Джеймс Паттерсон: The Summer House

“Oh, boss,” she says, “that’s horrible.”

“It’s bound to get worse,” he says. “See you in Georgia.”

Chapter 5

IT TOOK LESS than four hours to fly via Delta from Dulles to Savannah and its small, fifteen-gate airport—grandly named Savannah/Hilton Head International—and I was fortunate to have an aisle seat to stretch my leg. The long, brick terminal is topped by a glass atrium. Using a cane and rolling my black carry-on luggage, I walk past a number of potted tropical trees in the few minutes it takes to get outside.

It’s just past 5:00 p.m., with less than two hours of daylight left, and I’m planning to use as much of that time as possible. It’s muggy warm—low eighties, it seems—and I spot among the coach buses and other vehicles trundling through the ground transportation area Special Agent Connie York standing next to a parked silver Ford Fusion, the rental vehicle of choice for government travelers.

She has on a simple black suit-jacket-and-slacks outfit, with a plain white buttoned blouse, and I have a quick, inappropriate observation that I’ve never seen her in a dress. That’s the atavistic, chauvinist part of me, which thankfully is almost always overruled by the competent leadership part of me that recognizes her skills as a CID investigator.

Besides, I’m also plainly dressed in one of my two black suits, and like her, I’m armed with a 9mm SIG Sauer P228 pistol.

Connie pops open the trunk, respectfully allowing me to pick up and toss in my luggage.

“How many history books do you have packed in there, boss?” she asks, slamming the lid shut.

“Just enough,” I say. “Barely.”

She steps to the driver’s door, and as I enter the pleasant, clean, and cool passenger side of the car, I struggle for only a moment, fastening the seat belt without it tangling around my cane.

Connie accelerates from the concrete parking area into a flat landscape dotted with trees and mowed grass, and she says, “How was your flight?”

“On time.”

“And how’s your leg doing?”

“Still connected to my hip, still hurting like a son of bitch,” I say. “What quarters did you get for us?”

We’re out of the airport proper and on I-95, heading south, and Connie says, “The best the town of Sullivan has to offer. The Route 119 Motel and Coffee Shop. Less than an hour out. We have three rooms plus a room to use for work.”

“Good job,” I say. “What else do you know?”

She speeds up the Ford. “You told me to set up the unit’s housekeeping. That’s what I did.”

“And I know you did more,” I say. “Give.”

The traffic on the interstate is moving fast and freely, and suddenly I’m back in my convoy roaring through the desert. Mouth dry, I scan for slow-moving trucks or cars, or clusters of men standing at the side of the road, looking for a particular man who holds a cell phone programmed to trigger a bomb.

I chew my tongue, try to get the saliva working. Georgia, I tell myself. We’re in Georgia. We’re not in bandit country. We’re in the Peach State, so relax already. We’re not in Afghanistan. We’re never going back to Afghanistan.

“The story’s now made all the papers, from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and the Savannah Morning News to the local Sullivan County Times, but no television coverage yet, though that will change,” she says. “The initial reporting just has four Army personnel in custody, with no mention of their Ranger affiliation or the number of civilians murdered. But once the news gets out about who they are, who they killed, the headlines and coverage will go berserk.”

A low bank of thunderclouds is off to the south. I see two flashes of lightning illuminate the gray-black of the clouds. Connie’s thick blond hair, trimmed short, seems to be wilting after a day in the humid Georgia air.

“Where are the Rangers now?”

“They’re being held in the town of Ralston, just south of Sullivan. The county sheriff arrested them late last night, at a roadhouse in that town, and took the four of them to the nearest jail.”

“And the shootings took place Wednesday evening?”

“That’s right,” she says. “The local paper says a visitor came to the house Thursday morning, found it full of dead civilians.”

“And less than forty-eight hours later they’ve made arrests for multiple homicides.”

“Tells you the sheriff’s department there is either very good, very lax, or very lucky. Or a combination thereof.”

“What else?” I ask.

She says, “It’s a typical small Southern town, boss. I showed the clerk my ID when I registered the group at the motel, and I’m sure everyone around here will know tonight that the Army’s coming in.”

“And when do we expect the rest of our crew?”

Connie looks at a watch encircling her tanned wrist with a thin gold band. I think I can make out delicate blond hairs there. “Captain Pierce will be here in about an hour. Dr. Huang and Agent Sanchez…they’re both coming in from the West Coast, Huang from San Francisco, Sanchez from LA. Barring any flight delays, they should be in Savannah around midnight.”

“All right,” I say.

“You need me to pick any of them up?”

“No, we’re going to need at least three sets of wheels for our work. I’m sure you told them where we’re staying. What do you know about the county sheriff?”

“Emma Williams,” she says. “Has been sheriff for a number of years. It’s an elected position in Sullivan County, and most of the county is rural. Which means she and her deputies do the bulk of the law enforcement.”

I take out my iPhone, work a few buttons and tabs, pull up a map, and say, “The Rangers live either at or near Hunter Army Airfield, south of Savannah. And they’re arrested at a roadhouse nearly an hour’s drive away. What, they don’t have good drinking establishments near their post?”

“It’s a puzzle,” she says, and maneuvers us onto an exit ramp, and now we’re on Interstate 16, heading west. The land is still flat and mostly covered with trees. Not too long to get rural from the grandly named international airport.

“Along with why they traveled to Sullivan to shoot up a houseful of civilians. Must be one hell of a motive.”

“Or accident,” she says. “Maybe they planned to hit a certain house and hit the wrong one.”

“They’re Rangers,” I say. “They plan in their sleep. They don’t hit the wrong house.”

A few seconds pass and I feel an urge to ask her about the date I interrupted earlier with my phone call, but I decide to drop it. Connie’s gone twice to the marital altar with fellow Army personnel and then to divorce court, and I get the feeling she’s not interested in any particular male at the moment, including me.

I still have the iPhone in my hand, and after doing a bit of heavy and complicated research with the Great God Google, I find the number I’m looking for and dial it, then activate the speakerphone so Connie can listen in.

The phone rings once and is then picked up. “Sullivan County Dispatch. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

A crisp, professional-sounding woman. I put the iPhone closer to my mouth and say, “This is Major Jeremiah Cook, US Army CID from Quantico, calling for Sheriff Williams.”

The woman dispatcher says, “Please hold for a moment, Major Cook,” and we’re placed on a silent hold. No music, no sound of static, no chirpy voice thanking the caller for choosing Sullivan County for their law enforcement needs.

The dispatcher comes back on. “Major Cook? I have Sheriff Williams on the line.”

A stronger, older woman’s voice comes on and says, “Major? This is Sullivan County sheriff Williams. What can I do for you?”