thing, do it, no matter the cost. Never trust anyone but yourself. Assume everybody steals. Know when to make an example of a thief, when to overlook theft. Pay your people right, but not too much, because that is weakness. People who owe you hate you. A friend will kill you faster than an enemy will. Mercy breeds contempt, so never show any.
Sam knew all of the Manelli Rules. Hundreds of them-all passed down from mouth to ear. The one that made the deepest impression on him was when his father said, “Sammy, I love you more than anything I ever loved. Way more than I can say. But if someone thinks they can make me do something by threatening you or your mama, I tell you this for true. I gonna tell them, Go on and kill my wife, kill my sweet baby. 'Cause you are gonna be dead after a long time in pain you ain't gonna believe.”
“What if they give us back?” young Sam had asked. “You just forget what they did?”
“Of course, I'd take you back, but I'd still do to them what I said. The most important rule, Sammy, is never let love make you break any rule you have to live by.”
Then, in his old office on Magazine Street, Dominick Manelli had placed his massive hands on Sam's ten- year-old cheeks and kissed him full on his mouth. All those decades later, sitting in a cell in Atlanta, Sam could still close his eyes and feel his father's stiff afternoon whiskers. Sam could also remember the look on his father's face when, years later, just before he died, Dominick had summoned him close and whispered through his last gasps, “Sammy, listen. I want you to give the archdiocese two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In my name. Tell the priests they can pray me into heaven for it.”
Sam had replied, “You crazy, Papa? Nothing the priests can pray will keep you out of hell.” Sam thought he'd seen a smile flicker in his dying father's eyes. Dominick had waited until the last seconds of his life to offer God money that he knew was now his son's. Dominick could have made the contribution himself when he was in control. The old man could tell Saint Peter that he had asked Sam to donate to charity in his name, so if he didn't, it sure wasn't Dominick's fault. Even in death, Dominick Manelli had an angle to work.
Sam took his tray from the guard and set it on the table. He opened the stainless-steel lid and admired the meal. The plate held a filet medium rare, scrambled eggs, baked garlic, and a slice of toasted French bread lathered with butter before it was broiled. There was a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a thermos of very strong coffee.
Sam bowed his head and said a brief prayer. He ate slowly, saving the filet for last, chewing every small piece he placed into his mouth exactly thirty-seven times.
The last thing Sam Manelli wanted to do was to choke to death.
49
Concord, North Carolina
Winter had almost fallen asleep lying in a lukewarm bath, a wet washcloth covering his eyes. The loudest sound in the world right then was the rhythm of the drops from the faucet as each hit the surface of the soapy water. A tapping at the door brought him around.
“Winter?”
“What, Mama?”
“Don't fall asleep in the tub.”
“I won't,” he said, smiling to himself.
“Hank is stopping by the school to pick up Rush on his way here.”
Winter smiled. “So Hank is coming up.”
“Well, that's what I said.”
He heard her close the bedroom door, then reopen it.
“You forget something?” Winter called, his eyes still shut behind the washcloth.
“Wash behind your ears.”
Winter let the water drain before he stood and took a hot shower. He was dressing when he heard a car pull into the driveway. Seconds later the back door opened and Lydia called out a welcome. Winter listened to Nemo's barks, Hank's booming voice, and his son's words, filtering through it all like notes from a flute. He slipped into loafers and hurried to the kitchen.
“Is it cool for twelve-year-olds to give their father a hug?”
Rush immediately put a clench hold around Winter's middle, while Nemo stood on his hind legs, put his forepaws on Winter's back, and licked any skin within reach of his long tongue. “I'm not twelve yet,” he squealed.
“Nemo, get down!” Lydia said.
“This is some homecoming.” Winter turned his gaze to Hank.
“Chief marshal called me to say you were heading home.”
Lydia's face reflected an insatiable curiosity, but she didn't ask any questions. “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Y'all get out of my way. Go on out to the living room.”
“I knew you'd make it home for my birthday,” Rush told Winter. “Gram said you probably couldn't, but I knew you wouldn't go back on your word.”
It took all of Winter's resolve not to burst into tears.
After dinner they sat out on the front porch. Winter and Rush were on the swing, Hank Trammel and Lydia sat in rocking chairs.
“Where were you, Daddy?” Rush asked.
“Not sure, exactly.”
“Doing what?”
“I did some sitting around on a porch sort of like this. I ate, I slept, I ran, did push-ups and sit-ups. Ate more. Slept some more. Sat, talked. Listened.” He battled back memories of the dead WITSEC crew and the treacherous flight across Rook Island.
“Didn't hunt down any bad guys and arrest 'em?”
“Didn't make a single arrest the whole time I was gone. I'll have to make two arrests next trip out.”
“Bet you will, too!” Rush exclaimed.
Winter usually told the boy what he had been up to, sparing him the hard-core details. He liked for Rush to believe that being a deputy marshal was no more dangerous than strolling through Walt Disney World, which was mostly the case.
“Rush,” Lydia said, stretching. “Let's get you to bed. Let the old men jabber.” After only a mild protest, Rush kissed Winter and went inside, Nemo trailing behind.
“Not all night, y'all,” Lydia cautioned the two men.
As soon as Lydia was safely inside, Trammel pulled a flask from his coat pocket and poured a couple of ounces into his glass. “Chill in the air,” he offered as an explanation. There was a silence while Trammel savored the golden liquid. “Whiskey's a lot like pussy.”
“I know, Hank. The worst you ever had was wonderful. Sort of like comparing apples to house slippers.”
“You think? They're both sure as hell a great comfort. You want a sip?”
“No thank you.”
“Shapiro told me what happened.”
“He did?” That was a surprise.
“Yeah, he thought you ought to have somebody to talk to, if you were of a mind to.”
“Not much to say about it. Nothing I can change by talking. I'm fine.”
“You did your job. You got nothing to regret.”
“My luck is going to run out one of these days, and where'll that leave Rush? We both know I could end up like Greg. I think I should consider a career change.”
“I 'spect Miss Eleanor would pitch a fit if you show up in heaven too soon.”
“She'd kick my ass,” Winter agreed.
“It's getting ready to rain,” he said, screwing the lid on the flask. “Maybe you should get some sleep.”
“I know.”
