The Summer House

by James Patterson

  The reporter doesn’t meet her eye, just keeps on rubbing and rubbing. “It’s a county. No better and no worse than most counties, I guess.”

  “Then Sheriff Williams,” Connie says. “You’ve been here long enough to know her quite well. What’s she like?”

  “Our blessed Emma Williams, high sheriff of Sullivan County?” Peggy asks. “She’s a fair, loving, and incorruptible law enforcement officer who is devoted to public service.”

  The words say one thing; the woman’s tone says quite another.

  “Peggy…”

  “Oh, what does it matter?” Peggy says. “In a day or two you Army folks will be gone from Sullivan County. Those of us who stay here, who can’t or won’t move, we’ll still be around to have Sheriff Williams as our local and friendly chief law enforcement officer.”

  “It matters a lot,” Connie says. “If it can make a difference in our investigation…please, Peggy, tell me what you know.”

  Peggy looks up, eyes strained and worried. “Any way you can protect me?”

  Connie says, “Truthfully? Probably not.”

  She slowly nods. “The truth. A pretty rare jewel in this county.” Peggy takes a breath. “All right. Emma Williams is sheriff of Sullivan County, and she runs the biggest criminal enterprise in this part of Georgia. Not a gallon of moonshine, bale of marijuana, or kilo of crystal meth gets moved around or sold here without her knowledge, approval, and cut of the proceeds.”

  The room is silent. The cat’s purrs are still loud.

  Peggy says, “Think that’ll make a difference?”

  Chapter 64

  AFTER CONNIE YORK gave him the keys, Special Agent Manuel Sanchez switched to the driver’s seat and started up the car, then drove down the road a number of yards, turned around, and headed back up to the house where the newspaper reporter lives. When he was at a point where he could see the house and where the car wasn’t lit up by a streetlamp, he pulled over and switched off the engine. Now he waits.

  Something they never show in cop shows or movies is just how much waiting there is. You wait for a warrant to be delivered from a judge. You wait at a suspect’s house. And most of all, you wait for a shift to end so you can go home safe to your family.

  A cop’s most important job.

  Lights appear at the end of the street, coming this way. Sanchez slides down so he isn’t silhouetted by the approaching headlights. They grow brighter and then dim as the car enters a driveway, backs out, and then returns the other way, parking right in front of the newspaper reporter’s house.

  He sees the light bar across the roof of the car. A near streetlight illuminates a cruiser from the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department.

  How about that, Sanchez thinks.

  He slides up and takes a better view. Looks like one deputy in the front seat. Just sitting, watching.

  A flare of light, and the deputy lights up a cigarette.

  That just pisses off Sanchez. It’s bad enough the sheriff’s department here is up to some nasty business concerning the Rangers, but this is just insulting, blatantly parking in front of the reporter’s house where York is, letting her know that every trip, every interview, is being tracked.

  Insulting, it is.

  Sanchez reaches up, switches off the dome light, and then opens the door, steps out. In the darkness, he smiles. Just like the old days, not like most of his past cases in the CID, tracking down a missing M240 machine gun or checking payroll receipts to see if some Army clerk has been skimming. This is going to be fun.

  He smells cigarette smoke, gets closer to the open cruiser window. From his coat pocket he pulls out an object and shoves the hard edge against the deputy’s neck.

  “Hands on the steering wheel, right now,” he snaps out, and the cigarette is dropped on the pavement, where Sanchez stubs it out.

  “Hey, hey, do you know—”

  “Shut up,” Sanchez says, pushing into the deputy’s neck harder. “Hands on the steering wheel. Don’t you do anything else but breathe.”

  The deputy follows the instructions, and in the faint light from the interior it seems like his hands are shaking. Good.

  Sanchez says, “You got poor training and situational awareness going on there, Deputy. You wouldn’t last an hour in any big-city department. What’s your name?”

  “Dix,” the deputy says.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The deputy’s voice is shaky. “I was ordered here.”

