Martinez raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't react.
“Perhaps it is too bright for a walk,” Sean said. Her cheeks were flushed pink. “Maybe later would be better. When the sun isn't so strong.”
Dylan agreed easily. “An evening walk, then. I, on the other hand, need some rays.”
Winter figured Sean didn't want to displease Dylan. It looked to Winter that the latter exercised control by undermining his wife's confidence. Wouldn't be the first husband who operated that way. His own father had done the same to his mother.
Winter and Dylan started down the beach side by side. “Where was it my wife racked you? On the beach, I mean.”
Winter pointed at the spot at the dune's edge where the sand was still churned up. “About there. Maybe she'll reenact it with you.”
“I know who you are, Massey. I overheard Cross and Dixon talking about a little square dance in Florida a few years back with three Latino gun boys. They seem to think you're some sort of a handgun god.”
“I never cared for dancing,” he said laconically.
“Must have been exciting. Facing those machine guns, and you with only a little pistol. The marshal and the outlaws in a real old-fashioned shoot-out. I bet your blood was up-facing death, looking it in the eyes, and walking out alive. Nothing like it. No one who hasn't been there can understand being tested in the crucible and coming out in one piece.”
“A man would really have to be wired wrong to enjoy a thing like that,” Winter said dismissively.
“The elation after the kill. The adrenaline rush. Don't shit me, Massey, you felt that euphoria. We have that in common, you and I. But where I never felt the slightest pang of guilt, I bet it nearly ate you alive.”
Winter had indeed felt that euphoria. But the shoot-out in Tampa had been followed by nausea, cold sweats, and nightmares. “I sure as hell didn't kill because someone was writing me a check for it,” he said, betraying his emotions.
“Don't be so sanctimonious. They pay you, Deputy. I just get fatter checks.”
“Different theys. And my they doesn't want me to kill anybody.”
“Do you think about your own death, Massey?”
“Some.”
“Are you afraid to die?”
“Not looking forward to it.” Winter could feel his blood rising and wished Devlin would get off the subject.
“How would you go, given a choice? Heart attack in bed? Bullet in the brain? Swan-diving into an active volcano?”
“I doubt I'll get to choose. Can we change the subject?”
“Man like you could be anything, and yet this is what you chose.” Dylan persisted, savoring Winter's obvious discomfort. “All the things you could have had, and you're walking down the beach, putting your life on the line for what, sixty thousand a year? I have a beautiful, rich wife who thinks I hung the moon, but I never touched a penny of hers because I make a lot of money. A lot of money.”
“I don't go hungry. I can drive only one car at a time, and I have a good medical plan with dental.”
“You're a fucking security guard, Massey,” Dylan snarled. “You know what my favorite thing is?”
“I don't care.”
Devlin stared down at the AR-15 in Winter's hand. “It's taking a target's weapon away and giving him the business end of it. Gun, knife, once it was a baseball bat. The expression on their faces is always worth the extra effort. It's the ultimate humiliation, like pissing on them-a caveman high.”
“Can I be totally honest with you, Devlin?”
“I'd welcome it.”
“I like chasing down bad guys. The sense of satisfaction I get when I put human garbage-like, say, a cold-blooded murderer-in chains is priceless. Hell, I'd do it for free if they didn't pay me to.”
“That so? So tell me one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“What's it feel like to have your balls bashed in by a woman?”
“About half as painful as talking to you.”
Dylan threw his head back and laughed. “That's a good one! You're a piece of work, Massey.” He turned back toward the house, shaking his head. “And I had hoped we could be pals.”
“Now, that's a good one,” Winter said flatly.
When they returned, Sean was in a rocking chair on the porch with the cat in her lap, rubbing its head. Winter stopped beside Martinez at the railing. When Dylan reached down to rub it, Midnight hissed, clawed his hand, and ran off.
Sean took Dylan's hand and inspected the scratches. “He seemed so friendly,” she said softly.
“Things aren't always as they seem,” her husband snapped. He sat in the chair beside her, rubbing the bloodied hand against his pants. “Nine lives. Living out here with no cars, no other cats or dogs, that little black shitter could die of old age with eight of those still tucked away in a celestial savings account.” He stroked his wife's hand, looked up at Winter, and smiled. “Unless he does something dumb.”
16
Winter watched as Angela Martinez concentrated on the puzzle in front of her, working as methodically as a jeweler checking a consignment of diamonds. She rubbed each piece of the anodized steel with a Teflon-saturated cloth and then set it on the newspaper. When she was finished putting it back together, the puzzle revealed itself as a Glock pistol. Forty-caliber shells were lined up at attention like soldiers. One by one she inserted the rounds into the mouth of the magazine, then slapped the back of it against her palm to seat the bullets. She jacked the receiver, fed the chamber, removed the magazine to add a round, and slammed the magazine home. Satisfied, she put the gun into her hip holster and snapped the thumb-release strap.
“Think it'll shoot now?” Cross asked.
“Better than yours.”
“In a million years you couldn't outshoot me.”
“Give me a break, Cross. There's nothing you can do that I can't do faster and better.”
“Sexual discrimination suits filed by crybaby dykes and bleeding-heart judges have screwed up everything by trying to make all of us equal. Well, that's just paper equality, it can't make women physically equal to men. Strength and stamina can't be altered by court rulings.”
“You think you're stronger than me?” Martinez said, snickering. “Twenty dollars says I can take you arm wrestling,” she told Cross calmly.
“You have twenty dollars, Cross?”
Beck reached into his wallet and tossed a twenty onto the center of the table. “Arm-wrestling contest? I'm in. Even odds?”
“Whatever you can stand to lose,” Martinez told him.
“Who's covering your losses?” Cross asked.
“There won't be any,” she said with total confidence.
Five minutes later the kitchen was crowded and there was a heap of money in the center of the table. When Cross and Martinez squared off, all the money was on Cross.
Jet laid a ten down and pressed it flat. “On him to win.”
“Traitor,” Martinez said.
“Sorry. I'm a woman, but I've never been called a stupid one.”
The cat fled the room and Dylan was suddenly standing in the doorway.
“Winter, you want in?” Greg asked, ignoring Devlin.
“I don't gamble,” Winter said. He figured Martinez was going to get creamed and he didn't want to waste money, or take any of hers.
Dylan walked over to the table and thumped a hundred dollar bill down. “On Deputy Cross,” he said. “Can you cover this, senorita?” He winked. “Or maybe we can just work out some kind of a trade.”
Martinez stared down at the bill and then at Winter. He could see her confidence faltering.
“On Martinez to win, okay?” he said, taking his wallet out. He took out five twenties and tossed them near the pile.
“Sean, honey,” Devlin called out cheerfully. “Come watch your deputy get his noogies kicked in again.”
Sean came into the room and stood near the stove. Cross put his elbow on the table. Martinez slipped off her jacket.
“You can take off your shirt, too,” Cross told her. “Might distract me.”