Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

Sixty-three.

Sixty-four.

The road is a straightaway now, and the pursuing lights are getting closer, like they’re egging her on. She quickly wishes she was back with the Virginia State Police with backup only a radio call away.

In a calm voice, Cook says, “Intersection coming up. Light’s still green.”

Connie’s tempted to slow down with all that civilian traffic crowding up the intersection, but no, she’s getting angrier that she and the major are being chased at night in this rural town in Georgia, like moonshiners being chased by the cops.

“Light’s turning yellow,” Cook says.

“No worries,” Connie says.

They race through the intersection, horns honking and screaming at them, Connie expertly passing a blue van slowing to make the stop. Up ahead the road swerves hard to the left, and she lets her foot off the accelerator, switches off the headlights. Turning hard, Connie pulls into the parking lot of a McDonald’s, quickly halting the Ford between a parked pickup truck and a mud-spattered Toyota, using the emergency brake to prevent any brake lights from popping on back there.

She turns and sees a black Dodge Charger roar by, and then she slips the Ford out of the parking lot and soon pulls up behind it, keeping the headlights off for a moment.

Cook says, “Well done, Connie.”

Even with the adrenaline rush from this ongoing chase Connie feels a spark of pleasure from her boss’s praise in a tight situation like this. She turns on the headlights, flicks them to high beams, and says in a heavy drawl, “The Virginia State Police aims to serve, suh.”

No answer, but that’s fine.

She barrels up right to the rear of the Charger, and she can see movement inside, like the passenger or driver is looking out the rear window, trying to see who’s now chasing them.

“Sucks to be on the other side,” she says.

And the major says, “Keep at it, keep hammering them.”

The Charger makes an abrupt right onto a narrow road, and Connie swears, missing the turnoff. She slams on the brakes, the Ford sedan shivers and comes to a halt, and she slams the shifter into reverse, the transmission grinding a complaint.

Cook looks behind and says, “Clear.”

Into drive.

Down the narrow road.

The Charger’s lights are now off, but she catches a brief glimpse of it as it passes under a utility light, and she punches the accelerator down. The Ford roars into life as she resumes the chase, everything narrowed and focused into a tube before her, looking at the Dodge speeding away, barely noticing the flick-flick-flick of objects passing by, like trailers and dirt driveways and utility poles.

As the road gets emptier, the taillights up ahead come on, and she knows the driver of the Charger is concerned about crashing into something in the dark, sacrificing stealth for safety.

The lane gets narrower. No more driveways. No more distant lights.

A yellow-and-black sign is visible for a second.

DEAD END.

“Good,” Cook says.

A thump as the pavement gives way to dirt.

“Sir,” she says, “I think—”

The taillights up ahead drop from sight.

Something moves across her field of vision.

Connie slams on the brakes, the Ford sedan fishtailing as the tires try to grip the dirt-and-gravel road and—

For the briefest of moments, a chest-high white metal pipe blocking the road snaps into view, and Connie closes her eyes as the car hits it hard.

Chapter 23

IN THE LAST few seconds of our chase I try to focus on Connie’s superb driving skills as we force the Dodge Charger into a dead-end lane, but my mind is racing back to last year, and the voices come to me:

Move, move, move.

Faster.

We ’re taking fire.

Connie slams on the brakes.

The Ford skids.

Then a loud bone-shattering thud and metal scraping and screaming and—

Not there.

Here.

We’ve hit a metal pole set across the dirt road, and my chest hurts from slamming against the shoulder harness. My cane is on the floor, but my hand is still holding my SIG Sauer.

Dust clouds settle in front of us. The hood of the sedan is scraped and dented, the heavy white metal pole just a few inches away from the windshield. Any faster or lower, the pole would have shattered the windshield and taken off our respective heads.

I hold the SIG Sauer with both hands so Connie can’t see the shaking. But my left leg, still quietly howling in pain, starts a series of tremors.

“You all right, Connie?”

“Sir…yes. Sorry, are you okay?”

Fire, I think. Slight chance, but what if that collision tore something in the fuel line and there’s a spark? We’re trapped here and Connie can easily get out, but—

I take a breath. “Can you back us out?”

She shifts the car into reverse, backs us out, metal groaning and moaning. The headlights pick up a large dip in the road, explaining why the taillights from the speeding car ahead of us had seemingly disappeared.

Trees and brush are close by, and I see the bent metal pole, set across the dirt lane. At one end is a chain lock, and on the other side is a large bolt mechanism, allowing it to be raised and lowered at will.

I take another breath, squeeze my hands tighter around the comforting grip of the pistol. “This is how it happened,” I say. “One of the guys in the Charger calls a friend. ‘We’re being chased.’ The friend says, ‘Go down this road, get a bit of a lead, and I’ll take care of it.’ The Charger races past the open gate, their friend drops the gate, almost in time to take our heads off. Just like in the ’stan. Villagers and the Taliban, out there keeping watch, talking on cell phones, ready to hit us when they’re good and ready.”

Connie rubs her face with both hands. “Seems like a good explanation, sir.”

My heart rate is calming down. I look around at the darkness about us, imagine men hidden there, watching us, considering us, armed and waiting.

At least we’re not on fire.

“Ask you a question, Connie?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Your first marriage. To George. Why did it end?”

She says not a word, which I expected.

Chapter 24

CONNIE TURNS AND stares at Major Cook. After this chase and the collision and nearly having both of their heads torn off, why in God’s name is he asking her about her first failed marriage?

What the hell is going on?

Cook is quiet, but Connie gives him a good long look, sees his cane on the floor, his left injured leg shaking, his hands gripping his SIG Sauer, and his eyes looking straight out there into the darkness.

Now she knows.

He’s not all here.

Part of him is back in Afghanistan.

Asking her about her first failed marriage…something safe, something domestic to talk about after this violent chase reminded him of a war zone.

He’s trying to get back here, all of him.

“Boxes, sir,” she says, noticing the Ford’s engine is running rough.

“Go on.”

“After we moved in together, he had about twenty cardboard boxes filled with books, clothing, all that stuff,” she says. “And when he got it all unpacked, he kept the empty boxes in the basement, all neatly piled up. Month after month I bugged him to get rid of the boxes, they were taking up so much space. And when he didn’t do that…”

Her boss says, “You knew that deep down, where it counted, he wasn’t committed to the marriage. And Walter? What was his deal?”

She tightens her grip on the steering wheel, lifts herself up a bit from the seat, peers ahead. The dust has settled and there’s nothing more to be seen.

Connie says, “Walter was one for setting traps. Like cleaning out the dishwasher, folding the laundry, getting the oil changed in the car, all without me asking. And those were his traps. ‘Connie, didn’t you see what I did? Why don’t I get credit? Why don’t you notice me?’ And I told him, ‘Walter, you’re so big into ambushes, why the hell don’t you transfer from CID to an infantry unit?’”