The Summer House

by James Patterson

  He wonders how she is. He wonders about Major Moore, the battalion’s XO, if he got to Aunt Sophie in time.

  The planning, the agreements, everything else must stay in place.

  Jefferson realizes he’s clenching his fists.

  But what if he’s wrong?

  And what if all this ends up killing the last two members of his squad?

  Chapter 50

  SHE CAN’T SEE Hunter Army Airfield, but the noise of the aircraft taking off and landing can be heard just beyond the thick grove of pines and messy swamp. Mosquitoes fly around her in clouds, and after a minute she gets back into her civilian car, waits, slapping and killing two of the little monsters that got into the car with her.

  Today she has on her uniform, and it feels good. Even though it’s nice to get into civvy clothes when one’s shift is done, it’s also nice to wear the uniform and to have people look at it, connect her to a powerful organization, and, for the most part, give her the respect and attention she deserves.

  She checks the time just as her burner phone chimes.

  Right on schedule.

  “Yes?” she answers.

  Again there’s a burst of static and a harsh whine, and the caller’s familiar voice comes on and says, “Tell me what’s new.”

  “The investigation has been officially closed,” she says. “They’ve been ordered to wrap up and go back to Quantico. Within a day everything here will calm down. The Army can screw up here and there, but one thing they’re good at is following orders.”

  Even with the bad connection and the distance, she can sense the relief in the man’s voice. “Good news indeed. Finally. Jesus.”

  She shakes her head, not happy she has to spoil his good mood.

  “But there’s a complication,” she says. “Cook is on his way to Afghanistan. Somehow he found out what happened to the Rangers over there.”

  Her desperate man swears for a long minute, and he says, with more bursts of static interrupting him, “…never should have trusted you…gone along with this scheme. Damn it, we’re both going down!”

  She says, “Shut up and listen good. We both agreed to this, and we’re both going to see it through. It’s going to take Cook nearly a day to get over there. Lots of time for me to continue cleaning things up on this end. And when he gets there, it’s going to be one crippled CID officer with no orders, no backup, in a combat zone. Lots of bad things can happen to him.”

  Hiss of static.

  “Like what?” he says.

  “Like never you mind,” she says. “But things are getting more complicated. No more calls. Just see it through. In a few more days, it will be fine. Trust me.”

  The signal wavers some and then the call is over. Damn him, she thinks. What creature has she hooked her wagon to, anyway?

  She gets out of the car, takes the burner phone apart as before, breaking the SIM card, and she scoops out some mud with her dress boot and buries the phone and pieces.

  Then she hears the sound of a vehicle approaching.

  From the narrow dirt road behind her a mud-spattered black jeep with a black canvas top grinds up through the brush, engine rumbling. On the front bumper a faded sticker is barely visible, showing the bars and stars, and the words THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN.

  Two men get out of the jeep, bearded, wearing worn jeans and hooded sweatshirts.

  “Hey, sweetie,” the one on the right says, grinning. “Howzabout moving your crap car so we can get by? Hughie and me are in the mood for some four-wheelin’.”

  She says, “I was here first. Why don’t you back up and let me get by?”

  The two men laugh. The other man says, “Shit, sweetie, you think that uniform impresses us? You’re out of your jurisdiction, hon, so why don’t you move your hunk of junk so we can push on by?”

  The driver says, “Yeah. I don’t reverse for no one, and especially some broad who thinks she’s all that.”

  She nods. “All right,” she says. “I was just trying to be nice.”

  Her pistol slides easily right out of her holster, and she shoots them both in the head.

  Chapter 51

  SPECIAL AGENT MANUEL SANCHEZ is sitting alone inside his rental car in the parking lot of Briggs Brothers Funeral Home and spots another silver Ford sedan pull up next to him. Sanchez gets out, walks over, and opens the rear door, taking a seat. Pierce and Huang are sitting up front.

  The interior of the car stinks of sweat and well-worn clothes.

  Sanchez shuts the door. “Any word from the ice queen?”

