Upside Down wm-2

by John Ramsey Miller

  Faith Ann leaned over and touched her mother gently on the cheek. “I love you, Mama.”

  That said, Faith Ann went straight out through the front door and was gone.

  3

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  Often when Winter Massey sat still for a period of time, his right foot would grow numb and tingle. In order to restore the feeling to it he had to get up and walk. The lingering nerve damage was the only thing left over from being shot a year earlier. The entrance and exit scars were islands of white scar tissue on the front and back of his right thigh. He had been on crutches for six weeks after he was shot and had used a cane for another three. The injury made sitting at a desk to fill out reports, and stakeouts conducted while sitting in cramped spaces, rather unpleasant. Few things blew a surveillance more effectively than for a watcher to get out of a parked vehicle every thirty minutes or so to walk around in circles before getting back in. He still participated in his favorite activity, fugitive recovery, but no matter how many fugitives he apprehended, Winter Massey would always be best known for his ability with a handgun.

  Over a year had passed since Winter had been wounded. At that time his reputation had been such that he could have chosen to head up any marshals office in the country or have any position near the top of the United States Marshals Service organizational chart he wanted. The name Winter Massey had been golden, but now he was burned out on playing cops and robbers.

  Doctors said the dead spots in his leg and foot would regain sensation and his circulation would vastly improve in time. At thirty-seven, he could still run ten miles without breaking a sweat, but he would never again compete in an Ironman contest. Considering all he had been through in his career as a deputy U.S. marshal, just being alive put him among the luckiest people on earth.

  He had left I-85 and was on I-77 negotiating the sweeping left-hand turn when his cellular rang. As he straightened the Explorer's path, and with the Charlotte, North Carolina, skyline looming before him, he looked down at the displayed name and number.

  “Hey, old man,” he said, after opening the phone.

  “Just a courtesy call to remind you about lunch,” Hank said.

  “Sean said she'd be finished at her doctor's in the BB amp;T building by eleven,” Winter replied. “I'm about six minutes out on I-77.”

  As he hung up, his cellular phone rang again. He didn't check the caller I.D. “Yeah?”

  “ Yeah what, Massey?”

  Winter smiled at the sound of his wife's voice.

  “So, what did Dr. Wanda say?” he asked. Sean hadn't been feeling well for a couple of weeks, and Winter had finally convinced her to visit his doctor, a youthful blonde with an enthusiasm, an infectious smile, and a talent for making everybody feel like they were her only patient.

  “Dr. Wanda said, ‘Get dressed, you perfectly healthy young lady,' and she wrote me a prescription to head over to the cafe for lunch with my favorite man.”

  “What about the-?”

  “Jesus, Massey. I'm fine. Okay? Did you finish the letter?”

  “I did.” He glanced at the console to the letter addressed to the director of the United States Marshals Service-a letter he had spent a week drafting to make sure the tone was perfectly pitched, respectful, and that the resignation it announced was clearly stated. Everybody understood his decision and there were no hard feelings or regrets. The letter was a formality, because he had already told the director, Richard Shapiro, that he was going to accept the offer from Guardian International Security. The company had offered him an enormous salary, yearly stock options, and about a hundred attractive perquisites they figured were necessary to close the deal. Winter would have been insane not to take the executive position that would allow him to lock his carry weapon away in his gun safe. Sean, who knew how dangerous his job had become, had been deliriously happy when he made the decision.

  “I can't wait to get you on the slopes and teach you how to ski,” she said. “You're gonna love it.”

  “I know how to ski,” he said.

  “Water skiing isn't the same thing as snow skiing, Massey.”

  “You teach me to snow ski and I'll teach you a thing or two in the chalet.”

  Her laughter was glorious.

  Although Sean and Winter had only been married for eight months, he felt as though he had known her his entire life. They had met when Winter joined a witness protection detail and was charged with protecting a professional killer who was going to testify against an aging mobster. Sean had been married to the killer, and when the operation turned deadly and went as wrong as things can go, it had been Sean Devlin whose life needed protecting and only Winter who had been in a position to save her. That had happened a little over a year before. After their shared experiences-each having trusted the other and after each had saved the other's life-neither of them wanted to be apart from the other.

