Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

This deputy, this disgraced soldier, this killer sitting so calmly across from her, he is her own Help feature.

Damn, won’t the major be happy when she calls him later.

“But here’s the big question, Dwight,” she says. “Why? What was the real reason to frame the Rangers for those killings? What was it?”

He seems to be wrestling with something, and she says, “Dwight, what I signed there, I’m behind it one hundred percent. I won’t let you be by yourself. I promise.”

The man squeezes his hands together. “It had something to do with Afghanistan, when they was there.”

Afghanistan, she thinks, just like Major Cook thought.

“Dwight,” she says, “tell me.”

In the parking lot of the Waffle House, Bo Leighton carefully parks the stolen Honda Accord that he and his cousin Ricky lifted a few minutes ago after they had tailed the guy earlier from Sullivan. Lesson he learned a long time ago is that if you need wheels, get something dull-looking and ordinary that doesn’t stand out, and then use it quick, ’fore the owner makes the call and the stolen car is sent out over the wires.

He and Ricky are both wearing black wrestling sneakers, loose khaki pants, and short black hoodies. Each has a ski mask on his head, ready to be pulled down in the next thirty seconds when they start dancing.

Bo switches off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. He says, “You ready?”

His cousin says, “Damn it, now that I’m here, I’m kinda hungry. Why can’t we get something to eat and then do the job?”

Bo feels the usual frustration bubble to the surface. His cousin has dead-aim with a gun and is quick with his fists and boots, but most times he fails to see the larger picture. Like the time when he was first picked up on an adult charge that got reduced, and he was on work release, with two weeks left on his sentence, and he left a county lawn-mowing job to get a beer at a nearby tavern. In doing so, he got an extra twelve months tacked on for attempted escape. And why? I was thirsty for a beer, he said.

Bo swivels in his seat and picks up a black gym bag, unzips it, and hands over a Desert Eagle .45 semiautomatic pistol. “Because we were told by Sheriff Emma that the job has to be done now, as soon as possible.”

“Funny thing, what we’re about to do to that deputy, ’cause of his boss.” Ricky works the action of the Desert Eagle, sits up, and slides it into his waistband.

Bo does the same with his. “Don’t worry, he’ll get a nice cop funeral. Make his family so proud.”

Before Bo opens the door, Ricky says, “What happens if some other cop or do-gooder gets in the way?”

Bo says, “Kill ’em all.”

Chapter 73

THE DEPUTY BEFORE York is about to speak when two men burst through the door at the far end, wearing ski masks over their heads and brandishing pistols. One yells out, “Nobody moves! This is a goddamn robbery!”

York instantly thinks, No, no, it isn’t —she doesn’t believe in coincidences—and lowers her right hand to her open bag to grab her SIG Sauer. She says, “Stay put, Dwight, stay put.”

But Dwight’s flipped his head around, spots the two men. “Shit,” he says.

The first gunman is pointing his pistol at the cashier, making her put cash into a small green plastic bag. The nearer gunman is slowly walking down the center aisle. He yells out, “Hands on the table! Now! Hands where I can see ’em!”

Some whispers and words from the customers as they all follow the shouted directions, and the gunman says, “Freeze! I want everybody to stay put. We’ll be outta here in a minute!”

York doesn’t believe him. She quickly grabs a napkin, covers her right hand with it, and in a moment has both hands on the table, the napkin concealing her pistol.

In a low voice she says, “Dwight. Slide under the table, now.”

With the man at the other end focusing on getting the money—a cover for what they’re actually here for, York has no doubt—the approaching gunman is looking at each customer as he comes down the aisle.

But the mask is screwing up his peripheral vision.

They have a few seconds of grace.

“Dwight,” she says again. “Slide under the table.”

But Dwight says, “Screw this.”

He jumps up from the booth, runs to the door marked EXIT, and York pulls her gun hand free as the nearest gunman says, “Gotcha, Dwight!”

He fires twice, and York fires just as quickly.

Screams, shouts.

Dwight collapses against the closed door, his white T-shirt torn and bloody, and York stands up, both hands on her pistol, and approaches the gunman sprawled out on the floor as his companion whirls and dives out the front door.

“Federal agent!” she yells. “Everybody, stay where you are!”

Screams, shouts, dishes falling to the floor and breaking. She gets closer to the gunman, looks down at him, then quickly glances around at the frightened customers, making sure there isn’t a third gunman hidden out there.

York points to a bearded man with a John Deere cap and yells. “You! Call 911!”

The gunman has three wounds right in the center of his chest, and his legs are crumpled underneath him, like all the muscles and ligaments have turned to jelly.

His pistol is on the floor.

A young boy in a nearby booth turns around and reaches to pick it up.

York yells, “Kid, no, don’t touch the gun!”

And the second gunman comes back in the front door.

York lifts up her pistol—

A gunshot and a hammering blow to her head.

Darkness.

Chapter 74

SPECIAL AGENT MANUEL SANCHEZ is on his way to the Ralston jail, the other Ford behind him, Pierce driving, Doc Huang sitting next to him.

After York left for her trip to the Waffle House— How in hell can anybody seriously eat at a place that sounds like it belongs in a Disney park? Sanchez thinks—they went back to the convenience store to see if they could get the current manager to say anything more about the indictment that’s put the store in danger, but the manager they talked to last had been replaced by a gracious woman with about a half dozen English words in her vocabulary.

Another visit to the funeral home revealed the director is gone on an unexpected trip to Atlanta, and District Attorney Cornelius Slate is in the middle of a trial and can’t be disturbed.

The sky is overcast, and Sanchez feels, yeah, a big-ass storm is coming, and everyone’s heading for the hills.

Sanchez is in a hurry, but he’s keeping his speed right below the limit. No use giving Sheriff Williams and her criminal gang an opportunity to pull them over for speeding. He did the same back in LA as a cop, when looking for any excuse to—

The other Ford is flashing its lights, honking its horn, and his phone starts ringing.

Damn it, he thinks, something must be up.

He pulls over the Ford, braking hard, tossing up a cloud of dust from the side of the road. Around them are nothing but trees, fields, barbed wire, and skinny cows.

Sanchez gets out as Huang and Pierce come over to him, both looking worried.

“Give,” he says.

The dust settles. Huang gives him his phone, set to the home page of an Atlanta TV station.

Two killed, one seriously wounded at Waffle House robbery.

Sanchez tries to scroll through the screen, but he does it wrong, and a goddamn weather app shows up.

Pierce wipes at his forehead. “They’re not identifying the two dead,” the JAG lawyer says, “but the seriously wounded is a woman. We’ve been calling Connie’s cell ever since the story broke. No answer.”

“What now?” Huang says. “Manny, what do we do now?”

Sanchez gives the smartphone back to Pierce. “I’m heading to Savannah. You find out what hospital York’s been taken to, let me know. If she learned anything before the sons of bitches started shooting, I want to find out.”