It was painful to stand.
Cross's voice came through Winter's ear piece, “The dunes are clear, Massey. Hold your fire, I'm coming in.”
“Martinez, get the package home,” Winter told her.
“I'm really sorry-” Sean began.
“Get her out of here, now!” Winter snapped as Greg ran toward them from the house. “Greg, can you cover Martinez and P-two-coming your way now?”
“Affirmative,” Greg's voice came over the radio.
Cross came over the dunes dragging a wool blanket behind him.
The two women hurried toward the house, looking back frequently over their shoulders. Martinez had the look of a dog that had been pulled away from killed game.
Greg, carrying a shotgun, came running up wearing a T-shirt, khakis, and no shoes. He had a bandolier of twelve-gauge shells strung across his chest like a Wild West bandit. “You two, up on your knees, hands where we can see them!” he yelled out.
As the deputies advanced on the sprawled figures, it became obvious that instead of two scuba-diving assassins, they had captured a naked couple. The woman had dropped her clothes in the sand when Winter fired. The man clutched what appeared to be wadded-up fatigues.
Winter thought about curling up in the sand like a fetus and staying there motionless for a while. A low hollow roar of pain seemed to run from the base of his spine through his testes and up to his lungs.
Cross held up a ripped-open condom package. “This was on the blanket.”
“Damn,” Greg said, laughing. “Winter, you shot at these people for screwing?”
“I didn't know what they were doing,” Winter managed to say.
“Better safe than sorry, Inspector,” Cross said. “Maybe he was planning to knock Massey over the head with his weapon after he finished using it on her. Maybe the condom was so he wouldn't leave a prick print.”
The tension was dissipating rapidly. Winter almost laughed himself. He was never going to hear the end of this one.
“You two, stand up! Empty hands on your heads, and turn around slowly!” Greg bellowed. They scrambled to their feet and turned.
“Aw, that's mean,” Cross said, trying not to snicker.
“Gotta do this by the book,” Greg said.
“The Joy of Sex?” Cross shot back.
An Apache gunship, probably flying night maneuvers nearby when the alarm was sounded, thundered in from out of the darkness, stopped on a dime, and hung above the beach fifty yards south of them. Greg signaled the pilot that he had things under control. The chopper tilted, pivoted, and slid out over the water, shining its blinding spotlight on the scene below as it passed by. Satisfied the situation was under control, the pilot banked the chopper and flew off west.
Greg said, “Looks like a pair of swabbies from the other side. Let's keep a straight face, make sure we make an impression.”
He lifted the man's dog tags and glared at him. Winter and Cross relaxed, lowering the muzzles of their weapons.
“What the hell are you two doing here?” Nations growled.
“Navy, sir! Ensign Signalman Lawrence Tacket, sir!”
“Ensign-” the woman started.
“I don't give a damn what your names are! What I asked was what the hell you are doing over here.” He scooped the clothes up and searched the pockets. He dropped a sealed condom on the sand, along with some change and a pocketknife. He opened a wallet and checked its contents.
“We were just out for a walk,” Ensign Tacket offered.
“And the wind tore your uniforms off?”
Tacket was a muscular young man and he stayed at full attention, his eyes ahead as if a drill sergeant was on a parade ground inspecting him. The young woman was shivering in the evening chill, her teeth chattering violently. Neither could have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old. The naked woman suddenly giggled nervously. “Can I cover up, please?” she pleaded.
Greg allowed his eyes to drop down below Tacket's waist, then shook his head. “Remove that condom, Ensign. And don't drop it on my beach.”
“Please,” she repeated.
“Cross, give the lady her clothes.”
Cross scooped up the woman's shirt and pants, checked them, and tossed them to her. She turned to one side and slipped them on.
The ensign reached down, peeled off the condom, and hid it in his large fist.
“Okay, you two. You're damned lucky my man didn't kill you both. The admiral's wife got an eyeful, and you'll be fortunate indeed if she doesn't ask her husband to skin you two alive. Next time, if you want to play ‘punch the monkey,' do it on your side of the island,” Greg said.
The woman giggled again.
“Don't ever let me catch you on this side of this island again. Go! Run!” They started to go up over the dunes but Greg thundered, “All the way around! Stay the hell out of my trees!”
Winter turned and walked toward the house like a man with a broken foot. It was sobering to realize that if the two ensigns had come straight over the hill in the dark at a dead run, he might have killed them. Winter doubted Greg would make an official complaint. It was a good story that would be spoiled if Nations had to end it with the fact that he caused two kids to be busted out of the service, probably their only tickets out of otherwise bleak futures.
Greg fell into step beside him. “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You're walking like somebody pounded sand up your butt.”
“Strained a groin muscle, I guess.”
The security lights died and it was night again.
Martinez stood waiting on the porch with one hand on the doorknob. “Winter, Mrs. Devlin is really sorry about kneeing you in your noogies. She thought you were making an advance… of a sexual nature.”
“Guess there's more than one way to pull a groin muscle,” Greg said, grinning.
“Forget it,” Winter muttered. He was certain he would never again produce another ounce of semen with anything swimming in it.
Martinez rolled her eyes and went inside, laughing. Greg followed, and Cross strolled off down the beach, still snickering.
Winter slumped in the rocking chair. Midnight bumped against his leg. A few minutes later, Jet came out and handed Winter an ice pack.
“Mr. Greg said you might want this for your pulled muscle.”
When Jet went back into the house, Winter clearly heard several people whooping with laughter.
He decided that for the remaining time on the island, whenever the deputies thought about him, the Tampa incident would no longer be the first thing that sprang to mind. He put the bag between his legs. It helped.
14
Atlanta, Georgia
Monday
The guard stared out through the bulletproof glass at the attorney as though the latter were a thief come to steal the gold out of his mouth. The man before him wore a bedraggled hairpiece. Bertran Stern had a nose like a parrot's beak and sad eyes. He was stoop-shouldered and his suit coat hung on his lanky frame like a drape. Liver spots dotted the hand with which he pressed his driver's license through the slot.
“Here to see Sam Manelli,” Bertran said.
“You his attorney?”
“I am.”
“Bertran Stern?” the guard read. He looked back up and again at the license, comparing the picture against the real thing.
Stern nodded once.
“From New Orleans?” the guard said as he inspected the Louisiana license.
“Yes.”
“Manelli had another attorney here yesterday.”
“Mr. Manelli has several legal representatives. I am his private counsel.” Stern exhaled heavily. The guards always asked the same questions. He supposed it was some form of harassment, but he didn't care. He was already thinking about the trip back home, knowing he would be resummoned as soon as he settled in. He had never liked traveling and was terrified of airplanes. But he had been flying back and forth from New Orleans, ferrying messages between Johnny Russo and Sam, since the mobster's arrest two weeks earlier. Johnny had been running Sam's crime empire for five years and doing a pretty good job as far as Bertran could tell. Sam seemed pleased with what Johnny was telling the attorney and Johnny liked the messages he got back.