Side by Side (3 page)

3

Across the expanse of bright green meadow, two men in a Ford 250 pickup watched three riders on horseback. The passenger, Hank Trammel, took off his Lyndon Johnson–style Stetson, set it on his lap, and ran his hand over the stubble that covered his head like the bristles of a hog’s-hair brush. Taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he removed his wire-rimmed glasses and, after fogging the round lenses with his breath, cleaned them. Once he put the glasses back on, he twisted the ends of his gray handlebar mustache.

The Rhodesian Ridgeback in the center of the rear bench stared out through the windshield, intently watching the riders. Seated beside the dog, an infant dressed in a one-piece pajama suit waved her chubby little arms in the air.

“Red Man’s a nice piece of horseflesh,” Hank Trammel observed. “Faith Ann’s done a hell of a job with him. She’s a Porter all right.”

Winter Massey, the driver, lifted a pair of Steiner field glasses and focused them to better see the horse and rider in the trio’s center, noting the smile on the blond boy’s face. His son, Rush, had never looked happier. Shifting the glasses slightly, Winter watched his wife, Sean, who rode alongside her fourteen-year-old stepson. The rider on Rush Massey’s left side was Hank’s fourteen-year-old niece, Faith Ann Porter. All three were smiling. Faith Ann’s red-blond hair was growing back from the trim she had given herself a year earlier to make herself look like a boy—an intelligent, lifesaving measure.

“Now that’s a sight I’d never get tired of,” Hank said.

“Agreed. Getting hungry yet?” Winter asked.

“Anytime you see me, I’m ready to eat,” Hank replied.

“Well, let’s get this party started.” Winter flipped the truck’s headlights on and off several times and stuck his arm out of the window to signal.

Sean waved to acknowledge that she saw him, pointing at the grove of twelve pecan trees growing on a gentle rise ahead.

Winter slipped the truck into gear and aimed it toward the grove, leaving parallel depressions in the pasture grass.

Sean had purchased the three-hundred-acre parcel as a long-term investment, but one that she knew they would all enjoy. There was no question that the land would increase in value, because the area, just twenty miles from Charlotte, had been growing for years, and large tracts of land like this one were increasingly rare and expensive.

The farmland was surrounded by a whitewashed rail fence on the front and an electric fence on the other three sides. The one-hundred-year-old main house, where Winter, Sean, Rush, and their new daughter spent weekends, contained two thousand square feet of hardwood floors, tall ceilings, and pine board paneling. They could have lived there full-time, but Winter couldn’t bring himself to vacate the house he and his first wife had lovingly renovated before she was killed in the flying accident that had blinded their son. Eleanor had crashed in the craft she had learned in as a child, on a clear day when she was giving her son Rush lessons in touch-and-goes. A descending Beechcraft Baron had swatted her Cessna from the sky.

Rush didn’t remember the accident, but there wasn’t a day that passed, no matter how wonderful and full it was, that Winter didn’t see Eleanor still and motionless in a hospital bed in the hours before they pulled the plug on the battered and broken shell of his perfect wife. He mourned her daily.

For the past six months, Hank Trammel and his niece Faith Ann had lived in the farm manager’s house on the property. Hank, newly widowed, had sold his home outside Charlotte and, with his newly orphaned niece and his horses, moved to the Massey farm. Hank had been Winter’s superior officer when they had been U.S. marshals, but the two men were as close as a father and son, and Faith Ann Porter had quickly become family to Winter and Sean. So far, the livestock included six horses, an unknown number of feral cats, and one Seeing-Eye dog, the Rhodesian Ridgeback that Rush had named Nemo.

After the truck came to a stop, Winter turned and looked back at the infant seat. Olivia Moment, Sean’s and his three-month-old daughter, was sound asleep.

Winter let the dog out, unclipped the baby seat, and set it on the warm hood. That done, he grabbed Hank’s crutches from the truck’s bed and handed them to him. When the three riders entered the grove, Nemo barked ecstatically.

“Sit and stay, Nemo,” Winter commanded.

Nemo whined impatiently, eager to join his young master, but because he was trained to obey, he remained seated on the ground beside Winter.

