When Winter and Faith Ann walked into the reception area on the ICU floor, a man Winter said was Hank's doctor was writing on a chart. When he saw Winter he smiled. “You got my message.”
“No, I didn't,” Winter said. “What was it?”
“Hank Trammel's conscious. He's been in and out since we reversed the coma drugs. A nurse was at the bedside and he asked her for a scotch on the rocks, that he was thirsty. She said she'd get him water and he told her, not that kind of thirsty.”
They followed the doctor to a cubicle where he drew back a curtain before hurrying off.
Faith Ann clenched Winter's hand and took a deep breath as they drew closer to Hank's bed. She stood there for long seconds, silent and white-faced. Her uncle's face was horribly swollen, the trademark handlebar mustache gone, and bandages covered the familiar gray hair. Both of his arms and his legs were encased in plaster.
“Uncle Hank?” she said softly. “You awake?”
There was no response from the man on the bed.
“The doctor said he was awake,” she told Winter. “How can he still be asleep?”
“Beats me.”
“Why can't he hear me?”
Winter shrugged.
“I'd give anything to hear him ask for a drink of whiskey,” Faith Ann said. She saw a slight shiver run through her uncle. She leaned in closer.
“Uncle Hank?” she repeated, praying. “It's me, Faith Ann.”
Her uncle's eyelids fluttered.
“Faith Anna-banana pants,” he murmured. “Did I hear you talking about whiskey?” he asked her.
“They said you can't drink whiskey in the rooms,” she said. She had never felt so absolutely thrilled.
“Faith Ann, you know what?”
“No, what?” she said.
“Of all the Porter women I've ever seen, you are the most beautiful. Nice haircut.”
103
Michael Manseur stared through the two-way glass at Jerry Bennett. The nightclub owner was sound asleep, his head rocked back, his mouth wide open. Bennett's toupee looked like it was made from straw, his makeup was smeared. There was blood on his face and his shirt from using a baseball bat on Suggs.
“Looks like a man without a care in the world,” Manseur said to his partner, Larry Bond.
“He said killing Suggs was self-defense. Says he didn't hire any killers. Doesn't know yet that we have the negatives. Let's wake him up and show them to him.”
“Killing Suggs probably was self-defense. Get Ellen Caesar—you two handle it.”
“You serious?” Larry asked him.
“As a heart attack.”
“This is your case, Michael. It's a big fat juicy one.”
“Yeah. Well, it's just a case. And I'm about done in from doing everything myself while you were off lazing about. Ellen's good with self-deluded fools like Bennett.”
Manseur enjoyed the perplexed expression pasted on his partner's face. It was nice to surprise people sometimes.
Manseur accepted the congratulations from the other detectives as he moved through the bull pen. He stopped at his desk to get his coat. He probably would have spent the night with Larry interviewing Bennett, but for three things: first, Bennett was toast; second, he really needed to see, kiss his daughters and his wife; and third, the superintendent of police had told him that morning that he was going to get the slot Suggs's death had left empty.
He slipped on his coat and looked at Suggs's open office door. Inside, two detectives were searching files, paper by paper. Michael took one last look at his desk and saw a white envelope from the print lab in his in-box. The corpse in the Rover. He opened the envelope, pulled out the paper, and put on his reading glasses.
He read the name of the owner of the two partial prints three times, trying to figure how he had could have contaminated the request. Obviously he was looking at the wrong inquiry. Some technician must have put two things together somehow. It was simply impossible. The burned corpse in the Rover couldn't be who the FBI claimed it was. Somebody had to be playing a joke on him.
He read the name one more time, still thinking he was reading it wrong, that it would become something close to what it said, but not the same name at all.
Nicholas Green
101 Bobcat Lane
Houston, Texas
Licensed private investigator
Nicky Green.
Even though it wasn't possible, Manseur grabbed the computer keyboard and typed in a request for the Texas driver's license and P.I. license picture of Nicholas Green.
The screen showed two images of his Nicky Green. He stared into the eyes, studied the shape of the head, the jaw, and realized that, although the man he knew as Nicky Green was a dead ringer for the corpse Nicky Green, he wasn't him.
It hit him like a bullet in the chest. Winter Massey had it all wrong.
Manseur didn't know when the real Nicky Green had been killed—precisely when the switch had been made—but it had happened after the real Green left Hank and Millie at the guesthouse and before the new Nicky Green had appeared on the scene of the hit-and-run. He had either run them over himself or had someone else do it so he could take Green's place. The real Green's body must have been in the Rover when it hit the Trammels. An accomplice did drive it off and dump it because the fake Green—Styer—had been back at the scene taking Green's life over.
Winter thought Adams was the bad guy. Manseur grabbed his phone, called Winter's cell phone, then remembered he had ruined it in the river.
Massey was probably in the hotel suite with Nicky Green, the man who had been sent to kill him. Manseur dialed the hotel and asked to be put through to Winter's suite. Massey answered.
“Massey, thank God,” he said. “Are you alone?”
“No. What you need?” Winter replied.
“Listen to me carefully. You are in danger. I got the burned corpse's prints back, and Jesus, Massey, you won't believe it . . . they belonged to—”
“Nicky Green.”
