The Summer House

by James Patterson

  “Chief!” I call out. “Hey, Chief! Are you okay?”

  My eyes adjust better to the deepening darkness. A piece of metal broken from the helicopter’s frame has gone right through his neck and out the back.

  Guilt hits me like a cold wave. The man is dead because of me, because I bribed him to take me on an unauthorized trip to see a CIA guy…and for nothing.

  I tug again at my legs, grit my teeth in pain.

  I roll to the left, see my rucksack. I strain and strain with my left arm, grab a strap, drag it over to me.

  It takes a lot out of me.

  I close my eyes, catch my breath.

  At least the crackling of the circuitry is gone.

  Maybe the damn thing won’t catch fire after all.

  Something is digging into my right hip. I move around, take out my SIG Sauer.

  Worthless for the moment.

  I wonder what’s going on in Georgia. How the Rangers are doing. How that meeting with Connie and someone involved with the shooting went. Has she found out what I now know, that this whole mess began here in Afghanistan, when the Rangers stumbled across something they shouldn’t have witnessed?

  I open my eyes, yank the top of my rucksack, manage to get it open.

  I push my right hand in, dig around, a few items falling out.

  There.

  Got the Iridium satellite phone.

  I breathe hard, bring it up, push the power button.

  Nothing.

  The small screen remains dark.

  I push the button again and again.

  The satellite phone is dead. I drop it, take up the SIG Sauer, put it into the open rucksack.

  It’s almost completely dark, and a few stars appear overhead.

  I think I hear voices.

  I stop moving.

  Damn, I’m not thinking anymore.

  I am hearing voices.

  Fear is digging right into my gut.

  A memory comes to me, of the research I did before my first deployment to Afghanistan, and the books I read, including the poetry of Rudyard Kipling and his tales of British soldiers serving in India and Afghanistan.

  A stanza comes right to my mind, about what a young British soldier should do if wounded on Afghanistan’s plains, and when the Afghan women came down at you with knives:

  Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains

  An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.

  I whisper, “But I’m no soldier. I’m just a goddamn cop.”

  A wounded, trapped, and alone cop at that.

  I try again to free my legs, but the pain digs in deep, like hidden knives are carving me up.

  The voices grow louder.

  I hear the approaching men, but I can’t understand what they’re saying.

  Yet I know what they’re saying.

  Here’s a shot-down American helicopter. Let’s see who’s alive.

  A light comes on, illuminating the wreckage, the dead body of the chief, and then me.

  That’s when I go to the rucksack, for one final, desperate gamble.

  Chapter 99

  CAPTAIN ALLEN PIERCE is waiting for the judge to come back from his unexpected break, wondering what he’s going to do next. A minute after the judge left—which was nearly a half hour ago, and definitely not fifteen minutes—there was a look exchanged between Sheriff Williams and Staff Sergeant Jefferson.

  A look of hate from the Ranger; a look of satisfaction from the sheriff.

  The Ranger is about to be sentenced for the seven homicides committed here just over a week ago—or as it’s called in this state, malice murder—and yet he’s staring at the sheriff. Not the judge, not the district attorney who’s representing the state.

  What is going on here?

  Huang whispers, “Allen, you’ve got to do something.”

  Pierce whispers back, “Like what? Raise my hand? Throw myself on the mercy of the judge? Does he look like somebody who’s flexible enough to bend the rules and let an outsider lawyer interrupt?”

  Pierce wants to say something else, but what’s the point? Seeing Staff Sergeant Jefferson sitting by himself, an African American defendant in this courtroom, at this time, with so many of the court audience being white. How many of Jefferson’s brothers and sisters—hell, Pierce’s own brothers and sisters—have been in a similar position? Facing alleged justice with a white judge and a nearly all-white group of residents?

  He’s no bomb thrower and knows a lot of progress has been made, but seeing Jefferson up there just stirs old history and old memories in him. Seeing the relaxed nature of the attendees in the courtroom, enjoying the break to talk and gossip with their neighbors, Sheriff Williams even holding court with four locals who’ve come up to talk to her, strengthens those old memories. So many cases of black defendants being railroaded.