Charger was Rush’s eight-year-old mare. They had bought the animal after looking at a dozen horses in three states. A blind child who is going to ride a horse needs a special one. Ideally, they had wanted an animal that would sense it was serving as his rider’s eyes and at least be intelligent about its own safety. They had to find a horse that had a gentle disposition and that responded to its rider’s commands, as well as having a noncompetitive nature that would allow it to ride alongside or behind other horses without feeling insulted. Charger met their criteria and now, although Rush never rode without companions, he was always in the saddle alone.

Winter’s instincts were to be overprotective, to build a wall around his impaired son to keep him safe. Sean and Faith Ann refused to allow that, and as a result his son was doing things—like riding a horse and climbing trees with Faith Ann—that Winter would otherwise never have permitted.

Faith Ann reached over and took hold of Charger’s bridle, while Sean slipped from her horse, a chestnut gelding named Rattler, tied his reins to a tree limb, secured Charger’s reins to a fallen limb, and helped her stepson down from the saddle. After Rush was aground, Faith Ann slipped off Red Man and hitched him to another branch.

As the riders walked away from them, the horses lowered their heads to the lush grass.

“Where’s my little angel?” Sean demanded as she came over to the truck. “Hello, Miss Olivia,” she crooned, as her daughter opened her eyes and smiled up from the infant seat. “I hope these rough old men didn’t teach my sweet-cheeks any naughty words.”

“You know better than that,” Winter said.

“Won’t require lessons,” Hank added. “If she never hears a single one uttered, Olivia will still be able to cuss a purple streak. That’s because Winter’s from Mississippi . . .” He winked. “So cussin’s in her DNA.”

Sean laughed, unhooked the belts, and lifted the child into her arms.

“Does Olivia need changing?” she asked. “Is that why you flagged me down?”

“I smell fried chicken,” Rush said. He reached down and rubbed Nemo’s head, which was pressing against his leg.

“Me too,” Faith Ann said.

Winter said, “I thought we’d eat a picnic lunch under the trees.” He reached into the truck’s bed and lifted out a basket and a pair of blankets. “Time to eat.”

“A picnic!” Faith Ann exclaimed. “I’m practically starving to death.”

“I don’t know why you don’t outweigh your horse,” Hank teased the girl. “You eat twice as much as Red Man does. Maybe I better get you checked for tapeworms.”

“She might have one,” Rush said, laughing.

“I don’t think so,” Faith Ann said, frowning. “Tapeworms get transmitted by fleas who eat the eggs, and you have to ingest a flea to get them.”

“You’d get them if cooties ate flea eggs,” Rush shot back, giggling.

Faith Ann leaned over and mussed Rush’s blond hair, which erased the smile from his face. He used his fingers as a comb to repair the damage.

Winter and Faith Ann unfolded two blankets on the grass so they overlapped and formed a large rectangle. He opened the basket and took out a bucket of chicken.

“Winter, you went to so much trouble,” Sean joked. “Hours in the kitchen slaving over a stove.”

“If you’re pleased, the intense manual labor was worth it.” He dropped ice from a small cooler into two plastic cups, opened a large cola, and poured them full. “For Faith Ann and Rush—the brown stuff.” Using the corkscrew on his Swiss Army knife, he uncorked a bottle of chardonnay and poured some in three plastic glasses.

“And you even packed the good china.” Hank handed around paper plates from the basket. Winter saw his friend wince in pain from the movement, but said nothing.

Sean lifted a shawl, placed it over both her shoulder and the baby, then opened her blouse and positioned the baby to suckle. Winter smiled when her eyes met his.

“Girl’s gotta eat,” Sean said.

“That poor child is going to be a teenager and every time she gets hungry she’ll start hunting for something to cover her head with and not have the slightest idea why,” Hank said.

Sean laughed. “I seriously doubt that, Hank.”

“That’s silly, Uncle Hank,” Faith Ann said.

“They did a hundred-thousand-dollar study all over the world. Harvard sociologists found out that seventy-nine percent of women who were breast-fed as babies while under a blanket become nuns.”

“What?” Faith Ann said.

“It’s so they can wear those head rigs—veils.”

Faith Ann laughed louder than anybody else at her uncle’s stupid jokes.

