The Summer House

by James Patterson

Penny hesitates. She never got good grades in school, not ever, but she’s not stupid. She knows how Sheriff Emma runs the county and knows DD has to do some things that others would refuse. But if DD is in some kind of trouble…why wouldn’t Sheriff Emma help?

  “Sheriff, he said he was off finally to make things right, something like that. Do you know what it means? Is it important?”

  Even with the TV on and the damn kids screaming, she can hear her cousin just breathing on the phone.

  “Emma, did I do right, calling you?”

  And before the call is disconnected, the cold voice of her cousin says, “Penny, you have no idea.”

  Chapter 70

  SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK is desperately trying to keep her yawning under control, but based on last night and the previous nights, it’s a damn losing battle. Her worn and dented rental Ford is parked at the end of a dirt road, and the other two Fords are parked a few feet away. Huang and Pierce arrived just a few minutes earlier with their late breakfasts: plastic-wrapped doughnuts, coffee, and orange juice in plastic containers, all purchased a while ago from a convenience store in Chatham County.

  Sanchez says, “You sure you two weren’t followed?”

  Pierce takes the lid off his coffee. “Look up the road. You see a cruiser coming down?”

  Huang joins in. “Maybe there’s a black helicopter coming.”

  “Shut up,” Sanchez says.

  York says, “All of you, knock it off.”

  Cold quiet comes to the group. York feels like a failure. All of them slept in the three cars overnight, though it wasn’t much of a sleep. Tired, achy, and facing a day of…

  What?

  What to do? Major Cook ordered her to push the investigation, but what was left to push? The dog-walking witness is missing, and so is the owner of the convenience store. The murder house and whatever evidence was inside are a pile of burnt rubble. Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson has cut a deal to plead guilty and is about to make it permanent at tomorrow’s court hearing, and, oh, yeah, the sheriff is corrupt and a criminal to boot, and her deputies are following them wherever they go.

  Sanchez says, “You haven’t heard from the major, right?”

  York says, “I’ve tried twice. No answer.”

  “You sure you’re using the sat phone, right? Agent York?”

  Just before she’s about to use her voice to tear off that arrogant cop’s head, her phone rings.

  Her cell phone, not the Iridium satellite phone.

  She digs into her bag, pulls it out.

  BRODERICK CID QUANTICO.

  York lets the call go to voicemail, like she’s done three times prior.

  Huang asks, “Colonel Broderick, ma’am?”

  “The one and only,” she says.

  Sanchez says, “One of these days you’re gonna have to answer.”

  “Maybe I’ll give the call to you, Agent Sanchez.”

  Sanchez looks like he’s going to say something when the phone rings again.

  Pierce says, “The colonel’s being persistent this morning.”

  York is about to say the same thing when she sees her screen: BLOCKED CALL.

  She steps away and answers the phone. “Hello?”

  An unfamiliar man’s voice. “Is this the Army cop?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, is this the Army cop? The one looking into The Summer House killings, the one the Army Rangers been charged with?”

  “I am,” she says. “I’m Special Agent York of the Army CID. Who’s this?”

  “Someone who knows what really happened that night, lady. Someone who wants to let you know.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I was there, and I helped, and it made me sick,” the man says, his voice quivering. “I want to make it right. I want to talk to you, lady. Confess it all. Get a deal and get the hell out of this county.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Peggy Reese, that bitch reporter. But I made a deal…she gave me your number, and I promised to give her the whole story a day later, give you folks enough time to do your job.”

  Some of her crew are whispering, and York takes a few steps farther away. “How do I know you’re for real? That you’re not just making it up?”

  The man sighs. “I’ll tell you something that’s not in the papers. How’s that? Up on the second floor of the house, right-side bedroom, older lady was drug out from under a bed.”

  York says. “Okay…that’s a start.”

