The Summer House

by James Patterson

  Cook gets out, shuts the door, and then opens the rear door and grabs a black knapsack. He starts limping to the front door of the battalion building.

  Something both warm and cold seems to settle into her chest.

  York knows she should get to work, but she can’t take her eyes off her handsome and struggling boss, limping like he has the entire hopes and fears of the squad riding on his shoulders.

  The major opens the front door, walks in, disappears from sight.

  Connie sighs, starts up the Ford’s engine, and then jumps with fear as the passenger door opens and a soldier gets in and sits down.

  “How’s it going, Agent York?” asks Colonel Tringali, head of the base’s Third MP Group.

  Chapter 45

  SPECIAL AGENT MANUEL SANCHEZ is back at the home of Wendy Gabriel, famed dog walker.

  “Wendy?” he calls out. “Toby? Hello?”

  No answer, but once he expertly picks the lock, he still enters the house with his SIG Sauer pistol out in a two-handed grip, just in case.

  He blinks his eyes. The stench is burning them.

  The voice from the major returns to him:

  Find something.

  The search is slow, methodical, and sickening.

  In the living room thirty-three minutes ago, seeing handwriting on a thick manila envelope hidden underneath two old copies of Glamour magazine, he picked up the envelope and opened it.

  Revealing plastic-wrapped stool samples from Toby from a month ago.

  That led to a vomiting match out on the porch, soiling his Brooks Brothers jacket, and he has a foul thought of that ice queen, Connie York, being in charge of the unit while the major is in Afghanistan. Sure, according to the records, she is senior to him by about two months, but based on his street experience, he should be running this case, not her.

  Now he’s up on the second floor, head light, guts sour, and feeling like he needs an hour-long shower, wishing he could burn his clothes—save for his jacket—when this is done.

  But he won’t give up.

  Not with the major flying over the Atlantic toward a place so filled with horrors he swore he would never return there.

  Sanchez spends just a few minutes in the bathroom, wishing for the light-blue latex gloves he had back in the LAPD, but he finds nothing but old cosmetics and prescription bottles.

  From there he goes into the bedroom, follows the same cluttered path leading to the unmade bed, sees two impressions in the stained, crumpled sheet, one smeared with dog hair and what looks to be dog spit. Wonderful.

  Sanchez turns, follows a narrower path cleared through the waist-high piles of junk to the bureau at the other end of the room, the top of it clean save for some sheets of paper.

  “Idiota,” he whispers. Here, at least, are some things Wendy likes to keep ordered. Recent bills from Georgia Power, Comcast, and AT&T. Envelopes in a neat pile, with handwriting noting, “Pd 8/24, ck #1119.”

  One other envelope is apart from the others. Cream-colored and thicker.

  The typewritten address is Wendy’s, and the return address is an embossed blue seal and SULLIVAN DISTRICT ATTORNEY.

  Sanchez opens the envelope, reads the message on a nice thick piece of office stationery, whereupon one WENDY GABRIEL of Sullivan, in and of Sullivan County, is charged with numerous violations of Georgia Code 16-12-4: Cruelty to animals; said complaint brought to the District Attorney’s Office by…

  He quickly folds the sheet of paper, returns it to the envelope, and puts it in his jacket pocket just as his cell phone rings.

  Chapter 46

  FOR THE LAST forty seconds Captain Rory O’Connell’s stare at me has been steady and unyielding.

  “Lucky you,” he finally whispers, “we do have a C-17 Globemaster taking off within thirty minutes, end destination Bagram, carrying additional equipment, but why in hell should I allow you to get onto that aircraft?”

  “I need to get to Afghanistan,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I’m convinced there’s evidence over there concerning the Rangers from Alpha Company.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “All right,” O’Connell says. “Do you have orders from your superiors in Quantico?”

  “No.”

  “Travel authorizations?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had a recent medical exam and immunization update?”

  “No.”