“Winter, we could go to Charlotte tonight,” Sean suggested. “There’s a play you wanted to see.”

“What play?” Winter said.

“The one about the poets.”

“Three acts of four actors playing e. e. cummings, Allen Ginsberg, Ezra Pound, and Robert Frost playing poker and discussing the modern world? Sean, I was being sarcastic when I said I wanted to see it,” Winter said, frowning.

“I was pulling your chain,” she replied, mimicking his scowl. “You are far too young to be such a curmudgeon.”

“Dad’s a cur-munchkin,” Rush crowed. “That’s like a small mongrel.”

“A car monkey,” Faith Ann added. “A vehicular simian.”

“There’s still a lot of work for Winter to do on the barn before cold weather sets in,” Hank said. “This warm spell won’t hold long.”

“Work for
Winter
to do? You can help me, Hank,” Winter told him.

“I reckon if sitting in a rocker, sipping liquor, and pointing out the shortcomings in your carpentry work product is any help, I’ll be a world-class assistant.”

“Well, I can help. I know how to use a saw and a hammer,” Faith Ann told Winter. Winter and Faith Ann Porter shared a special bond. Winter had saved her life, had been there when it counted, and she would never forget it.

“I’ll hammer,” Rush volunteered. “You can hold the nails for me.”

“I got a
big
picture of that!” Laughing, Faith Ann reached over to muss Rush’s hair again, but he caught her wrist before she had done any real harm.

The sight of a silver sedan barreling up the driveway ended their banter. The vehicle continued to the farmhouse, parked, and a woman wearing a business suit stepped out and strode rapidly to the porch. She carried a leather shoulder bag.

“Salesman?” Hank wondered out loud.

“Salesperson,” Faith Ann corrected.

“Sign at the front gate says No Soliciting,” Hank said.

“Maybe she’s selling eyeglasses,” Faith Ann said.

Winter rose and got his field glasses from the truck. “It’s Alexa.”

“Who is Alexa?” Faith Ann asked.

“She’s an old friend of Winter’s,” Sean told her.

“Alexa’s cool. She always sends me a check for twenty bucks on my birthday and something neat for Christmas. Not just some dumb sweater either. She and my daddy have been friends forever, since they were in high school,” Rush said.

“Did you know she was in town?” Sean asked Winter.

“No,” he said.

“Go down and get her,” Sean told him.

“Whistle at her, Daddy,” Rush said.

“Everybody cover your ears,” Faith Ann said.

Winter put his fingers to the corners of his mouth and emitted an ear-piercing whistle. All three horses stopped eating and, ears erect, looked over at Winter.

The woman in the business suit turned at the sound and waved.

“So, I’m finally going to meet Special Agent Alexa Keen,” Sean said. “And here I sit dressed like a man who smells like a horse.”

Alexa started toward them. Winter didn’t get in the truck to go get her; he just stood with his hands on his hips with a look of worry on his face, watching his dear friend stride purposefully up the long green slope.

4

“Hello, Massey!” Alexa Keen called as she approached him.

He opened his arms to her and they hugged warmly. The crown of her head came to Winter’s chin.

Sean was surprised. Based on Winter’s stories about Alexa, Sean had imagined she would be a tall tomboy—not nearly as attractive as this woman was. Winter had told her that Alexa’s anonymous father was white, her mother black. He hadn’t mentioned that her honey-colored hair was soft and straight, her eyes as green as emeralds.

Sean and Rush were standing, smiling. Faith Ann remained on one knee, unsure. Sean had stopped feeding Olivia and had buttoned her blouse.

“Don’t I get a hug?” Rush said, opening his arms.

“Who are you?” Alexa asked. “Who is this tall, handsome young man who sort of resembles a beautiful woman name of Eleanor Massey?”

Sean swallowed and tried to hold her smile in place.

“Who do you think I am?” Rush demanded.

“’Fore God, as I live and breathe! This Greek god can’t be little ole Rush Massey!”

“You think I’m bigger?”

“Enormongus. And stunningly handsome.”

Alexa hugged Rush, then leaned back and held his face between her hands and kissed his forehead. “You’re going to break a bushel of hearts, you are. If I was twenty years younger . . .”