  “Oh? Then how about this, then? The bedroom across the hall, there were three dead folks. A guy in the bed with bandages on his arms, a chunky woman on the floor, and…a poor dead little girl, right there. Like her momma was trying to protect her.”

  The air around her suddenly feels chilled. York says, “I need to see you. Right now. Where?”

  The man says, “Shit, not in this county. There’s a Waffle House across the north county line on Gateway Boulevard West, just off Route 204, on the way into Savannah. I’ll see you there in ninety minutes. How’s that?”

  “That sounds fine,” she says. “How will I know you?”

  The man says, “I’ll be the scared son of bitch sitting by himself at the far end. And you, lady, you come by yourself. Okay? I’ll make sure I’m sitting near an exit door, and if you come by with anybody else, I’m outta there.”

  He disconnects the call.

  York walks back to her crew, tells them what’s just happened. Not surprisingly, Sanchez makes a fuss. “Damn it, York, this whole county is wrapped up and under that sheriff’s thumb. And you’re going off to meet some clown who said he was there?”

  “He told me things that haven’t been made public.”

  “Sure,” Sanchez says. “And if the sheriff is in on whatever happened, then she might have fed this guy this info. Set you up. Get you going to that Waffle House, and arrest you for crossing a double-yellow line. You could end up in the county jail and never come out.”

  “Good point,” she says. “Which is why you’re going to be in charge when I’m gone, Sanchez, so the investigation continues. You’re going to protect those three surviving Rangers. Make sure nothing happens to them until we hear something from the major. Got it?”

  Sanchez finally nods, and Huang and Pierce both say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  York nods, too. “Good. Now transfer your gear from that rental. I’ve got places to go, and sorry to say, I’m not driving the one with the dented hood. Based on our luck, the damn thing will pop off about halfway there.”

  Twenty minutes later, York pulls over for a quick moment, reaches into her bag, comes out with her SIG Sauer. There’s a round in the chamber, of course, but she wants to make sure she has two spare clips nearby when she goes into the Waffle House.

  If it is a trap, she’s going to be ready.

  Chapter 71

  Afghanistan

  I’M IN TEMPORARY QUARTERS for the night, waiting for a convoy to leave Bagram at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow, heading south to Khost to meet up with Major Fredericka West. Earlier she said, “These are supposed to be secure phone lines, but we’re not taking any chances. I’ll set up transport for you. See you late tomorrow morning, Major. Safe travels. Stay low.”

  The quarters are an old concrete-block building, subdivided into small plywood cubicles. I’ve had a dinner at the local DFAC, and a quick washup, and I’ve stretched out on a borrowed sleeping bag with a wool blanket over me.

  A small lamp on a stand is next to the bed, and close by is my trusted Bruce Catton book, along with my Iridium satellite phone.

  I grab the phone, power it up, dial the digits.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  No answer.

  Ring, ring, ring.

  Still no answer.

  Where’s York? What’s she doing? How’s the rest of the crew?

  And the investigation there in Sullivan?

  I shut the Iridium down, restart it, and then dial the numbers once more.

  Ri
ng.

  A crackle of static and I sit straight up, ignoring the bolt of pain that shoots right through my leg and into my skull.

  “Major?” comes York’s voice. “Are you all right?”

  Her voice is fading in and out, and I go right to the condensed version of what I’ve been doing.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m in Bagram, heading off to Pendahar tomorrow. Look, remember Major Frank Moore, the XO of Fourth Battalion? Got word from a Ranger officer here that he was murdered after visiting Staff Sergeant Jefferson. Bullet wound to the head, pulled out of the Savannah River.”

  “Damn,” York says. “Major, things are also moving quickly over here. Witnesses have disappeared, the murder house was burned down, and it looks like Sheriff Williams is running the county as her own personal criminal enterprise.”

  Now it’s my turn to swear. York goes on, her voice strong and in charge. “That’s not all. Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s cut a deal with the district attorney. He’s…”

  Her voice fades out and there’s a hiss of static, and her voice comes back and says, “So there’s that.”

