was pleasant and very Southern.

“I'd like to speak to Deputy Winter Massey.”

“I'm sorry, he's not in the office. Would you care to speak to another deputy or leave a message on his voice mail?”

Sean listened to Winter's recorded voice and hung up before the tone sounded. She dialed information again and asked the operator for the listing in Charlotte for Winter Massey.

“Sorry, no Winter Massey in Charlotte.”

Of course he wouldn't have the phone in his name. She had an idea how he might list it. “Do you have a listing for Lydia or a Rush Massey?”

After checking, the operator told her, “I show a Lydia Massey in Concord, North Carolina. Same area code.”

Sean didn't have anything to write with and she fought to remember the number as she pulled out her computer and opened it. She repeated the number until the computer booted up, and she typed it under a folder icon on her desktop, changing the file's name from “Misc,” to “7045529988.”

Staring down at the number, Sean felt suddenly insecure. She wanted to decide exactly what she would say to him. Would she ask for his help? How could she do that without putting him in danger? How much could she tell him? How many lies would she need to tell? She just needed to talk to him; maybe then, she would feel anchored again.

Nervously, she dialed the number, then dropped in the required number of coins. The voice that answered brought a rush of relief to her. She realized she was holding her breath.

“Winter?”

“Sean? Is it you?”

Concord, North Carolina

When the phone rang, Winter was in his bedroom with the door closed, going over his conversation with Reed in his mind.

“Hello?”

“Winter?”

The sound of Sean's voice filled him with relief. “Sean, is it you?”