“He was having radio problems and was warned off to the east,” the controller said. “He stayed clear of your position by a half mile.”
“I got returns after it passed.”
“Returns looked like what? I didn't show anything on our end.”
“Soft returns. One sweep showed a spot at four miles, altitude unknown, four sweeps later there was one a half mile from me, then a few later almost onshore.”
“Birds come to shore, right? Go out and shoot a goose.” The controller laughed. “Nothing substantial fell off that King Air. I have it sixty-nine miles south of your position at twenty-five thousand feet, two hundred and thirty-nine knots true.”
“Probably. Just birds,” Lane agreed. He took one last look at the screen and signed off with his controller. He ran his hand through the stubble on his head and picked up his book.
The operator was at a particularly good part when the lights over his console flickered, then went out. It had been storming, but the electricity was almost never interrupted, because it was fed by underground cable to the island. The backup generator was supposed to cut in if the main failed, so the operator waited. It didn't come on.
“God damn it,” he muttered.
He flipped on his flashlight, walked to the switch, and flipped it up and down. He went to the breaker panel. Nothing. Planning to check the generators, he opened the door.
A gloved hand seized his wrist, and a man dressed completely in black, his features hidden behind a black nylon mask, pushed a remarkably large knife under the place where Lane's ribs met, three inches above his belt buckle. Lane looked down and saw the knife go in, but it didn't hurt. The sensation was like the first twinge of a bout of indigestion. He wanted to push the man away, but he couldn't. He felt so weak, so sleepy.
His vision started closing down like a camera aperture being twisted, the image darkening from the outside in. He just wanted to lie down and close his eyes.
John Ramsey Miller
Inside Out
33
Winter flipped his final card, an ace of spades, facedown onto the stack of discards. “Gin.”
“You dog!” Martinez complained. “I'm not even going to count up my hand. What's another few hundred points among friends.” She turned to Sean, who had started playing with them then decided to read. Despite the relaxed atmosphere, Winter and Martinez kept her constantly in sight, their weapons close.
“Anybody besides me want coffee?” Sean asked.
As soon as Sean was out of the room, Martinez said, “God, I wish she would settle somewhere.”
“You want to arm wrestle?” Winter asked her, joking.
“Fine by me. I'd have a chance at that.”
“Almost certainly.”
“Sean's the first package I've truly liked since I started this four years ago. I might ask for a transfer-leave this baby-sitting for some fugitive recovery, like you. Maybe I'll come work in that office of yours,” Martinez said.
“For every fugitive I chase, I serve twenty warrants, escort a hundred prisoners, and fill out fifty reports. Devlin wasn't far off when he called me a security guard.”
“A security guard?” Martinez said, laughing.
They joined Sean in the kitchen. She poured a cup of coffee, took a sip, then dumped the contents into the sink. “It's stale.” She sighed loudly. “This weather. God, I'm glad I'm not flying in this soup. I hate flying when I can't see the ground.”
“As long as they skirt thunderstorms, they'll be all right,” Winter said.
“You know a lot about flying weather?” she asked Winter.
“Winter's wife was a pilot,” Martinez interceded. “An instructor.”
“What does she do now?” Sean asked.
Martinez said nothing.
“She was killed three years ago in a midair collision,” Winter told her.
Sean looked genuinely upset. “But when I asked the other night if your wife minded you being away you said something like, ‘We all hate being away from people we love.'”
“Sorry, it was purposefully misleading. It's not something I like to talk about.”
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I was prying. I assumed since you wear a wedding ring…”
“Just never got around to taking it off.”
Sean blushed and stepped out on the porch, letting the screen door bang behind her.
“I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn,” Martinez said.
“Three years is a long time to still wear the ring,” Winter admitted.
“So, what do you think of Beck?” Martinez asked, keen to change the subject. “Besides the fact that he needs a haircut.”
“That comes from being a bachelor with nobody to make sure you get it clipped regularly.”
Sean came back inside more composed. “The rain smells so wonderful mixed with the salt air.”
“I like the quiet,” Martinez told her. “You grow up in a three-bedroom apartment with six brothers, one grandmother, and two parents, and see if you mind the quiet. Me, I can't ever get enough of it. You think we should hold to keeping watch like before?”
“Fine with me,” Winter replied.
“We do two hours on and two off while Sean is sleeping.”
“Why?” Sean wondered.
“It's what we have to do until someone in authority says, ‘Angela and Winter, don't do it anymore,'” Martinez replied, laughing.
Sean laughed, too.
“You have any brothers or sisters, Sean?” Martinez asked.
“Only child. My mother passed away almost two years ago.”
“Father?”
“My parents were separated before I was born.”
“You didn't know him?”
“I spent Christmas and summers with him growing up, but I can't say I really know him.” She seemed to close up again at this line of questioning, her surface calm interrupted.
“What's he like?” Martinez continued, oblivious to the effect her questions were having.
“He's hard to describe. He's a workaholic, not in the least artistic. My mother was a painter and not in the least ambitious. He and my mother were such total opposites, I don't know how they ever got together long enough to make a baby. He was like an uncle who didn't know how to relate to a young girl. He was always caring but never flexible. He's judgmental as hell and has no sense of humor to speak of. I suspect he'd rather have had a son, but he never said so. For instance, he taught me to shoot because he liked to hunt, not because I wanted to do it. He wanted me to be tough, but I always got the feeling that he thought women were lesser beings, somehow.” Sean stopped suddenly, surprised at how she had opened up so quickly.
“He remarried?”
“He's had girlfriends, but no, he never remarried.”
“Do you still see him?”
“I haven't spent any time with him since college,” Sean said matter-of-factly. “I called him when my mother died and he sent flowers. I know he loved her, but I had this feeling that if I had called a wrong number, anyone who answered could have offered me the same amount of comfort as he did. And we last spoke just before I got married. He sent me a big set of sterling silver cutlery without a note. He sends the same Christmas card every year. I'm waiting to see if after twelve years he will buy another box, or just stop doing it altogether.”
“Your parents still alive?” Martinez asked, turning to Winter.
“My mother is still alive. She moved in with us after Eleanor died. My father died when I was seventeen.”
“Lydia,” Sean said. “Greg mentioned her the day we arrived.”
Winter nodded.
“My parents are still around. My father has a temper you wouldn't believe,” Martinez said. “But we're close. He treated me exactly like he treated my brothers, until boys came to pick me up. He was like an inquisitor then, and few ever showed for a follow-up. My father was a detective, and he thought every kid who was interested in me was a delinquent. Maybe they were.”
“Where'd you go to college?” Winter asked Sean, hoping to change the subject. Not only did this conversation seem to make her melancholy, he himself didn't want to discuss fathers.