  The Fourth Battalion’s rear detachment commander waits another long second. “I don’t see a helmet, body armor, gas mask, or anything else you need for an overseas deployment, Major.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll help me out.”

  O’Connell shakes his lead, leans back a bit in his chair, and I see him wince from his old injuries. “Major, why in God’s name would I even consider letting you on that aircraft? No orders, no authorization, no equipment. What, you think this is an episode of NCIS, you can just hitch a ride into a combat zone? It’s a career ender for both of us. Now, please…leave me be. Fourth Battalion’s XO is still not available, there’s a missing pallet of equipment that should be in Bagram, and I’ve got a shitload of paperwork to get through. All because someone decided Fourth Battalion needed to be deployed nearly a month ahead of schedule.”

  I lean on my cane. “You don’t like the Ninja Squad, do you?”

  “Not many around here do.”

  “But if you were in an FOB with them, with Taliban coming at you in waves, and they were next to you, and they were running low on ammo, you’d help them out, right? Even if you don’t like them, out there you’d have their backs. And vice versa.”

  O’Connell’s face winces once more. “That’s different. That’s over there. Not here, in Georgia.”

  I limp toward him. “That’s where you’re wrong, Captain. Something happened to them in Afghanistan. And it’s followed them to Georgia. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Afghanistan has come home here to Georgia, and those guys are low on ammo and need your help.”

  I hear a distant whine of jet engines, wonder if that’s the C-17, ready to take off and make the long flight to Afghanistan, the dusty and torn-up country that has sent so many of our finest back home in shiny metal caskets.

  O’Connell looks down, picks up a pen, and in one harsh move tosses it across the small office. He gets up.

  “Follow me,” he says. “And even with that cane, haul ass.”

  Nearly thirty minutes later, I’m practically stumbling across the flight line, leaning heavily on my cane, wearing freshly washed ACUs tagged COOK and carrying one heavy rucksack with a helmet bouncing along against my hip. Helicopters and other aircraft are lined up in neat rows before us.

  The engine noise gets louder as we approach the C-17 Globemaster—dark green, squat, fat, and ugly, with four engines slung underneath its large wings—and O’Connell leans close and yells, “It’s about thirteen hours to Ramstein, and from there, another seven or so to Bagram. There’re no first-class or business-class seats aboard, Major, just the fold-down seats along the fuselage. Going to be damn uncomfortable.”

  “I’ll make do,” I say, knowing there’s nothing else I can say.

  He says, “Not sure where the Fourth Battalion is going to be deployed—orders change all the time—but you’ll want to get transport from Bagram to the village of Pendahar. That’s near where the…event happened with the Ninjas.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  “It’s the Old West in the Middle East, Indian country out there,” he says. “So watch your ass and do your best to hook up with anybody that’s got heavy firepower. And no offense, that sure as hell ain’t the CID.”

  I just nod, knowing that I have nearly twenty hours of flying time ahead of me to think of where I’m going and what I’ll do when I get there.

  He grabs my elbow. “You sure you can do this, limping like you do?”

  The engine noise is louder. “I’ve got to.”r />
  He says, “That IED…what happened to you over there?”

  “Usual story,” I tell him, raising my voice. “Was out on a mission, three-vehicle convoy, we got hit. I was trapped in the wreckage. Took a while for me to get pried out.”

  O’Connell tries to smile. “Hope it was an important mission.”

  “Sure was,” I say. “I was going out to interview a goat herder whose flock was raided by an airborne unit for a cookout.”

  He shakes his head, and I can tell his own pain is really riding him today.

  Then he laughs. “Thanks for your service, Major.”

  “And you?” I ask. “Looks like you’re still carrying a bit of shrapnel in you.”

  “Nope,” he says. “Not a single piece of metal.” I’m sure he notes the confusion on my face, and he adds, “Oh, I was wounded when that mortar round struck my FOB. But I wasn’t injured by that. Our interpreter, Nadir, he took the full force of the blast. Pulverized him. And I was nearly shredded into pieces by his bone fragments.”

