Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

Sanchez says, “You haven’t heard from the major, right?”

York says, “I’ve tried twice. No answer.”

“You sure you’re using the sat phone, right? Agent York?”

Just before she’s about to use her voice to tear off that arrogant cop’s head, her phone rings.

Her cell phone, not the Iridium satellite phone.

She digs into her bag, pulls it out.

BRODERICK CID QUANTICO.

York lets the call go to voicemail, like she’s done three times prior.

Huang asks, “Colonel Broderick, ma’am?”

“The one and only,” she says.

Sanchez says, “One of these days you’re gonna have to answer.”

“Maybe I’ll give the call to you, Agent Sanchez.”

Sanchez looks like he’s going to say something when the phone rings again.

Pierce says, “The colonel’s being persistent this morning.”

York is about to say the same thing when she sees her screen: BLOCKED CALL.

She steps away and answers the phone. “Hello?”

An unfamiliar man’s voice. “Is this the Army cop?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, is this the Army cop? The one looking into The Summer House killings, the one the Army Rangers been charged with?”

“I am,” she says. “I’m Special Agent York of the Army CID. Who’s this?”

“Someone who knows what really happened that night, lady. Someone who wants to let you know.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I was there, and I helped, and it made me sick,” the man says, his voice quivering. “I want to make it right. I want to talk to you, lady. Confess it all. Get a deal and get the hell out of this county.”

“How did you get my number?”

“Peggy Reese, that bitch reporter. But I made a deal…she gave me your number, and I promised to give her the whole story a day later, give you folks enough time to do your job.”

Some of her crew are whispering, and York takes a few steps farther away. “How do I know you’re for real? That you’re not just making it up?”

The man sighs. “I’ll tell you something that’s not in the papers. How’s that? Up on the second floor of the house, right-side bedroom, older lady was drug out from under a bed.”

York says. “Okay…that’s a start.”

“Oh? Then how about this, then? The bedroom across the hall, there were three dead folks. A guy in the bed with bandages on his arms, a chunky woman on the floor, and…a poor dead little girl, right there. Like her momma was trying to protect her.”

The air around her suddenly feels chilled. York says, “I need to see you. Right now. Where?”

The man says, “Shit, not in this county. There’s a Waffle House across the north county line on Gateway Boulevard West, just off Route 204, on the way into Savannah. I’ll see you there in ninety minutes. How’s that?”

“That sounds fine,” she says. “How will I know you?”

The man says, “I’ll be the scared son of bitch sitting by himself at the far end. And you, lady, you come by yourself. Okay? I’ll make sure I’m sitting near an exit door, and if you come by with anybody else, I’m outta there.”

He disconnects the call.

York walks back to her crew, tells them what’s just happened. Not surprisingly, Sanchez makes a fuss. “Damn it, York, this whole county is wrapped up and under that sheriff’s thumb. And you’re going off to meet some clown who said he was there?”

“He told me things that haven’t been made public.”

“Sure,” Sanchez says. “And if the sheriff is in on whatever happened, then she might have fed this guy this info. Set you up. Get you going to that Waffle House, and arrest you for crossing a double-yellow line. You could end up in the county jail and never come out.”

“Good point,” she says. “Which is why you’re going to be in charge when I’m gone, Sanchez, so the investigation continues. You’re going to protect those three surviving Rangers. Make sure nothing happens to them until we hear something from the major. Got it?”

Sanchez finally nods, and Huang and Pierce both say, “Yes, ma’am.”

York nods, too. “Good. Now transfer your gear from that rental. I’ve got places to go, and sorry to say, I’m not driving the one with the dented hood. Based on our luck, the damn thing will pop off about halfway there.”

Twenty minutes later, York pulls over for a quick moment, reaches into her bag, comes out with her SIG Sauer. There’s a round in the chamber, of course, but she wants to make sure she has two spare clips nearby when she goes into the Waffle House.

If it is a trap, she’s going to be ready.

Chapter 71 Afghanistan

I’M IN TEMPORARY QUARTERS for the night, waiting for a convoy to leave Bagram at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow, heading south to Khost to meet up with Major Fredericka West. Earlier she said, “These are supposed to be secure phone lines, but we’re not taking any chances. I’ll set up transport for you. See you late tomorrow morning, Major. Safe travels. Stay low.”

The quarters are an old concrete-block building, subdivided into small plywood cubicles. I’ve had a dinner at the local DFAC, and a quick washup, and I’ve stretched out on a borrowed sleeping bag with a wool blanket over me.

A small lamp on a stand is next to the bed, and close by is my trusted Bruce Catton book, along with my Iridium satellite phone.

I grab the phone, power it up, dial the digits.

Ring, ring, ring.

No answer.

Ring, ring, ring.

Still no answer.

Where’s York? What’s she doing? How’s the rest of the crew?

And the investigation there in Sullivan?

I shut the Iridium down, restart it, and then dial the numbers once more.

Ring.

A crackle of static and I sit straight up, ignoring the bolt of pain that shoots right through my leg and into my skull.

“Major?” comes York’s voice. “Are you all right?”

Her voice is fading in and out, and I go right to the condensed version of what I’ve been doing.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m in Bagram, heading off to Pendahar tomorrow. Look, remember Major Frank Moore, the XO of Fourth Battalion? Got word from a Ranger officer here that he was murdered after visiting Staff Sergeant Jefferson. Bullet wound to the head, pulled out of the Savannah River.”

“Damn,” York says. “Major, things are also moving quickly over here. Witnesses have disappeared, the murder house was burned down, and it looks like Sheriff Williams is running the county as her own personal criminal enterprise.”

Now it’s my turn to swear. York goes on, her voice strong and in charge. “That’s not all. Staff Sergeant Jefferson’s cut a deal with the district attorney. He’s…”

Her voice fades out and there’s a hiss of static, and her voice comes back and says, “So there’s that.”

I raise my voice. “That’s what?”

Her voice cuts through. “He’s pleading guilty! In exchange for pleading guilty, the district attorney is cutting the other two Rangers loose!”

More static and she says, “Hold on, making a turn now.”

“A turn? Where are you?”

A nervous laugh. “On my way to a Waffle House for a very late breakfast! With a witness who says he was at the shooting! Sorry, Major, I think we’re gonna break this case stateside…”

I rub at my aching leg. “Who’s the witness?”

“Don’t know.”

“Is Sanchez with you?”

Her voice fades out again. “…alone.”

“York, don’t you dare go there without backup!” I yell. “I want Sanchez with you!”

There’s silence, not even a whisper of static.

I admire York, I trust York, and I’d love to see York in a bikini, but Sanchez has a more down-and-dirty outlook about humanity, having worked some very mean streets in LA when he was a cop. If York is off to meet somebody claiming to be a witness at a Waffle House, I want Sanchez sitting in a nearby booth, with a cut-down AR-15 across his lap.