  Winter believed that he had twice been married to perfect women, who had both been his closest friends. His first wife, Eleanor, had been killed in an airplane crash four years earlier. For three years he had lived with a deep grief that was only made bearable because of his love for their son, Rush. After Eleanor's death Winter's mother, Lydia, had moved into his home to help him raise his son and both of them took immediately to Sean.

  After a short formal courtship, Winter had asked Sean to marry him, and she had accepted. Winter still thought daily about Eleanor, but he knew that Eleanor would have wanted for him to love someone and to again be loved by them. Someone who would be a good and nurturing mother to her son. And Winter knew that she would have approved of Sean.

  “Hey, Massey, you know what?”

  “No, what?”

  “You know what, ” she said, hanging up.

  “I love you too,” he said before he put the phone in his pocket.

  He hoped mailing the letter would lift a great weight from his shoulders-that leaving the badge behind might somehow cause the ghosts of the people he had killed to vacate his mind.

  He repeated a familiar prayer. God, please release me from my guilt and give them peace. In return, I promise that if there is any possible way to avoid doing so, I will never take another human life.

  Winter Massey had asked God for favors before. He understood that although He had the power to do so, God might not take the deal.

  Until 1802, Charlotte had been a sleepy community founded in the 1750s by Scotch-Irish Presbyterians and German Lutheran farmers. That year, a farmer named John Reed discovered that a yellow rock the size of a shoe, which he had unearthed years earlier with his plow blade and had been using as a doorstop, was in fact a gold nugget. Until the California strike at Sutter's Mill in 1848, the mines in North Carolina supplied all of the gold used for coinage by the United States. The railroads made Charlotte a commercial hub. After the mines played out, textile and tobacco barons like the Cannons and the Reynolds turned the area into an industrial center. As a consequence of enterprising individuals, the banks filled up with money and began an expansion that had never stopped.

  When Winter arrived at 10:55, the City Grill was nearly empty. He took a corner table near a front window. Five minutes later, Hank Trammel, who had been Winter's boss until he'd retired six months earlier, had been his superior officer, his mentor, and had become his closest friend, swaggered into the room like a sheriff in a Western movie, replete with a charcoal-gray handlebar mustache and gold eyeglasses with small round lenses and wraparound earpieces.

  Hank Trammel was walking proof that being from south Texas wasn't something you could easily scrape off your boots. Although he hadn't lived there in over thirty years, Hank dressed like he still ranched in south Texas. Rain, shine, hell or high water, he wore cowboy shirts, khaki pants, sharp-toe boots, a hand-tooled belt with a turquoise-laden buckle the size of a man's fist, and a string tie. On formal occasions, he wore patent leather boots with his tuxedo. He had given up golf but had in his closet a pair of fire-engine-red Tony Lamas with metal
spikes.

  Hank was a substantial man who, at fifty-eight, still wore his hair in the same flattop he'd had in high school. Both his grandfather and father had died from gunshots. His grandfather had been ambushed by cattle rustlers, and his father, a Texas Ranger, had been shot in the back by a teenager on a thrill-killing spree. On duty, Hank had always carried his father's gun in the same hand-tooled high-rise hip holster. Trammels were stone-tough people who lived hard lives because they didn't know any other way.

  Hank crossed to Winter's table, dropped his “Lyndon Johnson” Stetson on the wide window ledge next to a potted plant, and sat with his back to the glass.

  “We ran into Sean outside, and she and Millie went to go powder their noses,” Hank said. “She's smoking a cigarette.”

  Millie Trammel was a secret smoker. Hank had quit, and he acted like he didn't know his wife still did, and she acted like she didn't do it. It was sort of a sanctioned denial game.

  A waitress with curly black hair and a silver bead on one side of her nose swept up and stopped in front of the men. “Our wives are joining us,” Hank told the young woman. “We'll all have tea.”

