Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

“That sounds like a good guess, ma’am,” Connie says, and her cell phone starts ringing again. Months ago she selected a standard old-fashioned ringtone for this new handheld and is glad for the solid choice.

“Still not going to answer your phone?”

“It would be rude, ma’am,” she says.

“Why did your major go to see Captain O’Connell carrying a knapsack?” the colonel asks.

Caught, she thinks, caught . All it would take would be this hard-ass MP officer going in and mucking things up. But what can she say?

Stall.

She says, “The major likes to be prepared.”

The cell phone stops ringing.

Tringali says, “If he’s so goddamned prepared, that must be the same for his little squad of investigators. Right? Tell me, Special Agent, does the name Wendell Connor ring a bell? Colonel Wendell Connor?”

Damn it, the name does sound vaguely familiar, but before Connie can think further, Tringali says, “Colonel Connor is the goddamn garrison commander of this post. Tradition and common courtesy would mean your major should have at least met with him to brief him on this investigation.”

“I can’t speak for the major, ma’am,” she says.

“Certainly,” Tringali replies. “But that’s how you’ve operated. Outside normal rules, regulations, and procedures. Just like the goddamn Ninja Squad you’re so eager to clear. But a little birdie from Quantico told me that you and the rest of your squad are being called back and are going to be disbanded. Nothing can save you folks now. You’ve crossed a lot of lines. Just like those Rangers. They’ve crossed the line, and nobody—not even you and your precious major—can save them.”

Tringali opens the door, steps out, and turns around, putting her hands on the roof of the Ford rental and lowering her head to look back inside, just as Connie’s cell phone rings once more.

“How long will your major be in there?”

Just long enough, she thinks. “I don’t know, ma’am.”

“He seems to be a capable fellow, am I right? Able to hitch a ride back to Sullivan when he’s done?”

“Sorry, ma’am, I don’t understand.”

She says, “Then understand this. Get your ass off my post, and don’t ever come back. And answer that goddamn phone already.”

Chapter 48

CAPTAIN ALLEN PIERCE is sitting in the front seat of their Ford rental, with Lieutenant John Huang sitting next to him, silent, parked on a side road underneath the shade of two old oak trees. Earlier they spent a rotten hour at the Ralston town jail, being harassed by the news media, then yelled at and threatened with arrest by tomato-faced Chief Richard Kane.

Pierce says, “Rough morning, am I right?”

Huang softly says, “Not as rough as yesterday.”

Sure, Pierce thinks, when Specialist Tyler slit his wrists and bled out all over his concrete cell floor. He says, “Doc, again, it wasn’t your fault. You were doing your job. That’s it.”

Huang sits up and looks at Pierce with something Pierce has never seen from the doctor before: pure anger.

“Shut up, will you? Captain? Look, if you screw up, that means a defendant is having a bad day, maybe he goes away to Leavenworth until an appeal is made. Or you do something wrong in court and maybe a guy as guilty as sin walks free. But you know what? They’re still goddamn alive, aren’t they? I screw up, a decorated and brave man opens up his veins and bleeds out in a small Georgia town.”

“His choice, Doc, not yours.”

“What kind of doctor was I, then? Was I doing the best I could for him as a patient? No, I was doing what was best for the Army.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you’re an Army officer, John.”

He shakes his head in disgust, plucks at his trousers. “Me? An officer? I’m just a goddamn underpaid psychiatrist who’s never heard a shot fired in anger, has used his service weapon four times—all at the range—and I can’t remember the last time I wore my dress uniform.”

Pierce doesn’t know what to say. He hates to admit it, but Huang is making a good point. He remembers the initial shock of going through the six-week Direct Commission Course at Fort Benning, in this very state, and the tough trial of transferring from a civilian life to a military life. There, the slogan was “Soldier first, Army always.”

But Huang is right. What kind of soldier is he, compared to the Rangers? What can Pierce say to convince Huang that he is a soldier, that he was doing his job?

He takes his cell phone out, dials Sanchez, and Sanchez answers on the first ring.

Pierce says, “How goes it?”

“I’ve wrapped up at this woman’s place. Is Agent York with you?”

“I’ve called her three times. No answer. She must still be at Hunter.”

Sanchez says, “Look, the major told York and me to hit the funeral home, try to grab that kid’s body for a real autopsy. With her out of reach, I’m going over there in a few minutes, and I could use you as a backup. Find some legal way for us to grab the remains.”

Pierce says, “What legal way?”

Sanchez says, “You’re the damn lawyer in this group. Find one.”

He says, “All right. I’ll meet you there. And the doc is coming with me as well. We’re not getting any cooperation from the Ralston police chief to see the other three Rangers.”

“Fine by me,” Sanchez says. “Maybe he can counsel the funeral home director to cooperate with us. See you in a bit.”

“Hey,” Pierce says. “You say you’re done at that woman’s house. Did you find something?”

“I sure as hell did,” Sanchez says, and disconnects the call.

Chapter 49

INSIDE HIS CELL at the Ralston town jail, Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson is sitting cross-legged on his bunk, waiting, thinking, pondering. There’s a fresh smell of soap and bleach in the air, and he knows it’s from yesterday, from cleaning up the adjacent cell after Specialist Vinny Tyler—his man, his responsibility!—ended his life.

A good leader always takes care of his men, always brings them back, the best he can, and he feels bone-deep inside that he’s a failure. Not that he hasn’t lost men before, but that was overseas in the ’stan, where a sniper’s bullet, a mortar round, or an RPG could end a life in the blink of an eye. That was the job. That was the risk everyone took.

But not here. Not in this pissy little cell. Not in Georgia.

Corporal Barnes whispers, “How are you doing, Sergeant?”

“Shut up,” Jefferson says.

The other surviving member of their squad pipes up as well. “Sergeant, we all agreed about what happened. Vinny…he just couldn’t hack it anymore. That’s all. It’s not your fault.”

“Ruiz?”

“Yes?”

“You can shut up, too.”

They quiet down.

He continues to sit, brooding.

Out there is his other responsibility, his stepdaughter, Carol, though truthfully, he never really uses the word step . The two of them bonded almost instantly when he started seeing her mother, Janice, with none of the fighting and griping about “You’re not my real daddy,” and she was his daughter as much as any biological father’s out there.

He wonders how she is. He wonders about Major Moore, the battalion’s XO, if he got to Aunt Sophie in time.

The planning, the agreements, everything else must stay in place.

Jefferson realizes he’s clenching his fists.

But what if he’s wrong?

And what if all this ends up killing the last two members of his squad?

Chapter 50

SHE CAN’T SEE Hunter Army Airfield, but the noise of the aircraft taking off and landing can be heard just beyond the thick grove of pines and messy swamp. Mosquitoes fly around her in clouds, and after a minute she gets back into her civilian car, waits, slapping and killing two of the little monsters that got into the car with her.