  He slaps me on the shoulder. “Get going or you’ll miss your flight.”

  I don’t tell the captain that despite my brave front, that’s exactly what I want to do. Instead I take a breath and go forward to the large aircraft that’s returning me to a deadly nightmare. Off by the airfield service buildings I see the flashing blue lights of MP cruisers.

  I try to pick up my pace, ignoring the MP arrival back there, and move right along to what’s ahead for me.

  Chapter 47

  THE CELL PHONE belonging to Special Agent Connie York begins ringing and she ignores it as Colonel Tringali gives her a steady look.

  “Good morning, Colonel,” she says.

  “Agent York,” comes the calm reply. “Looks like your major is going off on a trip.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” she says, thinking, Not sure what’s going on, but I can’t let you delay the major.

  Her cell phone stops ringing. The colonel says, “Not bothering to answer it?”

  “Not at the moment, ma’am.”

  A few seconds drag by. “Where’s Major Cook going?” Tringali asks.

  “Into Fourth Battalion headquarters, ma’am.”

  “I can see that,” she says sharply. “Who’s he going to see in there?”

  “I would imagine someone from the Fourth Battalion, ma’am.”

  “Considering ninety-nine percent of Fourth Battalion is now overseas, that doesn’t leave very many possibilities, does it, now?” Tringali says. “Your major is seeing Captain O’Connell, the rear detachment commander.”

  “That sounds like a good guess, ma’am,” Connie says, and her cell phone starts ringing again. Months ago she selected a standard old-fashioned ringtone for this new handheld and is glad for the solid choice.

  “Still not going to answer your phone?”

  “It would be rude, ma’am,” she says.

  “Why did your major go to see Captain O’Connell carrying a knapsack?” the colonel asks.

  Caught, she thinks, caught. All it would take would be this hard-ass MP officer going in and mucking things up. But what can she say?

  Stall.

  She says, “The major likes to be prepared.”

  The cell phone stops ringing.

  Tringali says, “If he’s so goddamned prepared, that must be the same for his little squad of investigators. Right? Tell me, Special Agent, does the name Wendell Connor ring a bell? Colonel Wendell Connor?”

  Damn it, the name does sound vaguely familiar, but before Connie can think further, Tringali says, “Colonel Connor is the goddamn garrison commander of this post. Tradition and common courtesy would mean your major should have at least met with him to brief him on this investigation.”

  “I can’t speak for the major, ma’am,” she says.

  “Certainly,” Tringali replies. “But that’s how you’ve operated. Outside normal rules, regulations, and procedures. Just like the goddamn Ninja Squad you’re so eager to clear. But a little birdie from Quantico told me that you and the rest of your squad are being called back and are going to be disbanded. Nothing can save you folks now. You’ve crossed a lot of lines. Just like those Rangers. They’ve crossed the line, and nobody—not even you and your precious major—can save them.”

  Tringali opens the door, steps out, and turns around, putting her hands on the roof of the Ford rental and lowering her head to look back inside, just as Connie’s cell phone rings once more.

  “How long will your major be in there?”

  Just long enough, she thinks. “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  “He seems to be a capable fellow, am I right? Able to hitch a ride back to Sullivan when he’s done?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, I don’t understand.”

  She says, “Then understand this. Get your ass off my post, and don’t ever come back. And answer that goddamn phone already.”

  Chapter 48

  CAPTAIN ALLEN PIERCE is sitting in the front seat of their Ford rental, with Lieutenant John Huang sitting next to him, silent, parked on a side road underneath the shade of two old oak trees. Earlier they spent a rotten hour at the Ralston town jail, being harassed by the news media, then yelled at and threatened with arrest by tomato-faced Chief Richard Kane.

  Pierce says, “Rough morning, am I right?”

  Huang softly says, “Not as rough as yesterday.”