  “Sweet tea?”

  “What, darlin', don't I look sweet enough to you?”

  “Don't pay my grampy any mind,” Winter told her. “Sweet tea.”

  The waitress walked away.

  “So you're really doing it?” Hank asked Winter.

  “Yep.”

  “I'd hoped you would change your mind.”

  “No way. You're retired now, so why the hell do you care whether I'm still on the job? Ain't like there aren't fifty to take my slot.”

  “I was looking forward to having you nearby in my golden years. In case I have a stroke and need somebody to bathe me, change my diapers.” Hank wiped his head as though there was some hair over his ears that needed pushing back. “I suppose Virginia or Maryland is close enough. You're going to miss the job.”

  “I owe Rush and Sean my nights and weekends. And I've just been plain lucky for just too long. The odds of me walking away from another scrape like the last couple is slim. I've seen enough action to last me awhile.”

  “My old daddy always said the only man you can't ever walk away from is one you kill.”

  Without any words to add, Winter just shrugged. He didn't want to talk about the weight of the dead men perched on his shoulders. It was something no amount of churchgoing, psychiatry, or emptying bottles could lessen. Neither self-defense nor heat of battle made the slightest difference in the anguish that killing brought a normal man.

  “Massey, I have to say that the idea of you teaching ex-football players how to protect executives whose biggest threat is not hitting a green in regulation gives me some pause.”

  “It's done. I stuffed my resignation letter into that blue box right out there before I walked in. As of November the fifteenth, I will be a civilian.”

  “Then congratulations,” Hank said, extending his hand across the table. “Those security guys want the best, that's what they're getting. I told them so back when they called me.”

  “Millie excited about the trip to New Orleans?”

  “Ask her yourself,” Hank said, rising from his chair.

  As Hank's wife and Sean crossed the room together, Winter was aware of men's heads turning, their eyes following Sean. With her height, shoulder-length raven hair, almond-shaped golden eyes, slim build, and elegant features, she looked like a model. He stood and pulled a chair back from the table for her. Hank went to do the same, but Millie waved him off and seated herself. “It's much too late to make anybody believe you're a gentleman, Hank Trammel.”

  Millie Trammel was five-one, weighed maybe ninety pounds, and wore her hair in a salt-and-pepper pageboy.

  “Winter, I was just telling Sean you'll have to bring Rush and come out and have dinner with us when we get back. Next Saturday.”

  “So tell us about the trip,” Winter asked Millie.

  “It sounds exciting,” Sean offered. “New Orleans is wonderful this time of year.”

  “We're leaving from Greensboro, which saved us a fortune, and getting in around three this afternoon. A friend of Hank's, Nicky Green-”

  “You've heard me talk about Nicky,” Hank interrupted. “Nicky's the one put the skunk in-”

  “Please,” his wife interrupted, “not that story again. He's only going to be there for one night.”

  “Millie only acts like she doesn't like Nicky. He's a laugh a minute.”

  “I can like Nicky for one night every few years. Actually he means well. He's just a little odd.”

  “Eccentric,” Hank said. “He's a private eye. Works mostly for oil companies, that sort of thing. They kinda like his eccentricities, and he does good work. Travels all over the world.”

  “I recall you talking about him,” Winter said.

  “And you need to meet him one of these days real soon. His father was my commanding officer in Nam-boy grew up on Army bases. Nicky's forty, I think. Was a Western nut from childhood. Always wanted to live in the Wild West, and he used to get me to tell him all about what it was like growing up on the ranch. He did a four-year stint with the Army, but he didn't fit. Now he lives outside Houston, in Big Spring.”

  “He's an urban cowboy who's never ridden a horse in his life,” Millie declared. “He has the accent and he dresses like he just stepped off the stage at the Grand Ole Opry.”

  “He drives a '65 Caddy convertible and he rides a Harley some. He's allergic to horses,” Hank said defensively.

  “He's bald, right?” Winter asked.

  “From childhood,” Millie said. “There's a name for it.”

