The district attorney says, “Well, that’s true, Captain, but…just because he was at the scene doesn’t mean he took part in the killing.”
Jefferson nods, feels that the district attorney is coming his way. “My fingerprints are in that house. Empty shell casings from my weapon. And what those clowns did to my stepdaughter…the district attorney can step up before the judge, say he got a deal, and I murdered all those folks because I snapped. Right? Every time there’s a war, there are always stories about the crazy vets who come back and lose it. I’m just the latest one. Right? I found out my daughter nearly died from an OD, and I snapped. Went in there and murdered everyone. The end.”
Jefferson waits.
The JAG attorney says, “This isn’t right.”
The district attorney says, “You heard the staff sergeant. You’re just here as a witness, not to act as his defense, Captain Pierce.”
Jefferson says, “That’s right, Captain. And if you don’t cooperate, well, I’ll get somebody else in here to do the job. But one way or another, it’s going to happen. The district attorney is going to draw up a plea agreement that I’ll sign, and he’s going to write up some official papers that my guys are going to be cut loose, with no chance of any prosecution, today or tomorrow or fifty years from now.”
A pause. He adds, “What do you say, Mr. District Attorney? Want to get my guilty plea? Save the county the expense of a trial? Get this case put away day after tomorrow when I appear before the judge? Help you get reelected?”
The district attorney smiles.
“Son, you got yourself a deal.”
Chapter 61
SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK is in her motel room, sitting cross-legged on the saggy and scratchy platform that claims to be a bed, when there’s a heavy knock on the door. Her laptop is in front of her, and she’s trying to figure out what time Major Cook is getting into Bagram—and why in hell Afghanistan insists on having their time zone thirty minutes off, instead of on the hour like other countries. She puts her laptop aside and goes to answer the door.
Standing outside by the door is the motel’s manager, a squat, greasy-looking man named Farnsworth wearing dark-green pants, a white T-shirt, and suspenders. A taller, skinnier man wearing stained gray dress pants, a white dress shirt, and a blue necktie is standing next to the manager, and a uniformed deputy sheriff is standing just a few feet away.
“Yes?” she asks.
Farnsworth rubs his chubby hands together, looks embarrassed, and says, “Well, er, Mrs. York, I—”
“Special Agent York, please,” she says. “What’s wrong?”
The manager looks at the other men for support. “Well, I’m sorry, we have a situation here. This is Henry Abbott, the health inspector for the county, and he’s got an official order, and I’m sorry, I have to follow what he has to say.”
Connie knows exactly what’s coming and says, “What is it, Mr. Abbott? Mold in the walls? Poor electrical connections?”
He shakes his head, holds out a folded sheet of paper. “Sprinkler system out of order in this wing of the motel. Sorry. It’s a health hazard indeed. If a fire were to break out, you folks could be seriously injured. Or worse.”
The door next to hers swings open, and Special Agent Manuel Sanchez comes out, yawning, scratching at his lower back, and then instantly stopping at seeing the three men outside Connie’s room. He steps over and says, “What’s going on?”
Connie says, “We’re being kicked out. For health reasons. It seems the sprinkler system in this place is out of order, and the county is ordering us to leave our rooms.”
Sanchez looks at the deputy sheriff. “And that fella in the nice brown-and-tan uniform is going to make sure we comply. Right, Deputy?”
The deputy says, “Just the law, folks. You need to depart the premises straightaway. Please don’t make any trouble.”
Connie thinks of her meeting with the local newspaper reporter, only a few hours from now.
“No, at the moment we won’t do that,” she says. “Mr. Farnsworth, any chance you have some spare rooms on the other side of the motel?”
He shakes his head. “Not a one. Not with all those damn reporters.”
“And can you recommend any other place in the county where we can stay?”
For the briefest of moments, she sees the manager look at the deputy, and the deputy looks back, and there, without a word, is the answer.
“I see,” she says. “Sanchez, start packing. When Pierce and Huang get back, they’ll do the same.”