  The staff sergeant looks back again to the smiling sheriff, sitting in all her glory.

  Why is this Ranger allowing himself to be railroaded? Why is he doing this?

  Huang’s voice comes back to him: You’ve got to do something.

  A door opens up, and the court attendant calls out, “All rise!” as the judge slowly walks in and back up to the bench. The attendees stand up, and the judge gavels the session back into order.

  How many times has Pierce heard those words, from scared defendants he’s represented over the years, facing minor offenses that would ruin a career, or after a drunken brawl that got out of hand or a mistaken case of auto theft. All those defendants, looking to him to find some obscure phrase or reference in a law book to set them free.

  You’ve got to do something.

  The judge says, “Staff Sergeant Jefferson, I’m going to take a few minutes to repeat myself here, just so there’s no misunderstanding. Now. Before I pass sentence, I need to confirm once more, for my own peace of mind, that you are here of your own free will.”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  “That you’re not under the influence of alcohol or drugs.”

  “I am not, Your Honor.”

  “That no threats or pressure have been made upon you to enter this guilty plea, correct?”

  Just the slightest bit of a hesitation that Pierce notices from Jefferson, a slight tensing of the Ranger’s shoulders.

  “Not a single threat or mention of pressure, Your Honor,” he says.

  Something is not right.

  Something is wrong.

  You’ve got to do something.

  He steps forward, trying to formulate something he’ll say after yelling, Your Honor, please! when his iPhone suddenly chimes.

  Incoming text.

  The judge stares at him, the district attorney turns to look at him, almost everyone in the courtroom is now looking at him.

  He brings up the iPhone, slides his fingers across, sees the text, and shakes his head in amazement.

  By God, he is going to do something.

  Chapter 100

  Afghanistan

  I FIND MYSELF awake again, my left hip and legs still twisting and burning and crawling with pain. I look up, see chiseled rock and stone. I’m in a place, somewhere.

  I spit, blood still in my mouth.

  What the hell has happened?

  The foreign voices continue talking out there, and I wish I had spent some time learning Pashto back in the day.

  It might have been useful.

  Might have been.

  The voices grow louder. I now remember what’s happened in the last long minutes, and as I hear the footsteps of the men coming toward me, I close my eyes and it goes dark again.

  Chapter 101

  SHERIFF EMMA WILLIAMS of Sullivan County thinks it’s about time Judge Howell Rollins steps down, because that brief recess stretched to nearly an hour, and it’s a wonder the old drunk can keep his eyes open, but her thoughts and mood are abruptly interrupted by the sound of someone’s handheld device sounding off.

  Hoo boy, she thinks, someone is about to get their ass in a
sling, because the judge hates cell phones and hates being interrupted, but before the judge can say a word, that smart-alecky Army lawyer steps forward and starts talking in a loud voice.

  “Your Honor, if I may please approach the bench, sir, my name is Allen Pierce, and I’m an Army captain, serving in the Judge Advocate General’s Corps.”

  Loud murmurs and talk from the spectators, and Rollins hammers down his gavel twice. “Are you here to represent Staff Sergeant Jefferson? I’m sorry to tell you, that opportunity is gone. That ship has sailed, Captain Pierce.”

  “I understand, Your Honor,” the lawyer says. “I’m here as part of the Army investigation into those homicides and the alleged participation of the Rangers who were arrested.”

  At last Corny Slate stands up and says, “Your Honor, this is unacceptable. There is no alleged participation…There is evidence from the county sheriff’s investigation, overwhelming evidence that’s led to this Army sergeant pleading guilty.”

  The Army lawyer steps up to the bar and says, “Your Honor, please, I beg for a few minutes’ indulgence. That’s all. I’ve just received an urgent text from Afghanistan saying there is evidence in that country that will be key to determining whether your sentencing should go forward.”

