Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

Today she has on her uniform, and it feels good. Even though it’s nice to get into civvy clothes when one’s shift is done, it’s also nice to wear the uniform and to have people look at it, connect her to a powerful organization, and, for the most part, give her the respect and attention she deserves.

She checks the time just as her burner phone chimes.

Right on schedule.

“Yes?” she answers.

Again there’s a burst of static and a harsh whine, and the caller’s familiar voice comes on and says, “Tell me what’s new.”

“The investigation has been officially closed,” she says. “They’ve been ordered to wrap up and go back to Quantico. Within a day everything here will calm down. The Army can screw up here and there, but one thing they’re good at is following orders.”

Even with the bad connection and the distance, she can sense the relief in the man’s voice. “Good news indeed. Finally. Jesus.”

She shakes her head, not happy she has to spoil his good mood.

“But there’s a complication,” she says. “Cook is on his way to Afghanistan. Somehow he found out what happened to the Rangers over there.”

Her desperate man swears for a long minute, and he says, with more bursts of static interrupting him, “…never should have trusted you…gone along with this scheme. Damn it, we’re both going down!”

She says, “Shut up and listen good. We both agreed to this, and we’re both going to see it through. It’s going to take Cook nearly a day to get over there. Lots of time for me to continue cleaning things up on this end. And when he gets there, it’s going to be one crippled CID officer with no orders, no backup, in a combat zone. Lots of bad things can happen to him.”

Hiss of static.

“Like what?” he says.

“Like never you mind,” she says. “But things are getting more complicated. No more calls. Just see it through. In a few more days, it will be fine. Trust me.”

The signal wavers some and then the call is over. Damn him, she thinks. What creature has she hooked her wagon to, anyway?

She gets out of the car, takes the burner phone apart as before, breaking the SIM card, and she scoops out some mud with her dress boot and buries the phone and pieces.

Then she hears the sound of a vehicle approaching.

From the narrow dirt road behind her a mud-spattered black jeep with a black canvas top grinds up through the brush, engine rumbling. On the front bumper a faded sticker is barely visible, showing the bars and stars, and the words THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN.

Two men get out of the jeep, bearded, wearing worn jeans and hooded sweatshirts.

“Hey, sweetie,” the one on the right says, grinning. “Howzabout moving your crap car so we can get by? Hughie and me are in the mood for some four-wheelin’.”

She says, “I was here first. Why don’t you back up and let me get by?”

The two men laugh. The other man says, “Shit, sweetie, you think that uniform impresses us? You’re out of your jurisdiction, hon, so why don’t you move your hunk of junk so we can push on by?”

The driver says, “Yeah. I don’t reverse for no one, and especially some broad who thinks she’s all that.”

She nods. “All right,” she says. “I was just trying to be nice.”

Her pistol slides easily right out of her holster, and she shoots them both in the head.

Chapter 51

SPECIAL AGENT MANUEL SANCHEZ is sitting alone inside his rental car in the parking lot of Briggs Brothers Funeral Home and spots another silver Ford sedan pull up next to him. Sanchez gets out, walks over, and opens the rear door, taking a seat. Pierce and Huang are sitting up front.

The interior of the car stinks of sweat and well-worn clothes.

Sanchez shuts the door. “Any word from the ice queen?”

Pierce’s hands are draped over the steering wheel. “I don’t like that nickname.”

“Tough,” Sanchez says.

Huang says, “We got a text from her a while ago. Seems like the major got himself a flight out of Hunter to Bagram. York’s on her way back, to meet us here.”

Pierce says, “So, what did you find at the dog walker’s house?”

Sanchez says, “Since York is now in command of this little detachment, I’ll wait until she gets here. I don’t want her to get upset that I’m going behind her back.”

Huang shakes his head. “She’s been a warrant officer longer than you. Cook put her in charge. What’s your problem?”

Sanchez says, “I know things. I’ve seen things. Especially when an inexperienced woman takes charge and people get hurt or killed. I don’t mind women being in charge. Only if they’ve got the background. York doesn’t have it. She’s been a state trooper, traveling the mean streets of the Beltway. And—”

Pierce says, “Here she is.”

Sanchez sees the Ford with the battered and scraped hood pull in next to them, and Pierce says, “John, you know, you don’t have to come in here.”

Huang doesn’t wait. “Captain, I’m coming in.”

Sanchez joins the JAG lawyer and the psychiatrist outside as York emerges from her own rental. She looks worn, tired, overwhelmed. Good, he thinks. Maybe later the two of them can have a come-to-Jesus meeting and she’ll do what’s right for the good of the group, letting him take the lead.

York says, “The major is on his way to Bagram, best as I can tell. After I dropped him off, I had a brief talk with Colonel Tringali, the head of the MP unit at Hunter. She knows we’ve been ordered to head back to Quantico, and if she knows, the word will get back to Virginia that we’re not currently packing our bags. We don’t have much time.”

Sanchez says, “Connie, I—”

“It’s Agent York, if you please,” she says. “What is it? We don’t have time to dick around.”

He feels his jaw tense. “Nothing, ma’am, it can wait.”

“Good,” she says, “let’s see what we can get from Mr. Briggs. Pierce, you got some legal mumbo-jumbo that will allow us to grab Stuart Pike’s body?”

“I think so,” he says, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. None of the men had time to shave this morning, and Sanchez is still steaming over York’s put-down.

“All right, let’s do this. Huang, you can stick behind if you want.”

He manages a smile. “Strength in numbers, ma’am. Maybe we’ll scare him straight or something.”

“Maybe,” she says.

With each passing second, each passing minute, York is aware that Major Cook is farther out there over the Atlantic Ocean, heading into a combat zone, while she’s taken command in a little combat zone of her own. Not only does she have to deal with an angry Army MP colonel who wants to see the three surviving Rangers have a date with an executioner’s needle; she also has somebody who’s bugged their rooms and one CID investigator who’s being a royal pain in the ass.

After brushing past the younger Mr. Briggs, she and the others are in the director’s office. Ferguson Briggs looks the same as he did the other day, save the knee-length white smock he previously wore over his black suit, and his dark-brown basset-hound eyes look surprised at seeing his office crowded with four Army personnel. York is sitting in one leather-upholstered chair, Sanchez is sitting next to her, and Pierce and Huang are against the near wall. Hidden speakers air soft classical music.

The place is carpeted, somber, with unread leather-bound books in a bookcase. One wall holds a display of casket styles, complete with finishes and handles, and various framed certificates hang opposite. Briggs’s desk is neat and orderly, with file folders and a thick black binder Connie thinks must contain the pricing options he shows the grieving. About the only object out of place is a plain brown cardboard box, tied together with string.