An hour later, after Pierce has briefed her and the others on Jefferson’s plan to plead guilty in less than two days—Good Lord, what a day this has turned out to be—she and the men are outside in the dark of the parking lot, luggage at their feet, standing next to their rental Fords. While the motel manager and the health inspector have left, the deputy sheriff has remained, casually leaning against the front fender of his cruiser.
Sanchez says, “Sorry, Connie—I mean, ma’am—there’s not a single damn motel room available anywhere near here. The nearest is in Georgetown.”
York stares at the deputy sheriff. “Remind me, is Georgetown in Sullivan County?”
“No,” Sanchez says as Huang and Pierce look on. “It’s in Chatham County.”
Connie picks up her bags, goes to the trunk of the nearest Ford. “No. We’re not leaving Sullivan County. Not tonight, and not until the job is over.”
She opens the trunk, and Pierce says, “Ah, ma’am, what do we do…I mean, what do we do in the meantime?”
Connie slams the trunk down. “I once pulled a twelve-hour surveillance on a drug mule who was supposed to show up at a welcome center in Fredericksburg on I-95. But my relief never showed up, and I had to spend a whole day and night in my car.”
She gives her squad a good, hard, determined look.
“You get used to it.”
Chapter 62
STAFF SERGEANT CALEB JEFFERSON is lying awake on his bunk sometime after midnight when a shadow passes by outside in the dim light, and Chief Kane appears in front of the barred door to his cell. Across the corridor Specialist Paulie Ruiz is doing what he does best when he’s sleeping: snoring.
“You have a visitor,” Kane says.
“Pretty late.”
“Don’t care,” he says.
“Well, I’m your guest at this fine facility, and I care.” Ruiz’s snoring goes on, and in the darkness, Jefferson smiles. Some would hate the noise, but after months of serving with the specialist, Jefferson finds it comforting, soothing, something that’s part of his life.
“Don’t matter,” the chief says. “Your visitor wants to see you. Now.”
Jefferson crosses his legs. “Sorry. It’s after visiting hours and I’m pretty damn comfortable where I am.”
Kane says, “Okay, Sergeant Jefferson, I—”
“Staff Sergeant.”
“All right, Staff Sergeant Jefferson, you’re a badass. I know that and you know that. Nothing to prove. But if you don’t get up and prep for a visit, I’ll call in my two brothers-in-law. They always wanted to be police but were too dumb to pass the test. But they’ll come in if I call them, and then I’ll open this cell door, pepper-spray you hard. And then my two idiot brothers-in-law will Taser you until you wet your pants. Then I’ll put you in restraints, and then you’ll make your visit, and at the end, you’ll still be a badass, and we’ll all know you’re a badass.”
Jefferson laughs, swings off the bunk, and comes over to the cell door. “Chief, that’s pretty good. Okay.”
Kane moves around and there’s a rattling noise, and something is slid underneath the door. Jefferson bends over, picks up a wide leather belt with manacles and chains, two long enough to reach his ankles.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“Your visitor knows you’re a badass, too,” Kane says. “Just taking precautions.”
A few minutes later, as Jefferson shuffles along the corridor with his ankles s
hackled, his cuffed wrists secured by chains to the wide leather belt, Kane opens the interview door, and Jefferson shuffles in.
Sitting across the table is Sullivan County sheriff Emma Williams. She’s in civvy clothes, blue jeans and a black T-shirt, but her hard face and sharp eyes remind Jefferson of a Pashtun woman he once saw who had her burqa accidentally torn off when it got caught in a bus door. The look on her face toward the US soldiers standing around her was the same as he sees here from the sheriff: a raging anger barely held under control, a face failing to hide the thoughts of revenge, sharp knives, and flesh being carved out.
“Sit down,” she says, and he gives her that victory, sitting a bit clumsily with all the shackles fixed to his waist, ankles, and wrists.
“Good to see you, too,” he says.
The stone-cold angry look on her face doesn’t change. “We had an arrangement, a deal, an agreement.”