  I raise my voice. “That’s what?”

  Her voice cuts through. “He’s pleading guilty! In exchange for pleading guilty, the district attorney is cutting the other two Rangers loose!”

  More static and she says, “Hold on, making a turn now.”

  “A turn? Where are you?”

  A nervous laugh. “On my way to a Waffle House for a very late breakfast! With a witness who says he was at the shooting! Sorry, Major, I think we’re gonna break this case stateside…”

  I rub at my aching leg. “Who’s the witness?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Is Sanchez with you?”

  Her voice fades out again. “…alone.”

  “York, don’t you dare go there without backup!” I yell. “I want Sanchez with you!”

  There’s silence, not even a whisper of static.

  I admire York, I trust York, and I’d love to see York in a bikini, but Sanchez has a more down-and-dirty outlook about humanity, having worked some very mean streets in LA when he was a cop. If York is off to meet somebody claiming to be a witness at a Waffle House, I want Sanchez sitting in a nearby booth, with a cut-down AR-15 across his lap.

  “York!” I yell.

  One more hiss of static, and her voice fading out. “…I’ll be okay, Major.”

  Then the call is disconnected.

  For the next half hour, I try again to call Connie, and none of the calls go through.

  I finally stop when someone in the adjacent cubicle pounds the thin plywood and yells, “Hey, some of us trying to sleep over here! Knock that shit off!”

  I turn the light off, stretch out, and I don’t go to sleep, not at all.

  York seems to be right. The case is breaking open in Georgia, and here I am, alone and clueless, stuck in Afghanistan.

  Chapter 72

  SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK spots the familiar shape and logo of the Waffle House just off Route 204 leading into Savannah, and she has a tinge of anticipation, knowing that the airport she arrived at a few long days ago is just a quick drive away.

  It’ll be wonderful, she thinks, to get this damn thing wrapped up, get back on a silver bird, and get the hell out of Georgia.

  She parks beside the bright-yellow-and-red building with its black lettering and gets out of her car, thinking of an article she read once that said FEMA had a “Waffle House index” with which it determined how damaged a community was after a hurricane or tornado passed through it. The sooner the local Waffle House opens after a natural disaster, the quicker a local community would recover.

  York opens the door and steps in, wondering what kind of index the CID could establish if she broke this case in the next several minutes at this particular Waffle House.

  The interior is like every other Waffle House she’s been in, with bright lights, a counter, and booths with red cushions. There’s a good mix of customers here at midday, locals and workers, and in the last booth, sitting by himself, is a nervous-looking male who nods at her as she approaches.

  He’s in his late twenties, light-brown hair buzzed short, with deep-blue eyes that are flickering around, like old memories are haunting him. He has on blue jeans and a soiled white T-shirt that is tight against his torso and bulky upper biceps.

  York steps up to him and says, “Let’s change seats.”

  “Huh?”

  She takes her soft leather bag off her shoulder, gestures with her free hand. “Move around. I don’t know you, I don’t know where you’re from, all I know is that you told me you have knowledge about a mass killing that took place less than a week ago. Move it. I want my back against the wall.”

  The guy gets up and does just that, and she thinks, Good. Score one for the team. Him moving shows he is malleable, weak, and she will use that to her advantage.

  When he is settled, she sits down, content with knowing that from this last row of booths, she has a good view of the restaurant’s interior. A young blond waitress comes over and drops off the multicolored menus, and Connie barely gives the menu a glance as she looks closer at the man across from her, with his muscles and close-cropped hair.

  Something comes to her.

  A gamble, but what the hell.

  “What unit were you in before being discharged?” York asks. “And how long have you been working for Sheriff Williams?”

  Her questions seem to stun him, because he stares, nods, and says, “How do you know?”

  “We know a lot more than you think,” York says. “Answer the question. Starting with your name.”