  Judge Rollins’s already red face gets more crimson. “Are you telling me, son, that some judge over there in that Third World country is tryin’ to tell me how to run my courtroom?”

  The JAG lawyer, leather bag in his right hand, shakes his head. “Not at all, Your Honor. Not at all. In the interest of seeing that the very best outcome is made today, sir, please, will you allow me to approach the bench for a few moments? Please?”

  Williams stares at the judge in cold disbelief. What in the hell is going on here? Afghanistan? For real?

  It was settled. It was buried. There should be no mention of Afghanistan at all in this sunny courtroom in Georgia. Not a word.

  Rollins says, “I’ll allow it. No guarantees, you understand. But I’ll allow it.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” the JAG lawyer says. “You won’t regret it.”

  Rollins barks out a laugh. “You better hope you’re right.”

  The Army lawyer steps through the bar’s open gate, and as he approaches the bench, Williams stands up and violently gestures to get the district attorney’s attention. Slate spots her and slinks over like a student about to be disciplined in public by a teacher, which is pretty accurate.

  She grabs a lapel of his suit jacket and gives it a good twist. “Corny, you go up there and stop this shit, right now. Got it? Shut it down, or I swear to God, I’ll make it hurt for you so bad you’ll still be crying ten years from now. Go!”

  Williams pushes him away and returns to her seat, breathing hard, realizing that the courtroom has gone quiet, and that most people are staring at her.

  Not the judge or the district attorney or that black Army lawyer.

  Her.

  She sits down, watches the huddle up there, the Army lawyer speaking, waving an arm around, and Corny doing the same thing, and the old fool Rollins listening to them both, rubbing at his face, nodding, and speaking loudly: “All right, I’ve heard enough. Mr. Slate, you may return to your spot. Captain Pierce…all right, then.”

  Murmurs from the people around her, and even that big, tough staff sergeant over there, in handcuffs and wearing a Ralston jail jumpsuit, looks confused.

  “Sheriff Williams,” the judge says.

  She stands up, now confused as well. “Your Honor?”

  He crooks a finger at her, and she nods, stumbles for a moment, and walks through the open gate of the bar and then up to the bench. The judge of course is sitting higher than her, and she feels out of sorts and exposed. She doesn’t like the feeling.

  Rollins covers the bench’s microphone with his hand and in a low voice says, “Emma, just a bit closer. There. You know what?”

  She shakes her head. “What’s that, Judge?”

  He smiles, his teeth yellow and stained. “I heard what you said a while back, when I adjourned for a recess, and you said I needed a rise, too. Right?”

  With horror she realizes she’s gone too far and says, “Judge Rollins, please, I apologize, I meant—”

  He shakes his head, his greasy-looking smile wide and confident, close enough that she’s able to smell his peppermint-scented breath. “This may be your county, Emma, but this is my goddamn courtroom. I’ll run it the way I see fit…especially if it pisses you off. Now go sit your fat ass down so we can see what the hell Afghanistan has to say.”

  Chapter 102

  ALL RIGHT, CAPTAIN Allen Pierce thinks, standing nervously in front of the judge, let’s make sure this happens. From his leather briefcase he takes out the Army-issue laptop, places it on top of the judge’s bench, powers it up. The screen pops into view.

  He starts checking the icons, goes through the Applications folder, finds the one for Skype, double-clicks. The icon rotates, rotates, rotates.

  “Counselor…” the judge says.

  He feels himself warm with embarrassment, remembering the first time he argued a case before a military tribunal and realized ten minutes in that he had forgotten a key folder of paperwork back in his apartment.

  “Just a moment, Your Honor,” he says, clicking on the keyboard, hearing the titters and giggles from the spectators, knowing the sheriff is probably enjoying his every painful moment.

  Someone stands next to him. “If I may, Your Honor, I believe I can fix this,” comes Huang’s voice.

  “And who the hell are you?”

  “Dr. John Huang,” he says, gently pushing Pierce aside and going to the computer. “I’m an Army lieutenant.”