Manseur was stunned. “You knew?”
“He's long gone, Michael. It's finally over.”
104
Winter hung up the phone. Every muscle in his body ached, and he wanted to get into a hot bath to rid himself of any remaining trace of the Mississippi River.
Just outside the door, Faith Ann, wearing one of his T-shirts, was lying on the bedroom's couch, sound asleep. She had wanted to sleep close to Winter, and she had certainly earned the right to some peace of mind. Whatever the future held for her, Winter was certain it would be vastly better than the recent past had been. The child had amazed him and everybody associated with this, especially the bad guys. He wondered if she'd had any idea how terrible the odds of her survival and of getting the evidence to the governor had really been.
Winter lifted the note he had found on the bedside table in Nicky Green's cleaned-out bedroom, held in place by the Trammel Colt .45.
Winter,
I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoyed the exercise. I suppose sooner or later you will discover that Adams wasn't Paulus Styer, that I am. I regret what happened to the Trammels, but please believe me when I say it was for the game. You are alive because I was no longer obliged to kill you after I learned about my handler's deal with the CIA. I did stick around the rest of the evening to have some fun, which I certainly did, but I can't see the point in hanging around waiting for John Adams's pals to show up looking for me. While they might not have minded if I had killed you, I seriously doubt they will bother you now.
You know, Massey, you're a very talented man, but you have been elevated by that talent into a world of monsters where you do not belong. You should get out of the business before you find that out the hard way. Take care of the Porter kid, although going by what I saw, it may be she who ends up taking care of you. Don't think of trying to track me, figuring you might owe the Trammels some debt. If you and I ever meet again, I will not hesitate to finish what I started.
Wishing y
ou and yours only the best.
P. Styer
Winter ripped the note into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. He undressed and slipped into the hot water, sliding forward in the long tub until the water's surface brushed his chin. He leaned his head back, placed the wet washcloth over his face, and willed his mind to slow, to find a soft place to rest itself.
Epilogue
The dapper Phillip Dresser sat alone at a small table in a coffee shop, watching the passersby. The night before, he'd eaten dinner at Brennan's Steak House so he could monitor the Masseys and Faith Ann, who had been seated at a nearby table.
He had decided that the safest place to hide from his enemies, who would assume he was heading back to Moscow, was in New Orleans, at the Pontchartrain Hotel. He would repay his handler for the betrayal, without even lifting a hand. Yuri Chenchenko would spend his life in a perpetual cold sweat anticipating Styer's return—seeing ghosts until he died, hopefully many years down the road.
Styer looked at his watch.
Any minute now, he thought.
Moments later they came into sight, moving along the concourse. He smiled as he watched Winter, Sean, Rush, and Faith Ann strolling toward their flight to Texas. They were headed there to bury Kimberly Porter and Millie Porter Trammel. After that they would fly back to Charlotte. In a month, Hank would be able to return to North Carolina. Styer envied the old man. Hank would spend his last years surrounded by people who loved him. He wondered if these people really knew how lucky they were. Of course they know.
Faith Ann looked directly at Dresser. The girl couldn't recognize him—she, like Winter, had been far too preoccupied to have noticed him in the crowds, disguised and shadowing their party during the past days, listening to their conversations. She looked as skinny as ever, and her butchered hair was tousled and uncombed, but the happiness he saw reflected in her eyes warmed him. You raised yourself a special daughter there, Kimberly Porter, he thought. She does you proud.
Styer had an hour before his flight to Denver. He put a new toothpick in the corner of his mouth. The wooden pacifier was something he'd picked up recently—a habit he found oddly soothing.
If you enjoyed Upside Down, you won't want to miss any of John Ramsey Miller's electrifying thrillers. Look for his debut, The Last Family, and Inside Out, the white-hot thriller that introduced U.S. Marshal Winter Massey, at your favorite bookseller's.
And read on for an exciting excerpt from John Ramsey Miller's third Winter Massey thriller:
SIDE BY SIDE
by
John Ramsey Miller
on sale in September 2005 from
Dell Books.
SIDE BY SIDE
On sale September 2005
Fast moving clouds were mirrored in the puddles of standing water left by a late afternoon rainstorm. Halogen fixtures set on tall poles spaced fifty feet apart painted the landscape an unholy orange blue.
A solitary figure dressed entirely in black slipped through a vertical slit in the tall hurricane fencing topped with loops of concertina wire. The fence surrounded a forty-acre lot beside a train yard where several hundred steel containers had been stacked and ordered with Mondrian-like precision. Here and there the painted steel skins of some of the boxes showed brown fingers of rust from years of exposure to the weather.
The man dressed in black, a thirty-year-old whose name was Patrick Taylor, slipped a hand-drawn diagram from inside his jacket and checked the inventory numbers on the closest container, then moved swiftly. Hours earlier, he had copied the coordinates from a scrap of paper he'd found secreted in Colonel Bryce's safe. Opening his cell phone, he dialed a number he called only when he was alone and in a secure location. As he waited for the number to be answered he inspected the padlock using a small Maglight. The lock was substantial: it would take some coaxing to defeat.