  “Who gave you the order?”

  “Sheriff Williams.”

  “What are you supposed to do? Arrest the people in the house?”

  “No, no, just keep an eye on the place. Make it public so they know they’re being watched.”

  Sanchez says, “What’s the point?”

  The deputy falls silent. Sanchez knows he’s treading on thin ice and makes it quick. “Answer me, and then I’ll let you be. Why does the sheriff want the people there to know they’re being watched?”

  Dix says, “Sheriff Williams wants the Army out of here. Period. The end. Put enough pressure on them, she figures they’ll leave.”

  “Why?”

  The man emits a nervous laugh. “Mister, go ahead, pull the trigger, blow my brains over the windshield. A year ago some deputy was giving her a hard time about paperwork, overtime, shit like that, and he said he was going to make a complaint to the GBI. We never heard from him again. Never. He just got up…and disappeared.”

  Sanchez thinks he’s pushed his luck and this guy too far. He says, “Time for you to slip out, Deputy. You just leave and tell the sheriff you did your job, that you were seen and that you’re doing your part to spread hate and discontent.”

  Knowing he’s going to live, the deputy seems to find a stronger voice. “And who the hell are you?”

  “A concerned bystander,” Sanchez says. “Now get going or your sheriff will get a call that you screwed up the job. Take one hand off the steering wheel, start up, and drive away, nice and slow.”

  The deputy’s right hand goes down, the cruiser starts up, and he says, “Mister, you better hope I never run into you again. Threatening a police officer with a gun is serious business.”

  Sanchez pulls his hand back, gently slaps the deputy on the cheek. “What’s the charge for threatening a cop with a smartphone case? Get going.”

  He steps aside, and the cruiser speeds off. He turns and looks at the house where Cook and the journalist are talking about the case and, more important, what the hell is going on here in this county.

  Sanchez puts the smartphone back into his coat pocket, removes his SIG Sauer from his waist holster, goes over to the Ford.

  But instead of getting back into the rental, he sits on the damaged hood, weapon in hand, doing what most cops do.

  Waits.

  Chapter 65

  Afghanistan

  FOR THE PAST half hour or so, the acid knot in my stomach has been outweighing the pain in my left leg as we make the final approach to Bagram. I’ve been running through various options and scenarios in my mind of how to get off this aircraft once it lands and comes to a halt, and what to do afterward.

  Bagram has grown tremendously since we got here post-9/11, and I remember talking to some old hands who were here back then, looking at all the broken-up Soviet aircraft that had been left behind. “When we eventually get the hell out,” this old Reserve colonel told me, “I can guarantee we’ll do a better job cleaning up.”

  But what’s waiting for me now—

  I stop thinking as the huge aircraft makes a sharp dive and turn, and I grab on to a seat strap to keep from falling over. One of the Rangers spots me and yells out, “Nothing to worry about, sir! Just a bit of evasive maneuvering, keeping any Taliban out there on their toes!”

  I nod in thanks, my stomach clenched, and I think again of what’s waiting for me, which is going to be trouble. Without the proper travel authorizations and other paperwork, I’m going to be in-country quite il
legally. Not only that, I’m also going to have to figure out a way of getting out of Bagram and to a village called Pendahar.

  Lots of figuring. No ready answers.

  The engine noise changes pitch, and there’s a heavy clunk-clunk as the C-17’s landing gear is deployed. I hold my cane in my hands. My rucksack is on the deck, my Bruce Catton book tucked back inside. Across from me, the three Rangers look to be talking among themselves.

  Thump.

  On the pavement. No windows to see what’s out there, but in my mind’s eye, I remember, from a Black Hawk helicopter ride I took here during my last deployment. Rows of CH-47 transport helicopters, Apache attack helicopters, Kiowa reconnaissance helicopters. Hangars. Clusters and clusters of square buildings. Heavy equipment. Concrete blast walls with rolls of concertina wire on top. Mountains in the distance. And at nearly five thousand feet in elevation, the air here is cool at night and thin.

