Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

Connie nods. “But the fact they were accused of exactly the same crime in Afghanistan, Major…there has to be a connection. Something.”

My phone rings and I pick it up, seeing the ID marking AGENT M SANCHEZ.

“Cook,” I say. “What do you have, Sanchez?”

His voice is clear and right to the point. “Nothing, Major,” he says. “Wendy Gabriel is gone from her house. And so’s her dog.”

I close my eyes for a brief second. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” he says. “Her car is still there. I gained access to the interior of the house and didn’t find any blood spatter or signs of a struggle or any evidence something bad happened. She and her dog…they’re gone.”

“All right,” I say. “Agent York and I are en route to Briggs Brothers Funeral Home. Meet us there.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, and we both disconnect, and Connie gives me a quick glance.

She says, “Sir?”

“Still here.”

“We’ve just found out that the Rangers were accused of a war crime in Afghanistan, something similar to what happened here in Sullivan County. I think we should be trying to find out more about what happened over there. See if we can talk to those few Rangers who haven’t deployed. Ask Captain O’Connell to revisit his sources. I don’t see why we’re still going to look at those bodies in the funeral home.”

I move my leg, and miracle of miracles, there’s no harsh spasm of pain.

“We’re going there because that’s our job.”

Chapter 36

ONE OF THE REASONS Special Agent Sanchez likes working for Major Cook is because deep down he’s still an NYPD detective, and once Cook got the news about the missing witness, he didn’t waste precious minutes grilling Sanchez on what happened and where Sanchez thought Wendy Gabriel could have gone. There are other matters to address, and now he and the major and Connie York are in the cool basement of Briggs Brothers Funeral Home.

With them is the owner, Ferguson Briggs, who’s also the duly elected coroner for Sullivan County. He’s a slim, gaunt man with a thick head of black hair combed back and basset-hound eyes and jowls. He’s wearing a white knee-length smock over his black pants, white shirt, and black necktie, and for the fifth time this grim day, he says, “Have you folks seen enough?”

Sanchez certainly has, but he’s not going to say a word. Before him and Agent York and Major Cook are the fifth and sixth victims of the shooting at the civilian house, and Sanchez sees that York is having trouble keeping it together.

He doesn’t blame her. This slide-out metal drawer has the young mother—Gina Zachary—and her two-year-old daughter, Polly. Like the other victims, the dead woman has been stripped of her clothing and her body has been washed. Her body is slightly bloated, and her skin is a dead gray-white color. A white sheet is pulled up to her shoulders.

Thankfully, her little girl is under a smaller sheet, completely covered.

But Cook surprises him.

“No, not yet,” he says. “Let’s see the little girl. Polly.”

It’s like the room has chilled down another ten degrees. Briggs looks surprised, and York says, “Sir, are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says. “We’re here to find justice. No matter how grim. Mr. Briggs?”

The funeral home director stiffly walks over, pulls down the sheet. The little girl’s head is turned, thank God. There’s a wound in the center of her little chest, and someone has dressed her in fresh white little-girl panties.

His eyes tear up, thinking of his own little girls. All that innocence, sweetness, pure little-girl joy…snatched away with a brief, harsh moment of violence.

The passing seconds hammer hard, and Sanchez waits, hoping to hear something from the major, until thankfully he says, “All right. Pull the sheet back up.”

Thank God for small favors.

Briggs steps forward, pulls the sheet back over the dead girl, and slides the drawer back into the opening, closes the door. The basement is tile and steel and has the heavy smell of formaldehyde and other chemicals. There are two metal examining tables in the center of the room, with drains underneath, and cabinets and shelves on the other side. The room is well lit.

“Now,” Briggs says, “here’s the last of ’em. Stuart Pike. He’s the gent who was renting The Summer House and who was found in his bed up on the second floor. That girl Gina and her poor little girl, they were both on the floor near the bed. Too bad about that place…all that fine history that happened there and now it’s only gonna be known for all these killings.”

Sanchez looks at the body and then over to Connie. Her face is almost the color of the dead young man in front of them, probably still in shock at having seen the dead little girl. Sanchez doesn’t think Connie has had much experience with homicide victims, having worked most of her police career with the Virginia State Police. He thinks she probably saw a fair amount of traffic accident victims, but there’s a hell of a lot of difference between looking at someone who was killed in an accident—a tire blowing out at a high rate of speed, for instance—and someone like this guy, shot right in the forehead by someone intent on killing.

Cook says, “And are the county investigators finished with their examination?”

“That they are,” Briggs says. “We’ve heard from all the families, and with the investigation complete, we expect we’ll be releasing to them shortly. The poor folks.”

Sanchez says, “No offense, but the bodies haven’t really been autopsied, now, have they?”

Briggs shakes his head. “What, you want me to cut them all open and check their stomach contents? Or saw off the top of their heads, take out their brains and weigh them? What the hell would that prove? You’ve seen it with your own eyes how these poor folks died. What else do you want?”

Sanchez thinks, A complete autopsy and investigation, that’s what we want, and Cook is staring at something. Sanchez tries to see what.

The sheet has fallen off the left side of the drawer, exposing Pike’s right arm.

“Excuse me,” Cook says. “I want to look at this.”

The major limps over and leans his cane against the metal tray. He peers down at the right arm, and Sanchez steps in next to him. Connie stands on the other side of the major.

Sanchez sees a slight lump on the man’s forearm. Cook gently picks up the arm and runs his fingers up and down the cold gray skin. He says, “Do you see it?”

Connie says, “No,” but Sanchez thinks he knows what the major has learned.

“Let me try, sir,” Sanchez says, and like handing off some dreadful prize, Cook holds out the arm to Sanchez. The skin is cold indeed, but there’s something wrong with the wrist. He can actually move it from a midpoint down the length of the forearm.

“It’s broken,” Sanchez says. “Midway down.”

Cook limps around the body of the dead man and goes to his left arm. As before, he lifts up the arm, running his fingers across the forearm.

“Same here,” the major says. “Broken.” He looks at the funeral director. “Were his lower wrists bandaged in any way?”

Bragg rubs at his chin. “I remember so. Both wrists were wrapped up tight with those brown ACE bandages, you know? But no hard cast.”

Cook places Pike’s left arm back onto the metal tray, pulls the sheet over.

Connie says, “Both arms broken.”

“Like someone was sending a message,” Cook says.

Sanchez looks at the single bullet hole in Pike’s forehead. “This guy was on the second floor, in bed. Now we know why he didn’t get out of bed when the door blew open and the gunfire started. He probably couldn’t move quick enough.”