  Pierce’s hands are draped over the steering wheel. “I don’t like that nickname.”

  “Tough,” Sanchez says.

  Huang says, “We got a text from her a while ago. Seems like the major got himself a flight out of Hunter to Bagram. York’s on her way back, to meet us here.”

  Pierce says, “So, what did you find at the dog walker’s house?”

  Sanchez says, “Since York is now in command of this little detachment, I’ll wait until she gets here. I don’t want her to get upset that I’m going behind her back.”

  Huang shakes his head. “She’s been a warrant officer longer than you. Cook put her in charge. What’s your problem?”

  Sanchez says, “I know things. I’ve seen things. Especially when an inexperienced woman takes charge and people get hurt or killed. I don’t mind women being in charge. Only if they’ve got the background. York doesn’t have it. She’s been a state trooper, traveling the mean streets of the Beltway. And—”

  Pierce says, “Here she is.”

  Sanchez sees the Ford with the battered and scraped hood pull in next to them, and Pierce says, “John, you know, you don’t have to come in here.”

  Huang doesn’t wait. “Captain, I’m coming in.”

  Sanchez joins the JAG lawyer and the psychiatrist outside as York emerges from her own rental. She looks worn, tired, overwhelmed. Good, he thinks. Maybe later the two of them can have a come-to-Jesus meeting and she’ll do what’s right for the good of the group, letting him take the lead.

  York says, “The major is on his way to Bagram, best as I can tell. After I dropped him off, I had a brief talk with Colonel Tringali, the head of the MP unit at Hunter. She knows we’ve been ordered to head back to Quantico, and if she knows, the word will get back to Virginia that we’re not currently packing our bags. We don’t have much time.”

  Sanchez says, “Connie, I—”

  “It’s Agent York, if you please,” she says. “What is it? We don’t have time to dick around.”

  He feels his jaw tense. “Nothing, ma’am, it can wait.”

  “Good,” she says, “let’s see what we can get from Mr. Briggs. Pierce, you got some legal mumbo-jumbo that will allow us to grab Stuart Pike’s body?”

  “I think so,” he says, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. None of the men had time to shave this morning, and Sanchez is still steaming over York’s put-down.

  “All right, let’s do this. Huang, you can stick behind if you want.”

  He manages a smile. “Strength in numbers, ma’am. Maybe we’ll scare him straight or something.”

  “Maybe,” she says.

  With each passing second, each passing minute, York is aware that Major Cook is farther out there over the Atlantic Ocean, heading into a combat zone, while she’s taken command in a little combat zone of her own. Not only does she have to deal with an angry Army MP colonel who wants to see the three surviving Rangers have a date with an executioner’s needle; she also has somebody who’s bugged their rooms and one CID investigator who’s being a royal pain in the ass.

  After brushing past the younger Mr. Briggs, she and the others are in the director’s office. Ferguson Briggs looks the same as he did the other day, save the knee-length white smock he previously wore over his black suit, and his dark-brown basset-hound eyes look surprised at seeing his office crowded with four Army personnel. York is sitting in one leather-upholstered chair, Sanchez is sitting next
to her, and Pierce and Huang are against the near wall. Hidden speakers air soft classical music.

  The place is carpeted, somber, with unread leather-bound books in a bookcase. One wall holds a display of casket styles, complete with finishes and handles, and various framed certificates hang opposite. Briggs’s desk is neat and orderly, with file folders and a thick black binder Connie thinks must contain the pricing options he shows the grieving. About the only object out of place is a plain brown cardboard box, tied together with string.

  And speaking of grieving families, Briggs gets right to the point.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ve come at a very bad time,” he says. “I have the Parnell family arriving in a few minutes. You need to be out of my office by then. You see, their poor son died last night, in their garage.”

  “Suicide?” Connie asks.

  “In a manner of speaking,” he says. “The young lad died of an overdose, like so many others in this county. One of the hardest parts will be writing the obituary. We often say ‘died suddenly at home,’ but most folks know what that means nowadays. Now, again, tell me why you’re here?”