Rush’s face turned red. “Thanks. I guess.”

“Hello, Sean,” Alexa said, turning to her and opening her arms. The two women hugged gently and briefly. “And, oh my, this must be Olivia.” Alexa knelt beside the infant. “Where did that name come from?”

“My mother was named Olivia,” Sean told her.

“I’m sorry we haven’t met before now,” Alexa murmured, eyes on the baby. “The wedding pictures Lydia e-mailed me didn’t do you justice. I’m so sorry I missed your wedding.”

“You were probably working on a kidnapping,” Rush said.

“Something like that,” Alexa said. “Actually, I was in Peru looking for a missing executive.”

“Did you find him?”

“Her. Yes we did.” Alexa turned and smiled. “Hi ya, Hank.”

“Excuse me for not standing,” he told her. “I’ll take a hug if you’ve got another one.”

Alexa hugged him. “I was so sorry to hear about Millie. She was a wonderful woman.”

“She was that,” Hank agreed. “Want you to meet my niece, Faith Ann.”

“Goodness, I thought Rush was dating fashion models.”

“Heck no,” Rush said. “Faith Ann’s going to be a lawyer. She’s way too smart to be a model.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Alexa said, shaking Faith Ann’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Faith Ann. But I didn’t know how pretty you were.”

“I hope you haven’t eaten. There’s plenty of chicken,” Sean said.

Sean noticed that Alexa’s only jewelry was an inexpensive wristwatch. The sensible gray wool suit—jacket and slacks—was good quality, but had probably come off the rack in a chain department store. The loafers had thick rubber soles for comfort and sure-footedness. The handbag was machine-stitched with nylon thread. The smooth brown leather purse was large enough to carry all of a woman’s necessary equipment like makeup, cell phone, address book, tissues, and a wallet. There was also room for a handgun, extra magazines, a badge case, and a pair of handcuffs. Everything Alexa had on was practical and functional. She dressed like an FBI agent.

“Thank you, Sean. I’m ravenous. I went to your house in town and your next-door neighbor told me how to get here. Beautiful land. How’s Lydia?”

“Mama loves Florida,” Winter answered. “She’s dating a retired physician. Nice fellow . . . she says.”

“She’s living in sin,” Rush snickered. “With an old doctor.”

Winter watched how effortlessly Alexa folded herself into the picnic. She’d always been like that—instantly at home wherever she found herself, and she had a way of putting people at ease, making them like her. It was why she was so good at her job. Sean seemed to like her, but he was getting odd vibes from Alexa. Women had their own way of seeing things. Winter had talked to Sean about Alexa—but hadn’t really gone into their relationship in any depth. He hadn’t seen the point. It had been a long time ago.

Winter had known Alexa for twenty years. They had met under an odd set of circumstances and had almost instantly become friends. Their interracial friendship had raised a few eyebrows in the Mississippi Delta, and a lot of people assumed their friendship was more than platonic, but they were wrong.

After high school, Winter went to college in Mississippi and Alexa had selected Berkeley. They had remained in touch by mail and telephone, but the young woman who had been his closest companion for the last two years of high school had become merely a dear friend fondly remembered.

In the days before the avenues of intelligence had been ruthlessly widened by the air attacks on September 11, 2001, Alexa had sometimes given Winter an unofficial hand with a case. In return, she had used him as a sounding board when she didn’t trust the advice of her contemporaries.

The FBI and the United States Marshals Service maintained an outwardly cordial association out of procedural necessity. However, since every federal agency’s territory is about power as defined by budgets and manpower, their turfs had to be guarded by the agents on both sides, which made them natural competitors. It was no secret that the Bureau, especially under Hoover, had wanted to absorb the duties of the USMS. The FBI would have been happiest if it owned the good-guy monopoly.

In the two years since Winter had last seen her, Alexa had grown thinner and the lines in her face had deepened. For the first time since he’d met her, there were dark circles under her eyes.

Alexa took a seat between Rush and Winter on the blanket.

“What brings you to Charlotte, Alexa?” Hank asked.

“Business,” she said.

“What kind of business?” Faith Ann asked.

Alexa smiled sadly. “The big bad kind,” she said.