Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

The flush on his face deepens. “Ah, Sheriff, with all due respect, I am the senior law enforcement officer in this county. I really don’t have to, ah, clear anything with you.”

She eyes him coldly as she chews on the sausage link. Slate stays quiet. Williams reaches out and takes the last link off his plate. “Corny, with all due respect, do I really need to reaffirm the facts of life for you? Do I? Remind you of the times my boys drove you home from the American Legion or the Trackside Roadhouse when you had too much to drink? Or the time that your nephew Bobby Tim beat the crap out of his wife, a real embarrassing mess for you, and I took care of it? Or other times we helped out your office in finding last-minute evidence that let you prosecute cases that were dead-enders?”

Slate picks up a forkful of scrambled eggs, changes his mind, puts the fork back down on his plate. “Ah, that’s all in the past now, isn’t it? The truth is, I don’t have to clear anything with you now, Sheriff. What happened is the staff sergeant agreed to plead guilty at the hearing tomorrow. That gets that case out of here, saves time and money for the county. Everybody wins.”

Williams takes her time chewing the last of his sausage link. “Win? What kind of win is that? Those two other Rangers go free.”

“But you know there’s no forensic evidence linking them to the crimes. It all goes back to the staff sergeant. He’s taking the blame, and it’s still a win.”

She chews some more. “I don’t see it that way.”

“Well, I do, Sheriff.”

“You know what I see? I see you up for reelection next Tuesday, running against that Falconer fella, and you want to crush him. You had the votes, Corny, to win…but that wasn’t enough. You want to go into Tuesday’s election with this high-profile case behind you. The case of The Summer House murders. Impress the voters. Make it a landslide instead of a decent win. Make up for all your shortcomings.”

Slate lowers his eyes.

Williams says, “Hell, that’s not a bad strategy, Corny, but you should have cleared it with me first. You know it, and I know it. But you had to go rogue, go off the reservation, and I can’t—and won’t—stand for that. Pretty soon I’ll have to square accounts with you, and I warn you, it won’t be pretty.”

He lifts his eyes, looking defiant. “How’s that, Sheriff? Word we get is that when Mason gets elected to the Senate, he’s taking you along to Washington. Good for you—you’re heading out, going to your dream job and place of residence. That means those of us back here, we’re on our own. We need to look out for ourselves. That’s the truth.”

She picks up a napkin, wipes the grease off her fingers. The truth is the truth, and she has hitched her hopes and dreams to Representative Mason Conover, doing what it takes to get him elected to the Senate—even putting up with his whiny phone calls these past few days—but why admit it to this clown?

“Aw, hell, Corny, what makes you think that? Sure, I might be leaving Sullivan County if the congressman wants me to come along after he wins, but I intend to keep my organization in place, humming along, even with me gone. Deputy Lindsay, he’ll be taking my place. Just you wait and see.”

Slate’s eyes widen. “That boy Clark Lindsay? Are you kidding? He’s the one who shot and killed Mrs. Gendron’s dog.”

“The dog charged him.”

“The dog was blind!” Slate says.

“Still, it should have known better,” Williams says, tossing the used napkin on the district attorney’s plate. “Thing is, Corny, if everybody knew their place and stayed in their place, it’d be a better world.”

The waitress from earlier comes over, puts down a white mug of coffee. Williams picks up the coffee cup, gently blows across it.

“Ah,” she says, taking a sip. “Nice and black. Just like our souls, Corny.”

Chapter 68 Afghanistan

MY NOT-SO-GREAT ESCAPE ends with me coming up against a smooth concrete wall, maybe a blast barrier or something separating this part of the compound from another set of buildings. I turn, and two male corporals in standard ACUs and carrying holstered pistols approach me, wearing patrol caps and very serious looks on their faces.

“Major Cook?” the one on the left asks.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say, returning their salutes, feeling tired, defeated, and just worn-out. All the way here and to be picked up in a narrow alley by two MPs, no doubt dispatched from Quantico, way on the other side of the world. Mission definitely not accomplished.

I’m in deep trouble, and with the pain and the exhaustion coursing through me, I also feel shame, that I’m letting down not only my investigative squad but also the three imprisoned Rangers.

The one on the left says, “Sir, would you come with us? Please?”

The other one steps forward, holds out a hand. “I’ll take your rucksack, sir.”

Then I notice the special skill tab on the soldier’s shoulder: RANGER.

We’re traveling on one of the access roads paralleling the main Bagram runway when the corporal driving says, “Sir?”

I’m sitting in the rear of the uncomfortable Humvee, my muscle memory roaring back, reminding me of a previous ride in a Humvee and how it nearly killed me and—

“Yes?”

“Do me a favor, sir, huddle over and pretend you’re napping, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a checkpoint up ahead. I think they might be looking for you…and I got my orders.”

Shit, I think, and I lower my cap and hunch over to my right, like I’m resting against my rucksack. The Humvee slows. The front door opens. Some voices.

I try to ease my breathing, like I’m really asleep, instead of being moments away from being arrested for a variety of charges.

The door is shut.

The Humvee resumes its motion.

The corporal says, “Boy, the MPs sure are stirred up about an Army major named Cook who smuggled himself into this shithole. Lucky for me, I didn’t spot your name tag back there.”

I slowly sit up. “Some luck.”

A few minutes after the checkpoint, I’m in a cluttered cubicle made of plywood, in a secure area near the runway. The sounds of jets taking off and landing and the deep thump-thump of helicopters roaring overhead is constant, and before me is an Army Ranger captain talking to someone on a phone. The plywood walls are covered with maps, calendars, charts, and a Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders poster.

The captain says, “Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am…I understand, ma’am.”

He suddenly stands up, a frown on his weathered face, and says, “This call is for you, Major. Excuse me while I step out.”

I take the phone and wait until the captain leaves the cubicle, a thin squeaky wooden door closing behind him, and I say, “This is Major Cook.”

A strong woman’s voice comes across the phone line. “This is Major Fredericka West, Special Troops Battalion, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment, out of Fort Benning. We need to talk.”

I feel like a wide-eyed young rookie out on his first real street patrol back in the NYPD, facing real trouble for the first time. “Major…about what?”

“I don’t want to do it over the phone,” she says. “Has to be face-to-face.”

“Here?” I ask as an overhead helicopter makes the plywood walls shake.

“Hell no,” she says. “Where I am. At an FOB near Khost. Close to a village called Pendahar. Interested in seeing me now?”

“Very much so,” I say. “But, Major…how did you…I mean…”

Her voice is filled with steel and determination. “I’m with the battalion’s Military Intelligence Company. And one bit of interesting intelligence has come my way in the last twelve hours. You know Major Frank Moore?”