  The engines change pitch again as the pilots slow down.

  What now?

  Out there in Bagram is a small CID satellite office I once used for a few weeks during my last tour. If I can get there, and if Quantico hasn’t contacted them, I might be able to do some razzle-dazzle, get some cooperation from the CID warrant officers stationed here. Like back when I was in the NYPD. There were also procedures and directives to follow when interacting with other detectives in other precincts, but they were mostly ignored. You needed help, you needed information, you either picked up the phone or dropped by the other precinct house.

  The C-17 continues to slow down, maneuvers again. My breathing quickens.

  The small CID office is on Putnam Road in Bagram, some distance from this main runway.

  I’ll be walking with a cane.

  How long to get there?

  And will I make it?

  The C-17 sighs to a halt.

  Lights flicker on inside the huge fuselage.

  I unbuckle the straps and move, and I clench my teeth in agony. My cane falls, and I lean down to pick it up, breathing hard. When I sit up, the three Rangers are standing in front of me.

  One squats down—African American male, a sergeant—and he says, “That true, what we heard back in Germany? You’re here to help out some Rangers from Alpha Company?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They being railroaded?”

  “Looks possible,” I say.

  “Which ones?” he asks.

  “Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson and his team.”

  Another Ranger snorts. “Assholes,” he says.

  But the sergeant says, “Yeah, but our assholes. Come along, Major. We’re gonna help you off.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say.

  But he nods to the other two men and says, “You can’t hardly move. And you got something important to do.”

  The other two Rangers come to me and lift me out of my seat, and the sergeant grabs my rucksack.

  “Let’s get moving, Major. Time’s a-wastin’.”

  The next long minutes drag by in a painful blur as the three Rangers manhandle me off the parked C-17, as we pass the secured pallets of equipment while the aircraft’s loadmaster lowers the rear ramp. Instantly the wind and the harsh smells of Afghanistan batter me, and I try not to panic at the memories of being in that shattered Humvee, the vehicle burning, trapped, smelling my own flesh starting to cook off…

  It’s near noon local time, and in the distance two twin-rotor Chinook helicopters are taking off. I find it hard to catch my breath because of the thin air, but the bulky and armed Rangers move like they’re college boys on spring break, relaxed and strong. I fade in and out, and there’s talking, more soldiers around, and we pause outside a hangar. I want to ask what’s happening, and the sergeant returns to me and says, “We’ve got an open window of about ten minutes, Major, before somebody official comes over to check us in. Where can we take you?”

  “Putnam,” I say. “Putnam Road.”

  He strides away with confidence, and I take in the sheer size and noise of Bagram, then the other two Rangers flank me, holding me up, and a minute or two pass before I’m bundled into an unarmored Humvee, and we drive away.

  Eventually we’re traveling down Baskin Road, and there’s traffic going back and forth, and civilian workers walking by, wearing orange reflective vests, lanyards holding their identification, bouncing around their necks.

  I’m in the rear with one of the Rangers who’s been holding me up, and he says, “Can you believe this damn place has a Pizza Hut? Can you believe that?”

  The Humvee comes to a halt at the intersection of Baskin and Putnam. The sergeant turns away from the steering wheel and says, “End of the line, Major. We need to get our asses back ’fore we get in the shits. Good luck, sir.”

  Some hustle and bustle, and now I’m alone at this dusty intersection, my heavy rucksack on my aching back, cane in my hand, and my breathing is still labored as I turn and limp my way down Putnam Road.

  As I move along the narrow road, past tan-colored ribbed cargo containers, squat concrete one- or two-story buildings, blast walls, and utility poles, I run through my mind what I’m going to say, and how I’m going to say it, when I arrive at the CID office.

  Two heavyset bearded contractors walk past me, nodding, and both have sympathy in their eyes at seeing me struggle along. Probably think I’m one dedicated trooper, sticking to his job, and I know that’s not true. Months ago I left this place and attempted to put everything away in a box and on a shelf, but the smells and the wind and the constant noise of generators and aircraft taking off and landing are bringing it all back.