  “The bodies of the victims,” she says. “We’d like to examine them again.”

  And grab one on our way out, she thinks, until we can figure out what to do next.

  “I’m sorry, but all save one have been turned over to their respective families.”

  Sanchez butts in. “For real? Why so soon?”

  Briggs still looks mournful. “Why not? With regard to the bodies, the county sheriff has told us her investigation is complete. She authorized me to release the remains. The last family left about thirty minutes ago, the Gleason boy.”

  Connie says, “Hold on. You said ‘all save one.’ Who’s left?”

  “The poor gent who had his arms broken,” Briggs says. “Arrangements for his remains are still up in the air.”

  “That’s good,” Connie says, “because our investigation isn’t complete, and we’d like to view him again.”

  No need to mention taking Pike. She trusts Pierce, the JAG lawyer, has a strategy to use when the right time comes.

  “All right, I suppose you can do that, for all the good it will do you.”

  A little shiver of cold caresses the back of Connie’s neck. “I’m sorry, what do you mean by that?”

  Briggs points to the cardboard box. “I received directions to cremate his remains, and there they are, waiting to be shipped to Savannah.”

  The room falls silent. Connie thinks she hears the quick intake of breath from Pierce and Huang.

  Briggs says, “Is there anything else I can do for the Army?”

  Chapter 52

  SPEEDING INTO THE parking lot of Route 119 Gas N’ Go, Special Agent Connie York nearly runs into a motorcyclist pulling out from the pumps—a woman with a helmet and leathers flipping her the bird as she roars out onto the state road—and Connie thinks, Sure. Why not? One more piece of bad luck to maintain the tone of her day.

  She pulls into an empty space, and the second Ford, driven by Sanchez, who was determined to tailgate her all the way over here, pulls in next to her. Then Huang parks, in the third rental car. Beside her in the car, Pierce says, “Don’t let Manuel get you down.”

  “I won’t,” she says, taking the keys out of the ignition. “But when I get a chance, either later this week or during our respective disciplinary hearings, I plan to ring his bell.”

  “You do that, you’ll get free representation from me.”

  York gets out, Sanchez and Huang exit their cars, and they all go into the convenience store, thankfully empty of customers. Behind the counter is an older Indian man, with a thick moustache and bright eyes and a big smile, wearing gray slacks and a pink polo shirt with the store logo. He says, “Good day, ma’am,” as York goes up to the counter.

  “Good day to you,” she says. “Where’s Mr. Laghari?”

  He looks at each of them. “Good day to all of you.”

  York says, “Yes, thanks for your courtesy. Where is Mr. Laghari?”

  A nod. “Help you?”

  “Vihan Laghari, where is he?”

  The man keeps smiling. “Can I help?” he says.

  Sanchez says, “Looks like we’ve got a language problem here, boss.”

  She swears to herself and then sees a photo of the owner in a frame nearby, along with a woman and his two children.

  “Here,” she says, picking up the photo, holding it in front of the man. “Where are they?”

  She motions to the rear of the store, and then outside, and the man vigorously nods. “Ah, Vihan, he’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Gone home,” the man says, still smiling. “To Mumbai.”

  Huang says, “The store owner leaves with his family, and there’s one guy left behind. Doesn’t sound good, boss.”

  Then Sanchez moves in next to her, flashes his leather wallet with his CID badge, and says, “Police. Got that? Police?”

  The man isn’t smiling anymore, and York says, “Sanchez, what the hell are you doing?”

  “My job,” he shoots back. “You should try it sometime.”

  Not fair, but Sanchez thinks of the times back in the LAPD when he came up against people like this clerk who smiled a lot and pretended to know just a few words of English. More than two hundred languages are spoken in his home state of California, and in investigating cases, Sanchez has run into everything from Albanian to Urdu and has no patience to wait for an interpreter.

  He goes around the counter, still holding his badge out like he’s facing a vampire with a cross, and the guy shuffles back, lifts up his hands, and York says, “Knock it off, Sanchez. Get your ass back over here.”

