Martinez planted her elbow on the table and straightened her forearm.
“What little hands you have, my dear,” Cross crooned, as he took her hand in his. “You want to stand up and lean in to get some leverage?”
Greg covered their hands with his. “When I let go, it begins.” He looked at Martinez. “Anybody wants to back out, do it now. There's a lot of money on the table.”
Greg counted down from three, then let go, and for a second Martinez's arm sank slowly back toward the table. Her face contorted. Cross seemed to be enjoying himself. When Martinez's arm was almost touching the surface of the table, Cross tilted his head and looked at her quizzically. Martinez smiled and started moving her opponent's arm back up to center.
Cross started to sweat. He clenched his teeth, and the veins in his temples began to bulge.
“I know how you're feeling, Cross,” Martinez said. “It's like the heavens are all out of balance and your little Super Boy world is about to collapse around you. Welcome to Club Humiliation, you smug male bastard.” She smiled as she inched Cross's hand back toward the surface. He was giving it everything he had.
“You want to stand up, for leverage?” she mocked. Cross's hand hit the table hard. He sat there, bewildered.
“Again, double or nothing?” she asked. “Left hands?”
The room was silent.
Martinez stacked the bills tidily and picked them up. She took Devlin's C-note and Winter's twenties and handed them to Winter.
“How the hell did you do that?” Dylan asked Martinez, incredulous.
“Black beans,” she shot back.
Winter pocketed the cash and repeated something to Dylan that the killer himself had said earlier. “Things aren't always as they seem.. darling.”
“I thought you didn't gamble, Massey?” Devlin snapped back, his eyes smoldering.
Winter shrugged. “I don't.”
Devlin pivoted on his heel and left the room. His wife stared into Winter's eyes for a long second, then smiled and followed Devlin out.
17
Tuesday
Winter awoke to Greg tapping his shoulder.
“Time to get up and run. Mind some company this morning?”
“Of course not. You feeling a sudden urge to exercise?” Winter asked.
“Nah. You mind running armed this morning?”
Winter's mind snapped to full alert. “Aw, not Devlin.”
“Not Devlin,” Greg replied, smiling. “The Devlins.”
“Tell you what I'll do. I'll jog with the Devlins if you'll get me home for Rush's birthday. Just one day. It means a lot to me, Greg.”
“I'll consider how best to handle your request. See, I'd need someone to take your place for just a day or two and-”
Winter sat up. “Damn, my foot hurts. Maybe I shouldn't run this morning. You jog with the happy couple.”
“Okay, okay I'll do it. Somehow I'll get you home.”
When Winter arrived on the porch, Greg was leaning against a post, watching the sunrise. The Devlins were already on the sand, stretching. Winter had done his push-ups, crunches, and stretches before he left his room.
Since Monday, Winter had been running a course that took him from one tip of the island to the other. He ran south against the tree line, followed the bow of the beach north, then back. Ten laps was a nice run.
Winter stepped down onto the sand.
“I hear you're quite a runner,” Dylan commented.
Winter didn't respond.
“Inspector Nations, didn't I hear you say something the other day about Winter competing in the Ironman? That the illustrious deputy finished in the top twenty twice. That's biking, swimming and running. Man's a triple threat.”
“Y'all better get going,” Greg told him curtly.
“What hasn't our deputy accomplished?” Dylan mocked. “I wouldn't be surprised if his turds came out shrink-wrapped in cellophane.”
“Dylan!” Sean scolded. “That's crude.”
Dylan's eyes registered the reprimand, but he didn't shift his gaze from Winter. “I'm sorry, dear. I get crass and crude mixed up. If I called the inspector there a jigaboo-would that be crude or crass? Sambo, crude or cute? Nigger, crude or factual?”
“Dylan?” she murmured placatingly. The color had drained from her cheeks.
“Darling, didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't correct family in front of the help,” Dylan told her, his voice icy. She looked away, embarrassed, perhaps angry.
Greg smiled. Winter knew that, under other circumstances, Devlin would have been sifting through the sand for his teeth. Winter swallowed his anger at Dylan's remarks.
“Best go on your run now, Win,” Greg said. “Before the sun rises and sets Mr. Devlin there on fire.”
It appeared to Winter that Devlin was trying to see how far he could push before someone took him on. The killer knew how valuable he was to the attorney general, and he knew he could push pretty hard before anyone would dare push back. Winter had seen it before, a criminal who had to admit to himself that he had turned into the one thing all criminals hated-a rat-then needed to take his self-loathing out on others.
They started running north along the surf.
Dylan was quiet for the first hundred yards. Then he said, “Your boy sure was touchy this morning. Probably not getting enough sleep. You keeping that buck awake?”
“You here to run or talk, Devlin?” Winter said.
“Here to run, ironman.” Dylan sprinted ahead, showing off.
Winter stayed even with Sean. Her stride looked effortless; her arms and legs showed muscle definition from a pattern of exercise.
“We have a gym in the house,” she said, as if reading Winter's mind. “Weights and Nautilus machines. Dylan works out and runs every day. He says staying in shape is the single most important thing there is. You get lazy, let the workouts slide, and everything slows down: stamina, strength, eye-hand coordination. Even your mental ability.”
Winter managed a grunt.
“Winter-may I call you Winter?”
“Sure.”
“I want to apologize for my husband's remarks. He's never been remotely like this before. He's on edge, and who can blame him, really?” She sounded as if she was almost trying to convince herself.
“You don't need to make excuses to me.”
She stared ahead. “Dylan really isn't racist. He just-”
Winter had had enough. “No disrespect intended, ma'am, but I don't care what he was like before all this. We refer to the people we protect as packages, footballs, or units. The package's prejudices don't mean anything to us. An apology to Martinez or Greg won't make any difference, because they don't give a damn what Mr. Devlin thinks or says-just what he does. But as far as I can see, the idea that any of the deputies on this crew might get hurt trying to protect his life is an absurdity of biblical proportions.”
The effect of Winter's words was immediate. Her lips tightened, and she lengthened her stride, pulled ahead of him, and caught up with her husband.
Winter watched her body as she ran. It was a thing to admire. He would have liked to leave them, but he had to make sure nobody appeared from out of the water or behind the dunes and blew Dylan's brains out.
Something like that, while erasing an impurity from the surface of the planet, wouldn't look good on Winter's record.
18
“Assistant U.S. Attorney Avery Whitehead from the New Orleans District is visiting us today, kids,” Greg Nations announced at breakfast. “Let's look sharp.”
When Jet came through the kitchen door, Winter caught sight of the Devlins at the dining room table. Sean Devlin's expression was unreadable, but she was not holding hands with her husband-nor was there any laughter. That seemed like a healthy development. He couldn't help but wonder if Sean might be taking a fresh look at the wisdom of her spousal choice.
An hour after breakfast, a Navy-version Hughes 500 landed and deposited Avery Whitehead and his assistant.