Read Online Inside Out by John Ramsey Miller - Free Book Online Page A

she rubbed it behind the ears. “Well, you like that? What's your name?” she asked the animal.
    “Midnight,” Winter volunteered.
    “Male or female?” She didn't turn her head a fraction of an inch toward Winter.
    “I think Mrs. Washington called Midnight a him.”
    “I didn't know her last name. She told me to call her Jet.” As she stroked the cat's head, it purred audibly and pressed against her hand. “You are a sweet boy, aren't you, Midnight?”
    Winter scanned the beach in both directions.
    “My mother thought dogs were unruly.” Sean Devlin spoke as if to herself. “She let me have a cat, thought they were less likely to be disruptive. I called her Punkin. She ran away and never came back. What do you suppose cats think about?”
    Winter felt less like carrying on the cat conversation than having a tooth pulled. “Probably think about where to get nine more lives,” he replied.
    She laughed. “You suppose?”
    Eleanor had been allergic to cats. Winter saw them as sneaky and untrustworthy, letting you pet them, then suddenly turning their claws and teeth on you. With dogs you knew what was up most of the time.
    Midnight promptly jumped down and trotted away. “You ever have a cat?”
    “I don't recall any.”
    She turned and leaned against the railing. “Do you have children, Deputy Massey?”
    He twisted his wedding band and wished he had left it at home. She was staring at it. “One, a son.”
    “How old is he?”
    “Twelve on Sunday.”
    “Being a deputy, doing this, I suppose you are away for long stretches.”
    “Sometimes.”
    “I guess you're a federal agent, not technically a policeman?”
    “More cop than agent,” he replied.
    “It must be hard on your wife.”
    Winter didn't want the conversation to go any farther down the personal path. Maybe she was a nice enough woman, but being the wife of a criminal put her squarely on the other side of the wall. “I don't imagine anyone enjoys being separated from those they care for.”
    Sean turned abruptly and started down the steps.
    Winter stood. “Hey, where are you going?”
    She bent down, held up the cup she had dropped and placed it on the floor beneath the railing. He relaxed, fractionally.
    “I'd like a walk on the beach, get my feet wet in the surf. Is that possible?”
    “If I accompany you.” He lifted the MP5 and slipped the strap over his shoulder.
    The radio was a two-way, low-frequency system very much like the walkie-talkies that mothers bought to remain in contact with their children in a mall. It had been selected because the frequency was likely to be overlooked by any eavesdropper searching for professional bands. He pressed the microphone button. “S-one, W.M. and P-two proceeding south on the sand.”
    “What's all that mean?” Sean asked.
    “S-one is control in the security room, W.M. is me, Winter Massey, and you are P-two. Cross is out here, too, and now he knows to expect us.”
    “Why P and not D for Devlin?”
    “Package. That is anyone we are watching. It's—”
    “SCJ?”
    “Sorry?”
    “Standard cop jargon?”
    “Want company, W.M.?”
Martinez called out over the radio.
    “Negative that. Visibility's a solid ten. I'll stay in sight.”
    Winter walked on the shore side of her, slightly higher up the slope. As they walked, his eyes darted constantly, scanning the ocean, the beach, the tops of the dunes.
    Sean stopped, lifted each foot, removed her sandals, and held them by their back straps. “God, I hate the feeling of sand in my shoes,” she said.
    He didn't respond.
    “You ever been to South America?” she asked out of the blue.
    “Fugitive recovery in Colombia and Costa Rica. Never been for pleasure. Don't speak Spanish very well.”
    “I was just in Argentina looking at ranch land. I liked South America okay. Dylan loves the idea of living in Argentina, but I'm not so sure. Land is cheap, but it's so volatile economically and politically.”
    Winter visualized the scenario. Devlin