  “Well,” the judge says, “I guess if anyone can fix a computer, it’s someone like you, huh? And this thing…Skip. You can actually talk to someone in Afghanistan?”

  Huang says, “Yes, sir. Skype.”

  Pierce feels sweet relief pour through him as the familiar log-on page pops up. He goes to his iPhone, copies the address onto the Skype page, and the tone of its ringing sounds. He taps a key and boosts the volume, and—

  A screen pops up, dark but visible.

  Sweet God, it’s the major.

  And he looks horrible.

  A tired-looking Major Jeremiah Cook peers at him, his face lined, worn, and with a growth of beard. Pierce maneuvers the laptop so his own face pops up within the screen.

  “Captain Pierce,” Cook says, “is the hearing for Staff Sergeant Jefferson concluded?”

  “Almost, sir.”

  “Is the judge nearby?”

  “Right here, sir,” he says, rotating the screen so Judge Rollins can see Major Cook. “This is Judge Howell Rollins.”

  The judge leans in and says, “I’ll be damned…Who is this?”

  The major coughs, grimaces. “I’m Major Jeremiah Cook, with the US Army Criminal Investigation Division, operating out of Quantico. I’m leading the team investigating the alleged involvement of the Rangers in the murders that happened last week in your county. Your Honor…thank you for allowing me to speak to you.”

  The judge says, “And where the hell are you, anyway?”

  Pierce looks back at the spectators, and those who can see the screen are leaning forward. It’s so quiet that besides the hiss of the computer’s speakers, the only thing he can hear is the gentle whir-whir of the large fans overhead.

  The screen fades in and out. Cook says, “I’m at an observation post on a mountaintop somewhere in southern Afghanistan…pretty damn close to the Pakistan border. I’ve just interviewed a key witness who has vital information about this case.”

  The video screen vibrates and then settles down, as a muffled boom is heard.

  Cook looks up. “Sorry,” he says. “There’s a squad of Taliban coming up the north side of the ridge, and they’re laying down some mortar rounds. I’ve got to make this quick…”

  Pierce sees that the arrogant and angry face of the judge has cha
nged to something else entirely. “Go on, Major, go on,” the judge says. “Why are you in Afghanistan? What does anything over there have to do with Sullivan County and my court?”

  Another boom, another shake of the screen, and Cook continues, voice tired and strained. “During the course of our investigation, we learned that the Ranger fire team that was arrested in Sullivan County had been accused of committing a similar crime in a small village in Afghanistan. It seemed to be too much of a coincidence. I flew here and found out that this charge was false, that it was a setup by the local Taliban to accuse the Rangers of war crimes.”

  Rollins says, “Major, you’re not telling me that the Taliban came over here and tried to do the same thing again, are you?”

  “No, sir, not at all. But I believe that false accusation served as a…template, or an inspiration for someone down the line. I know the staff sergeant is pleading guilty, in exchange for letting his two surviving squad members go free. I believe he’s doing this out of dedication and loyalty to his men. But please, Your Honor, please don’t accept his plea. I’ve gathered information over here that I believe is vital to what’s going on in Sullivan County.”

  Pierce hears other voices coming out of the speakers, and Cook turns, nods, and says, “They’re approaching the outer wire now, Your Honor.”

  “Hurry up, Major, tell us what you found out,” the judge says, leaning farther over his bench.

  “A couple of months ago, the Rangers were sent home early from a regularly scheduled deployment. That happened days after the Rangers discovered a US citizen raping an Afghan civilian in a private home in a small village. A young boy.”

  Moans and sounds of disgust come from the spectators, and with three sharp blows from his gavel, the judge quiets down the conversations.

  “People!” he yells. “I got a goddamn American soldier under fire, trying to tell us the truth here, and the next person who opens his or her damn mouth is gonna regret it!”

  Pierce is staring at the screen, willing the video to remain in view, for the signal not to cut out, and the judge says, “Go on, Major, please.”