  He clasps his hands in front of him on the clean table. “Dwight Dix. Before I became a deputy in Sullivan County, I was in the Tenth Mountain Division, out of Fort Drum. Did part of a tour overseas in Afghanistan before…”

  Dix seems ashamed, and York won’t push it, not now. “Something happened, you were discharged, at loose ends…and Sheriff Emma Williams offered you a job. Right?”

  A quick nod. “That’s right.”

  She takes out a white legal pad and pen, sets them before her.

  “Very well, then, Dwight. You told me you had information about those killings. I believe you. You gave me details only someone who was there or intimately involved would know. What happened?”

  Dix shakes his head. “Nope, we’re not gonna do it this way.”

  York feels tense, part of her wanting to grab this fool by his T-shirt neck and slam his thick head onto the table. You had something to do with a two-year-old girl being killed!

  She takes a breath. “What way is that, Dwight?”

  He taps her legal pad. “I want you to write something legal for me. About immunity. About me telling you what happened that night at The Summer House and who did the shooting, and why. I get that piece of paper promising not to prosecute, and then I’ll talk.”

  York keeps her voice even. “You like watching those Law & Order marathons on TV, is that it?”

  “Huh?”

  She says, “Dwight, I’m a law enforcement officer with the US Army. I don’t have any pull with county or state law enforcement, and not much with federal law enforcement.”

  His face falls, and she adds, “I mean, I could write something up like that, but it wouldn’t be legal, it would be a lie, and that’s not how I operate. Understand?”

  “But I need something…”

  York uncaps her pen. “This is the best I can do, Dwight,” York says. “I’ll write out a statement and sign it with my name, rank, and service number, and—”

  “How about your badge number?” he interrupts.

  “CID agents don’t have badge numbers,” she says. “I’ll make a statement saying that in my professional opinion you have expressed remorse and have offered invaluable investigative assistance, and that in any future dealings with state or federal law enforcement, I will be willing to speak up on your behalf to protect your legal interests.” />
  As she narrates this to Dwight, she writes down the words, and she signs them with a flourish. After tearing off the sheet, she passes it over to Dwight, keeping her face calm and impassive, because that piece of paper is total and utter legal bullshit.

  But he bites.

  He folds it up and puts it in his pocket. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  “Were you there the night of the killings?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Who ordered them to take place?”

  “Deputy Clark Lindsay, but I’m sure Sheriff Emma was behind it. Hell, nobody in the sheriff’s department can take a crap without her say-so.”

  “Who was there?”

  “Me, Clark, and Teddy Collins.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  He shrugs. “We did our jobs. We were told that in this house was a bunch of low-life drug dealers that had skated over and over again on various charges. We were told to clear the place out. Clark said not to worry, these guys had competitors—it’d eventually be pinned on some rival drug gang.”

  York again thinks of two-year-old Polly Zachary. “Did you shoot that little girl?”

  “Shit no!” he says, raising his voice, causing some customers in the nearby booths to turn their heads and look at him. “There were two guys sitting on a couch. I took them out. Clark and Teddy…they took care of the rest, the girl downstairs and the folks upstairs.”

  “But the Rangers were arrested two nights later,” she says. “You’re telling me they weren’t involved?”

  Another shake of the head. “Nope.”

  “But there was evidence from the scene. Fingerprints, shell casings.”

  Dwight says, “I heard later from Clark that the Rangers were there about an hour or so ’fore we got there. That’ll take care of the fingerprints, I guess. And Clark…he’s got another job working as a civilian attendant at the shooting range at Hunter. I bet he could get some empty shell casings from a certain Ranger’s pistol if he had to.”

  York is writing so hard and fast that she is sure the pen is close to shredding the paper. She has a memory of once working on a computer jigsaw puzzle, with none of the 128 pieces fitting, until she used the Help feature of the program and reduced the number of puzzle pieces to 24. Then the puzzle was solved within seconds.