“We did,” Jefferson says. “An arrangement with me and my three Rangers. Now there’s only two other Rangers. The circumstances have changed. The deal has changed.”
Williams says, “No, it hasn’t.”
“Well, so says you,” Jefferson says. “But right now there’s signed paperwork with your district attorney, witnessed by an Army lawyer, that says otherwise.”
“The district attorney, he works for me,” Williams says. “You won’t get away with it.”
He smiles. “Give it your best, Sheriff. But it won’t work. Guarantee it.”
She moves her chair over so she’s closer to him, lowers her voice. “You signed those papers, you signed the obituary for you and your Rangers. This is my county, my land, and I make the rules. Remember that.”
Jefferson scrapes his chair closer, too. “Here’s a story for you, Sheriff. Non-PC, so I apologize in advance.”
“I don’t have time for your tales,” she says.
He says, “Oh, you’ll love this story. Once upon a time an Air Force plane was flying over a remote part of New Guinea when it crashed in a storm. There were three survivors: an Air Force airman, a Navy seaman, and an Army Ranger. They were captured by a tribe of headhunters—see, I told you it wasn’t PC—and the chief said that they were trespassers on his sacred soil and that they were all sentenced to death. But the method of their deaths was up to them. The chief said if they each committed suicide, their skins would be tanned and turned into sacred canoes, and their spirits would live forever among the tribe. If not, then they’d suffer weeks of torture before dying anyway. On a wooden table were a number of weapons. Faced with this horrible choice, the airman picked up a poison capsule, took it, and said, ‘Hurray for the Air Force.’ The seaman saw a rusty revolver with one round in it, and before shooting himself in the head, said, ‘Hurray for the Navy.’”
Jefferson grins at seeing the sheriff hanging on his every word. “Then it came to the Army Ranger. He saw the table full of weapons and then went to another table, which had kitchen utensils, picked up a long two-tined fork and started stabbing himself furiously, up and down his arms, legs, even his chest and abdomen, punching it in, and soon he was bleeding from dozens of wounds. Just before he passed out from blood loss, the tribal chief said, ‘Why did you pick such a painful way to die?’ And the Army guy looked up and said, ‘I’m an Army Ranger. Fuck you and your sacred canoe.’”
Jefferson stands up, heads to the door, where he will hammer on the door and ask to go back to his cell.
“Same to you, Sheriff,” he says.
Chapter 63
SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK spots the correct street number on the mailbox marking the home of Peggy Reese of the Sullivan County Times, and she parks the Ford sedan a few yards up the road. They are in a small housing development of double-wide trailers with carports.
After Cook’s orders hours back, Sanchez spent some time under both vehicles, searching the undercarriages with a flashlight, and said, “Looks clean. I don’t think they’re tracking us in our rentals.” As she switches off the engine and hands the keys over to Sanchez, she thinks this was at least one bit of good news before they all started this early Wednesday morning.
“I’ve got my phone, and I’ve got my service weapon,” Connie says.
“I still don’t like it,” Sanchez says. “For all we know, that woman is a cousin of the sheriff and is ready to take a wrench to your head. You know how everybody down here is always somebody’s uncle, aunt, second or third cousin.”
York opens the door. “Well, if that’s true, let’s hope she’s estranged.”
She walks up the asphalt and then along the driveway. A dog is barking somewhere, and up ahead, a light is on over the front door. Flying insects are making a moving halo around the globe.
One knock on the door is all it takes, and a slim woman with cotton-white hair opens the door. “Right on time,” Peggy Reese says, smiling. “I like you already, Agent York. If that’s who you are.”
Connie digs out her wallet and badge, shows the identification. “This is who I am.”
“Then come right in.”
The inside of the home is clean and orderly, with two couches forming an angle, a kitchen off to the left, bookcases filled with hardcovers and paperbacks, and a coffee table with newspapers on top—Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Peggy is wearing black slacks and a yellow-and-blue Walmart smock, which she tugs off and tosses to the floor. Underneath she has on an old Allman Brothers concert T-shirt, and two large black-and-white cats come tumbling into the living room, hitting each other with their paws.
