Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

The security guard who chased him out of York’s room is still in there.

Why?

Bo Leighton spent a summer years back working as a volunteer EMT-firefighter for Sullivan County ’fore he was let go on suspicion of lifting some painkillers—which was true, though nobody could prove it—so he knows to disconnect the bitch’s breathing tube before putting the pillow over her to smother out her life.

There.

Pillow down.

The body is so banged up and hooked up it doesn’t even move as its airway is cut off.

There’s beeping, booping, and bleeping from various instruments, and then the door slides open with a hard slam !

He looks up in surprise, seeing that Army agent standing right in the doorway.

One hand still on the pillow, he goes for the borrowed utility belt…

Sanchez steps in and sees the security guard smothering York with a room pillow.

He snaps up his SIG Sauer as the guy reaches for his utility belt and—

Pop! Pop! Pop!

The man falls away and crumples to the floor.

Shouts and yells come from outside.

He steps over to Connie, sees the fake security guard splayed out on the ground like a clumsy starfish, the pillow torn up, and blood starting to pool on the tile. The guard’s skin is rapidly graying out.

Sanchez turns as a frightened-looking woman nurse peers in, her face pale in shock.

He holds up his pistol in his right hand, his badge and identification in the other.

“I’m a federal agent!” he calls out. “Special Agent Sanchez, United States Army. This man was trying to murder your patient! Please! I need help in here!”

The nurse ducks back. More yells, shouts out there. He can just imagine the chaos he’s caused with the shooting.

Sanchez yells, “Your patient is dying! The man here tried to smother her! Please…somebody come in and look at her! Again, I’m a federal agent!”

A strong woman’s voice says, “Put your pistol on the floor, then I’ll come in.”

Sanchez doesn’t want to disarm himself but decides there’s no other option. He steps forward, puts his SIG Sauer on the tile. “My weapon’s on the floor, so you can come in and fix things. Okay?”

A female nurse in light-green scrubs and white sneakers comes in, looks down at the pistol, and then goes right over to York’s bed and, in a series of quick, fluid movements, seems to get everything put back in place.

When she’s finished, she says, “All right, I’ve reattached her tube…The man on the floor?”

“Not a security guard, I’m sure.”

She starts to walk over. “His condition?”

“Most definitely dead,” Sanchez says, and then he scoots over, leans down, and picks up the man’s Desert Eagle.

The nurse steps back in shock. “You promised.”

“That I did,” he says. “So you could come in and fix things. Now you can leave.”

The nurse heads to the door. “Mister, you better be what you say you are, and that man better be an imposter. The ICU out there is filling up with every cop and SWAT team member between here and Atlanta.”

“I’m sure,” Sanchez says. “And if you get a moment, tell them I’m here, and I’m not leaving. The only people who get in and touch that woman will be two medical personnel at the same time, with full identification.”

The nurse says, “That must be some woman. Who is she?”

Sanchez looks over to the grievously wounded Connie York.

“She’s my boss,” he says.

Chapter 80

LIEUTENANT JOHN HUANG wakes up in the hard plastic chair, back aching, mouth dry, with Captain Allen Pierce tapping his shoulder and whispering in his ear.

“Somebody’s coming,” he says. “Wake up.”

The tone of voice from Pierce has definitely gotten Huang’s attention.

He sits up, rubbing at his eyes. The place is dimly lit. There are three closed doors: one leading to the jail cells, another going into the police department proper, and a glass one leading outside.

Shadows are moving out there.

“What’s going on?” Huang asks. “Reporters?”

“I wish,” Pierce says, standing up. “It’s two in the morning. You ever run into journalists at 2:00 a.m.? Most of the time they’re sleeping it off or getting drunk in a motel bar, complaining about their editors.”

Huang stands up as well, wiping his face once more. He’s hungry and thirsty, and his back is aching something awful.

The shadows are coming closer.

Huang says, “No offense, Allen, but I sure wish Major Cook was here.”

“No offense taken,” Pierce says. “God knows what kind of reception he’s getting in the ’stan.”

A moment slips by.

Pierce says, “Get your service weapon out.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Lieutenant. Now.”

Huang clumsily takes his SIG Sauer out of his side holster, the weight feeling odd and uncomfortable in his hand. Pierce, though, holds his pistol casually, like he’s been around weapons all his life.

“They’re getting closer,” Huang says.

“Yeah.”

“Should we tell somebody here?”

“Marcy, the jail attendant? By the time we get real police here it’ll be too late.”

“At least the door is locked,” Huang says.

“Yeah.”

Two people come to the door, and Huang feels his heart rate thump right along, and the hand holding his pistol is growing warm and moist.

A click, the door is unlocked, and a large man and woman come in, both wearing Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department uniforms.

Pierce says, “Help you, Sheriff Williams?”

Huang recognizes the woman, but her whole demeanor and even the look of her face has changed. Earlier she had a hard and confident smile and bearing, like she was in charge of everything around her.

Now?

Her face is pasty and she looks tired, but her eyes are flashing with heat and anger.

The other officer is a deputy with LINDSAY on his name tag. He is one of the biggest and bulkiest men Huang has ever seen, and Huang can feel violence ready to be released from the man, if the sheriff wills it.

“Holster your weapons,” she says. “Now.”

Huang waits and follows Pierce’s lead. “As a courtesy, Sheriff. No problem.”

Pierce returns his SIG Sauer to his holster, and Huang does the same with his own, though it takes two attempts to do so, making the deputy smile.

The sheriff says, “Mind telling me what the hell you two are doing here?”

Pierce says, “Keeping an eye on the place.”

“You don’t belong here,” she says. “Get out.”

“I’m afraid that’s a nonstarter,” Pierce says. “We’re staying.”

Deputy Lindsay crosses his large arms. “The sheriff told you to leave. Get out.”

To Huang’s shame, his legs are starting to tremble, but Pierce is still keeping cool. Huang wonders, Is this a family thing, learning at a very young age as a black man how to stand your ground in front of the police?

Pierce says, “Gee, thanks for the echo, Deputy. And we’re not leaving. An Army Ranger died here a few days ago. Dr. Huang and I are making sure such an event doesn’t happen again.”

“How?” Williams says. “You’re just sittin’ on your asses in here.”

Pierce says, “Yes, and tired asses they are. But we’re also keeping an eye on who’s coming in and who’s going out.”

The deputy looks at the sheriff like he’s a Doberman pinscher on a leash, begging to be let loose to attack. Sheriff Williams says, “I could have the two of you arrested.”

“For doing our jobs?”

“For trespassing,” she says.

“The Ralston police chief said we could stay. Marcy, the attendant, even came by to tell us some hours ago that she welcomes the vigilance.”