When his handler didn't answer, Taylor assumed he must be on another call, and allowed himself to be routed to a voice mailbox. At the request to leave a message, he said, “This is Dog. I'm hooking up the thumper now. Just going to take a peek to make sure it's all in this box, then I'm leaving it up to you guys.” He closed the phone and pocketed it.
He attached the GPS tracker to the steel foundation by means of a magnet. The tracker would allow the special task force to follow the shipment to its destination. Maybe that team would grab the receiving parties when they took possession, or perhaps they'd follow the cargo to the end users—terrorists all over the world and of homegrown militias with the resources to buy the latest devices of death and destruction. Taylor's sole responsibility was to stay close to the colonel, to collect the names of people the man met with, then report to his handler. Locating the first shipment of high-tech weaponry was a Godsend—icing on the cake.
Taylor had been undercover for eight long years; most of those spent building a faultless background and credentials for an operation like this. Eight years of being someone he wasn't just so he could be of use to his government. He had spent the last three of those eight years getting close to one man and gaining his trust. Three years to find out Colonel Hunter Bryce, a decorated hero, could actually betray his country for money.
Flashlight between his teeth so he could see, Taylor used his lock picks to open the padlock. As soon as he opened the door, he saw that the container was empty. Well, empty except for a sheet of plastic, which had been laid out like carpeting over the rough plywood floor.
The sound of breathing alerted Taylor to the fact that someone was standing just off his left shoulder, at his five o'clock.
“Lieutenant Taylor?” a familiar voice asked. “What are you doing here?”
Ice filled Taylor's stomach. He turned, already deciding what his next words were going to be. He had not expected to run into Colonel Bryce, but nobody could think faster on his feet than Patrick Taylor. The colonel's face was lit so Taylor could see the quizzical smile the colonel was wearing. Taylor put on a confident smile and started. “Colonel Bryce, I know you're—”
The razor sharp blade of the survival knife Colonel Bryce had carried during his years in the field severed Taylor's windpipe, his jugular vein and carotid artery. Taylor crumpled, landing hard on the floor of the empty container, the thud of his body echoing within the space.
Colonel Hunter Bryce used his gloved left hand to wipe the fine droplets of blood from his face. He cleaned his blade on Taylor's pant leg before he replaced the weapon in its nylon scabbard.
The colonel retrieved the GPS tracker that Taylor had placed and put it in his victim's open mouth. Then he grabbed Taylor's collar and dragged him deeper into the steel container.
Before Bryce left, he stopped and spit on Taylor's face. Every man the colonel killed won his mark of disdain. Then he walked off into the shadows, whistling softly.
Two hours later, the ATF and FBI agents followed the GPS signal to the locked container. They noticed the fresh blood leaking from the closed door, pooling on the ground, so they opened it.
The night watchman told the agents he'd heard someone whistling in the darkness out beyond the fence.
“I think it was what the seven dwarfs in Snow White sang,” he told them. “Whistle while you work.”
Charlotte, North Carolina
Eleven months later
Twelve across.
Five letter word for good-bye.
A_D_I_E_U
Lucy Dockery put the paper and pencil down on the bedside table. She liked solving crossword puzzles, but filling in words from clues was too easy. She loved better to build them from scratch, putting her thoughts and feelings into short clues. After she constructed a puzzle she would file it away in her cabinet, unsolved. The inch-deep stack of pages was a journal of Lucy’s life for the past year.
From her earliest memories, her parents always seemed to be working the crossword puzzles in the New York Times, other newspapers and magazines. Much to their delight, Lucy had begun crafting her own puzzles at an early age to entertain them.
Their praise helped her build her self-confidence to bridge a painful shyness.
Later she made crosswords for Walter. She designed them so that he had to first solve the puzzle and then play with the order of the words until they made up a coherent message. She remembered the one that worked out to say, Congratulations Sir after many fun years of playing around with that wand comma a baby is growing inside Lucy.” Eight down was “_ _ _ _ in the sky with diamonds.” Although Walter loved a challenge, Lucy felt no need to make them complicated or too difficult.
She still wrote puzzle-grams to Walter, but he was no longer able to solve them.
As a child, she’d been told that anytime you say good-bye to somebody it could be the last good-bye. She had never really believed that something that happened in a fraction of a second could change everything in her life forever. You automatically tell a loved one to “be careful” until it becomes as meaningless as “see you later.” Walter would often reply with, “But dear, I was looking forward to being reckless.”
Lucy was bone-weary. Looking back, it seemed to her that her energy and enthusiasm for life had been boundless before the accident. And while Walter was beside her, she had felt invincible and filled to the brim with anticipation of a future—an ideal family nestled in a perfect world.
She knew other mothers of small children complained of tiredness due to washing, cooking and cleaning and all the million things you had to do daily, but the weakness Lucy felt was different. Lucy didn’t have to cook, or clean, or even watch her own child if she didn’t feel like it. And when did she feel like it? How many times had she—while propped up in her bed, or from lying on the couch—watched like a member of an audience while her son interacted with one of his sitters, her father, or the maid?
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