  I even remember the last time I was here in Bagram, working with local MPs, an FBI agent, and two women investigators from SIGAR, Special Inspector General for Afghanistan Reconstruction, as we arrested two National Guard engineers from Alaska who were faking invoices and work orders so they could sell fuel oil to local Afghan merchants.

  A long time ago, a simple crime. I don’t know if I’ll ever again recognize a simple crime.

  Up ahead now. To the CID office and maybe I can get some coffee, something to eat, as I try to convince them to get me from here to the village of Pendahar.

  I stop.

  The familiar tan-colored concrete cube of a building is right where I remember it, but there’s been a change.

  The metal front door is padlocked shut. The two small windows have metal shutters drawn down. The colorful sign marking the CID presence is gone, leaving just four empty bolt holes in the concrete.

  Damn it!

  A male voice speaks up behind me. “Sir? Is that you, Major Cook?”

  I pretend not to hear the inquiring voice and do my best to quickly limp down a side alley.

  “Sir,” another voice barks out. “You need to come with us.”

  I grit my teeth, increase my walking speed.

  It’s all I can do.

  Chapter 66

  ACROSS FROM SPECIAL AGENT Connie York, Peggy Reese says, “There. You made me talk. Proud of yourself? Just remember. You can do your job and then leave, and we few innocents will be around to face whatever wrath will rise up.”

  “I’m glad you said what you said,” York says. “But I’m surprised that—”

  “Surprised? I thought an Army investigator like you wouldn’t be shocked by nearly anything.”

  “You’d be wrong,” she says. “It’s just that in these times, I can’t see how—”

  “You can’t see how a woman like her could get away with it?” Peggy asks, scratching the chin of one of her cats, her voice harsh. “There’s 159 counties in the great state of Georgia. What, you think all of them are run on the straight and narrow? You don’t think there are opportunities for graft and corruption?”

  “But your newspaper, I mean—”

  Peggy says, “My newspaper is owned by Tyron Bogart, an old fogy who believes in one thing and one thing only: the bottom line. A good chunk of the paper’s advertising comes from the county: printin
g legal notices, court settlements, stuff like that. His printing plant also prints up county documents. How long would the paper last if the county pulled its business? And if the county pressed on other advertisers to do the same if he ran stories that he should?”

  “The internet—”

  “Sure,” she says. “When I’ve had bouts of bravery here and there, I’ve tried contacting other news organizations, from the Journal-Constitution to USA Today to every TV station that broadcasts in Sullivan County. No dice. Haven’t you read the news, Agent York? Newspapers and real reporting are dying. Nobody cares anymore about local news. It’s all scandal, all the time, whether from DC or Hollywood. Meanwhile, Sheriff Williams builds her little empire and staffs it, and only a few care, and those few keep their heads down. Otherwise they get pulled over for going a mile over the speed limit or their construction permits get turned down or their electricity gets shut off for no good reason at all.”

  York feels like she’s been dropped into one of those old black-and-white movies with the cliché of the corrupt Southern sheriff running a criminal enterprise, and she quickly remembers that every cliché has a basis of truth.

  “How can she do it alone?”

  Peggy sighs. “She doesn’t do it alone. Haven’t you noticed her big manly deputy sheriffs? She recruited them carefully and—”

  It snaps to for York, how she thought she knew the deputies from somewhere before.

  “The military,” Connie says. “They’re all from the military.”

  “Half right,” Peggy says. “Her deputies are all ex-military, but not the ones who’ve served and been honorably discharged. No, she picks up those who’ve been quietly separated by something called a failure to adapt discharge.”

  York says, “Enlistees who can’t make it through the first six months, even if they’ve gone through their training and been deployed overseas. They can’t, or won’t, adapt to military life. They have discipline problems, mental problems—situations like that. They’re discharged…not a dishonorable discharge, but something close to it.”