  Pierce says, “Whatever you’re doing, Sanchez, it’s illegal and it won’t be admissible in any court,” and crap, even Huang jumps in and says, “If your intent is scaring a guy who can’t speak English well, congratulations, you’re doing a great job.”

  He ignores them all, sees a pile of receipts, invoices, and other paperwork. All in English, thank you very much, and he starts flipping through the yellow and pink invoices, the other bills from snack suppliers and soft drink distributors, and, yes, yes, right there.

  Buried deep in the pile, another envelope with the return address of SULLIVAN DISTRICT ATTORNEY.

  The clerk says something in Hindi or whatever, and Sanchez gives him a look, sees the cheery smile and happy face are gone, and there’s the look of one hard man who would probably take him on if there weren’t other people in the store.

  He pulls out the sheet of paper within the envelope, gives it a quick glance. The language is almost identical to what he read back in Wendy Gabriel’s house of trash and smells. VIHAN LAGHARI, DBA ROUTE 119 GAS N’ GO, of Sullivan, in and of Sullivan County, is charged with numerous violations of Georgia Code 3-3-23: Furnishing to, purchase of, or possession by persons under 21 years of age of alcoholic beverages; use of false identification; proper identification; dispensing, serving, selling, or handling by persons under 21 years of age in the course of employment; seller’s actions upon receiving false identification; said complaint brought to the District Attorney’s Office by…

  Sanchez takes the envelope from his coat pocket that he lifted from the top of Wendy Gabriel’s bureau, pulls out that sheet of paper, turns and holds them both up so Pierce, Huang, and especially York can see them.

  “See this?” he says, thrusting out his left hand. “Criminal complaint filed against Wendy Gabriel from the district attorney. Charging her with cruelty to animals.”

  And he puts out his right hand. “And this? Criminal complaint filed against this store and its owner, for selling alcohol to minors. Maybe Pierce can tell us later the punishments, but I bet the animal cruelty one would mean the woman’s dog being seized, and here, the store’s liquor license being pulled, which is just as good as shutting it down.”

  Sanchez folds up both sheets of paper, returns them to their respecti
ve envelopes.

  He says, “Agent York, both complaints were brought forth by Sheriff Emma Williams. Get it? And if she’s put you at risk for losing what’s precious to you, what would you do to prevent that?”

  Huang says, “Good God. You’d do anything, anything at all.”

  Sanchez nods, feeling great, feeling on top of the world.

  “Like cooperating in putting out false evidence,” he says.

  Chapter 53

  SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK is pushing the damaged Ford rental up Route 119 as fast as she can, with the dented and scraped front hood shaking and vibrating like it’s seconds away from tearing off. She feels like she’s in a race for her life, for justice, for everything, and some damnable folks are up ahead, pulling the finish line away from her.

  Next to her, Pierce, the squad’s JAG attorney, gets off his smartphone and says, “No joy, Connie. District Attorney Slate is in meetings all day, can’t be disturbed.”

  “Big surprise,” she says, looking up in the rearview mirror, seeing the other two rentals in a train right behind her, Sanchez hanging close again with Huang not far behind. “All right, get on the phone with Briggs, the funeral home director. And put him on speaker.”

  She checks the time as Pierce starts making the call. At this point Major Cook is still hours short of arriving in Germany for a refueling stop and, even with the satellite phone, is probably out of reach.

  No matter.

  She’s seeing this one through.

  “All right, sir. Hold on, please. I’m going to put you on speakerphone,” Pierce says. A flick of the finger on the screen and a voice booms out, “This is Ferguson Briggs.”

  “Mr. Briggs, thank you,” Connie says, keeping her eye on the narrow state road. “A quick question, if I may. This morning you said something to the effect that you received directions to cremate the remains of Stuart Pike, the man who had been renting that home.”

  Briggs says nothing for a moment, and then, cautiously, he says, “Yes, that’s true. I did receive instructions to do that.”