“Roscoe, Oreo, knock it off!” she says, scooping them up in her arms, giving each a quick nuzzle, and then tossing each onto a separate couch, where they land safely and expertly.
She turns and says, “You know what you call two cats?”
“I don’t know,” Connie says, liking the woman. “A herd? A pride? A duo?”
Peggy smiles. “A crazy cat lady starter kit. Get you a drink before we begin?”
Connie shakes her head. “No…it’s too late, and officially, I’m on duty.”
“Hon, wasn’t going to offer you liquor,” she says. “I like a cold lemonade after a shift. Cleans out the dust and bullshit in my mouth.”
“I’d love one,” she says.
“Be right back,” Peggy says. “Sit on a couch. Hope you like cats. Roscoe and Oreo don’t think I get enough visitors, and they’re right. As long as you’re here, they’ll be either sniffing your hair or biting your feet.”
A few minutes later, she’s sipping on a glass of cold, fresh lemonade, the best Connie’s ever had, and Peggy has a reporter’s notebook and pen in hand. She says, “Mind if we get to work? Won’t make Wednesday’s paper, but if all goes well, it should appear in the Thursday one.”
Connie stifles a yawn. “I’ll do the best I can. But some things I can’t comment on.”
Peggy flips a page in the slim notebook. “Fair enough. Mind telling me your official rank and name, and where you’re from?”
“Special Agent Connie York, US Army Criminal Investigation Division. Stationed in Quantico, Virginia.”
“And you got a major running the show down here,” she says. “Older fella who’s limping. Where is he?”
Connie says, “He’s been…called away.”
“I see,” she says. “Where?”
“I can’t tell you.”
The reporter smiles. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”
Connie says, “You might not think it’s fun when your part is done.”
“Oh?”
“I need some information about this county,” she says. “Right now, you’re it.”
The reporter’s smile fades. “Let’s just wait and see, all right?”
Fifteen minutes later, Connie is exhausted. Despite the woman’s age, and the rural county she lives in, and the small paper she works for, Peggy is good. Sharp, inquisitive, and when Connie dodges a comment, the older woman doesn’t complain, she just nods and circles back, and a while
later tries again. Connie has dealt with reporters over the years, during her time in the Virginia State Police and through her Army service, but this woman—who has one of the black-and-white cats sitting on her shoulders throughout—is one of the best reporters Connie has ever encountered.
Peggy scribbles some more, looks up, and says, “Well, seems like that’s about as much as I’m gonna squeeze out of you this morning ’bout what happened at The Summer House, the poor place.” The notebook slaps shut.
Connie says, “My turn now.”
“Not sure if I can help you.”
“But you know this county, you know the people.”
Peggy carefully says, “Not as much as you’d think.”
“But you’re a reporter here.”
“Not always,” Peggy says. “I’ve only been here five or so years.”
“Aren’t you from Sullivan?”
Peggy bursts out laughing. “Crap, no. Gad, is my accent that thick? No, I’m from North Carolina originally. This double-wide belonged to a distant uncle who passed on, and I was the nearest relative it was awarded to. Nope, went up to the University of Richmond for my degree in journalism, got my master’s at Columbia, went to work for the Times-Dispatch in Richmond, did some bureau work for the Associated Press, and then went to the Washington Post.”
The other cat jumps into her lap, and she scratches its head. Even from across the room, Connie can hear the loud purrs.
Peggy says, “You’re too polite to ask, so I’ll answer it for you. Special Agent York, I’m a drunk. Or alcoholic, if you prefer. Time came at the Post when early retirement was offered, and it was gently suggested that I depart, so I did. And when I woke up and dried out a couple of years later, here I was.”
“I see,” Connie says.
The woman keeps on rubbing the cat’s head. The purring stays constant.
“Peggy, what can you tell me about this county?”
The Summer House Page 21