  “Profeema, or propizza, or something,” Hank offered.

  “Alopecia,” Sean said.

  “No brows, not even any eyelashes,” Millie continued. “It takes some getting used to. He looks surprised all the time. Always has a toothpick in his mouth, like he's just had a steak dinner. Awful.”

  “Well, it keeps him from smoking,” Hank said. “How many people would put a skunk in the window of a motel room to flush out a cheating wife and her paramour?” He laughed as he thought about it. “Pair of 'em come out the door naked as baby mice and stinking to high heaven of skunk pee. Has it on video. I've seen it.”

  “So after a fun-filled night spent with Nicky reliving his experiences once again, we'll be spending the rest of the time with Kimberly and Faith Ann.”

  “Rush is very fond of Faith Ann,” Sean said.

  “If he told us to ask you to tell her hello for him once, he said it a hundred times,” Winter told the Trammels.

  “And Faith Ann's real fond of him,” Millie said, chuckling. “That girl doesn't make friends easily. She's so independent and smart, it puts off most children her age. Kimberly was the same way. Knows what she wants. She wanted a child, but she didn't want a husband to complicate her life. She wanted to be able to pick up and go wherever her work led her.”

  “The Kimberly Porter Electric Chair Crusade and Traveling Sideshow,” Hank said, drawing a frown from his wife.

  “They've lived in interesting cities, like Houston, Dallas, Nashville, and New Orleans. It hasn't hurt Faith Ann one little bit,” Millie said.

  “Faith Ann has a built-in bullshit meter that would turn a seasoned Texas Ranger green with envy,” Hank added.

  “Hank Trammel!” Millie chided.

  “Rush can't wait for her to come back up this summer. They instant message daily, e-mail constantly. He's been planning things for them to do,” Sean said.

  “We won't be here this summer,” Winter reminded his wife.

  “Rush and I have discussed that. Hank and Millie can bring her to Washington and stay with us. I'm sure she'd like to see the Smithsonian, the Air and Space Museum, the White House. It'll be fun.”

  “We would love to do that,” Millie said. “That child's too energetic for me alone.”

  “Let's plan on it, then,” Sean said. “How's Kimberly's prac
tice doing?”

  “She's struggling a bit, I think,” Millie said.

  “Kimberly Quixote,” Hank said. “Always looking for a windmill to tilt at. And dragging Faith Ann along to hold the spear.”

  “Lance,” Millie corrected. “I'm not always sure how I feel about things like capital punishment. But Kimberly has always known exactly how she feels about everything. She's an immovable object when it comes to her convictions. She isn't always hitting you over the head with her opinions, like some people.”

  “Her legal cases barely cover her living expenses. Soon as she starts getting herself a reputation-and she does win more than she loses-she moves somewhere else and starts over on sexual harassment or age discrimination or some danged liberal cause.”

  “I think it's good for Faith Ann to understand that believing strongly in something like justice is far more rewarding than making money practicing more profitable kinds of law,” Millie countered. “And Faith Ann has never wanted for anything.”

  Hank told Winter, “All the Porter women since Texas belonged to Mexico have been cute as puppies, smart as whips, and as thickheaded and set in purpose as a mule lashed to a grist wheel.”

  Winter noticed Sean was being quiet, smiling but seemingly caught up in her own thoughts.

  The waitress came to the table to take their orders. Hank contemplated the girl and leaned back slightly. “I knew this waitress once who reminds me of you. She wore a perfect three-carat diamond stud in her nose that an oilman gave her for a tip. Oh, it would catch the sun and would light up like a prairie fire. And this was before having things stuck through the side of your nose was at all common.”

  “That so?” the girl said flatly.

  “Hank?” Millie's voice carried a note of warning.

  “Well, one day at a chili cook-off at the state fair she went to sneeze, pinched her nostrils shut, and that diamond stud shot across the field like a bullet. Bunch of us got down on our hands and knees spent all afternoon searching through the grass for that rock.”

  “Hank, that's a terrible story,” Millie groaned, shaking her head.