Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

Williams says, “No, it hasn’t.”

“Well, so says you,” Jefferson says. “But right now there’s signed paperwork with your district attorney, witnessed by an Army lawyer, that says otherwise.”

“The district attorney, he works for me,” Williams says. “You won’t get away with it.”

He smiles. “Give it your best, Sheriff. But it won’t work. Guarantee it.”

She moves her chair over so she’s closer to him, lowers her voice. “You signed those papers, you signed the obituary for you and your Rangers. This is my county, my land, and I make the rules. Remember that.”

Jefferson scrapes his chair closer, too. “Here’s a story for you, Sheriff. Non-PC, so I apologize in advance.”

“I don’t have time for your tales,” she says.

He says, “Oh, you’ll love this story. Once upon a time an Air Force plane was flying over a remote part of New Guinea when it crashed in a storm. There were three survivors: an Air Force airman, a Navy seaman, and an Army Ranger. They were captured by a tribe of headhunters—see, I told you it wasn’t PC—and the chief said that they were trespassers on his sacred soil and that they were all sentenced to death. But the method of their deaths was up to them. The chief said if they each committed suicide, their skins would be tanned and turned into sacred canoes, and their spirits would live forever among the tribe. If not, then they’d suffer weeks of torture before dying anyway. On a wooden table were a number of weapons. Faced with this horrible choice, the airman picked up a poison capsule, took it, and said, ‘Hurray for the Air Force.’ The seaman saw a rusty revolver with one round in it, and before shooting himself in the head, said, ‘Hurray for the Navy.’”

Jefferson grins at seeing the sheriff hanging on his every word. “Then it came to the Army Ranger. He saw the table full of weapons and then went to another table, which had kitchen utensils, picked up a long two-tined fork and started stabbing himself furiously, up and down his arms, legs, even his chest and abdomen, punching it in, and soon he was bleeding from dozens of wounds. Just before he passed out from blood loss, the tribal chief said, ‘Why did you pick such a painful way to die?’ And the Army guy looked up and said, ‘I’m an Army Ranger. Fuck you and your sacred canoe.’”

Jefferson stands up, heads to the door, where he will hammer on the door and ask to go back to his cell.

“Same to you, Sheriff,” he says.

Chapter 63

SPECIAL AGENT CONNIE YORK spots the correct street number on the mailbox marking the home of Peggy Reese of the Sullivan County Times, and she parks the Ford sedan a few yards up the road. They are in a small housing development of double-wide trailers with carports.

After Cook’s orders hours back, Sanchez spent some time under both vehicles, searching the undercarriages with a flashlight, and said, “Looks clean. I don’t think they’re tracking us in our rentals.” As she switches off the engine and hands the keys over to Sanchez, she thinks this was at least one bit of good news before they all started this early Wednesday morning.

“I’ve got my phone, and I’ve got my service weapon,” Connie says.

“I still don’t like it,” Sanchez says. “For all we know, that woman is a cousin of the sheriff and is ready to take a wrench to your head. You know how everybody down here is always somebody’s uncle, aunt, second or third cousin.”

York opens the door. “Well, if that’s true, let’s hope she’s estranged.”

She walks up the asphalt and then along the driveway. A dog is barking somewhere, and up ahead, a light is on over the front door. Flying insects are making a moving halo around the globe.

One knock on the door is all it takes, and a slim woman with cotton-white hair opens the door. “Right on time,” Peggy Reese says, smiling. “I like you already, Agent York. If that’s who you are.”

Connie digs out her wallet and badge, shows the identification. “This is who I am.”

“Then come right in.”

The inside of the home is clean and orderly, with two couches forming an angle, a kitchen off to the left, bookcases filled with hardcovers and paperbacks, and a coffee table with newspapers on top— Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Peggy is wearing black slacks and a yellow-and-blue Walmart smock, which she tugs off and tosses to the floor. Underneath she has on an old Allman Brothers concert T-shirt, and two large black-and-white cats come tumbling into the living room, hitting each other with their paws.

“Roscoe, Oreo, knock it off!” she says, scooping them up in her arms, giving each a quick nuzzle, and then tossing each onto a separate couch, where they land safely and expertly.

She turns and says, “You know what you call two cats?”

“I don’t know,” Connie says, liking the woman. “A herd? A pride? A duo?”

Peggy smiles. “A crazy cat lady starter kit. Get you a drink before we begin?”

Connie shakes her head. “No…it’s too late, and officially, I’m on duty.”

“Hon, wasn’t going to offer you liquor,” she says. “I like a cold lemonade after a shift. Cleans out the dust and bullshit in my mouth.”

“I’d love one,” she says.

“Be right back,” Peggy says. “Sit on a couch. Hope you like cats. Roscoe and Oreo don’t think I get enough visitors, and they’re right. As long as you’re here, they’ll be either sniffing your hair or biting your feet.”

A few minutes later, she’s sipping on a glass of cold, fresh lemonade, the best Connie’s ever had, and Peggy has a reporter’s notebook and pen in hand. She says, “Mind if we get to work? Won’t make Wednesday’s paper, but if all goes well, it should appear in the Thursday one.”

Connie stifles a yawn. “I’ll do the best I can. But some things I can’t comment on.”

Peggy flips a page in the slim notebook. “Fair enough. Mind telling me your official rank and name, and where you’re from?”

“Special Agent Connie York, US Army Criminal Investigation Division. Stationed in Quantico, Virginia.”

“And you got a major running the show down here,” she says. “Older fella who’s limping. Where is he?”

Connie says, “He’s been…called away.”

“I see,” she says. “Where?”

“I can’t tell you.”

The reporter smiles. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Connie says, “You might not think it’s fun when your part is done.”

“Oh?”

“I need some information about this county,” she says. “Right now, you’re it.”

The reporter’s smile fades. “Let’s just wait and see, all right?”

Fifteen minutes later, Connie is exhausted. Despite the woman’s age, and the rural county she lives in, and the small paper she works for, Peggy is good. Sharp, inquisitive, and when Connie dodges a comment, the older woman doesn’t complain, she just nods and circles back, and a while later tries again. Connie has dealt with reporters over the years, during her time in the Virginia State Police and through her Army service, but this woman—who has one of the black-and-white cats sitting on her shoulders throughout—is one of the best reporters Connie has ever encountered.

Peggy scribbles some more, looks up, and says, “Well, seems like that’s about as much as I’m gonna squeeze out of you this morning ’bout what happened at The Summer House, the poor place.” The notebook slaps shut.

Connie says, “My turn now.”

“Not sure if I can help you.”

“But you know this county, you know the people.”

Peggy carefully says, “Not as much as you’d think.”

“But you’re a reporter here.”