  Sure, Pierce thinks, when Specialist Tyler slit his wrists and bled out all over his concrete cell floor. He says, “Doc, again, it wasn’t your fault. You were doing your job. That’s it.”

  Huang sits up and looks at Pierce with something Pierce has never seen from the doctor before: pure anger.

  “Shut up, will you? Captain? Look, if you screw up, that means a defendant is having a bad day, maybe he goes away to Leavenworth until an appeal is made. Or you do something wrong in court and maybe a guy as guilty as sin walks free. But you know what? They’re still goddamn alive, aren’t they? I screw up, a decorated and brave man opens up his veins and bleeds out in a small Georgia town.”

  “His choice, Doc, not yours.”

  “What kind of doctor was I, then? Was I doing the best I could for him as a patient? No, I was doing what was best for the Army.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re an Army officer, John.”

  He shakes his head in disgust, plucks at his trousers. “Me? An officer? I’m just a goddamn underpaid psychiatrist who’s never heard a shot fired in anger, has used his service weapon four times—all at the range—and I can’t remember the last time I wore my dress uniform.”

  Pierce doesn’t know what to say. He hates to admit it, but Huang is making a good point. He remembers the initial shock of going through the six-week Direct Commission Course at Fort Benning, in this very state, and the tough trial of transferring from a civilian life to a military life. There, the slogan was “Soldier first, Army always.”

  But Huang is right. What kind of soldier is he, compared to the Rangers? What can Pierce say to convince Huang that he is a soldier, that he was doing his job?

  He takes his cell phone out, dials Sanchez, and Sanchez answers on the first ring.

  Pierce says, “How goes it?”

  “I’ve wrapped up at this woman’s place. Is Agent York with you?”

  “I’ve called her three times. No answer. She must still be at Hunter.”

  Sanchez says, “Look, the major told York and me to hit the funeral home, try to grab that kid’s body for a real autopsy. With her out of reach, I’m going over there in a few minutes, and I could use you as a backup. Find some legal way for us to grab the remains.”

  Pierce says, “What legal way?”

  Sanchez says, “You’re the damn lawyer in this group. Find one.”

  He says, “All right. I’ll meet you there. And the doc is coming with me as well. We’re not getting any cooperation from the Ralston police chief to see the other three Rangers.”

  “Fine by me,” Sanchez says. “May
be he can counsel the funeral home director to cooperate with us. See you in a bit.”

  “Hey,” Pierce says. “You say you’re done at that woman’s house. Did you find something?”

  “I sure as hell did,” Sanchez says, and disconnects the call.

  Chapter 49

  INSIDE HIS CELL at the Ralston town jail, Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson is sitting cross-legged on his bunk, waiting, thinking, pondering. There’s a fresh smell of soap and bleach in the air, and he knows it’s from yesterday, from cleaning up the adjacent cell after Specialist Vinny Tyler—his man, his responsibility!—ended his life.

  A good leader always takes care of his men, always brings them back, the best he can, and he feels bone-deep inside that he’s a failure. Not that he hasn’t lost men before, but that was overseas in the ’stan, where a sniper’s bullet, a mortar round, or an RPG could end a life in the blink of an eye. That was the job. That was the risk everyone took.

  But not here. Not in this pissy little cell. Not in Georgia.

  Corporal Barnes whispers, “How are you doing, Sergeant?”

  “Shut up,” Jefferson says.

  The other surviving member of their squad pipes up as well. “Sergeant, we all agreed about what happened. Vinny…he just couldn’t hack it anymore. That’s all. It’s not your fault.”

  “Ruiz?”

  “Yes?”

  “You can shut up, too.”

  They quiet down.

  He continues to sit, brooding.

  Out there is his other responsibility, his stepdaughter, Carol, though truthfully, he never really uses the word step. The two of them bonded almost instantly when he started seeing her mother, Janice, with none of the fighting and griping about “You’re not my real daddy,” and she was his daughter as much as any biological father’s out there.