The Summer House

by James Patterson

  “You’ve got it right, Agent York,” she says. “Sheriff Williams picks up those fellows who have Rambo fantasies. When she gets them, they’re upset, disappointed, ashamed. And the good sheriff offers them a gun, a uniform, and a good job, respect and all that. She pays them well above the going rate, from her cut of the various criminal enterprises that go on in the county. These losers get a second chance. And they will do anything for her. Anything.”

  Anything, York thinks. Anything.

  “But how can she do that? How does she know how and where to get these soldiers?”

  Peggy says, “Politics. How else? It’s in her blood, it’s in her family. The Williams family has been prominent in this county for more than a hundred years, from Atlanta to—”

  “Washington,” she says. “I was in her office a few days ago. I saw lots of photos up on the wall, her meeting with lots of politicians. But there was one black-and-white photo, some man in a suit, standing on the Capitol steps.”

  Peggy nods. “Her great-uncle, Whitney Wilson Williams, United States senator. Served two glorious terms back in the 1950s. His great-niece Emma always wanted to go to Washington, but her one try for Congress six years ago finished with her in third place. Sheriff Williams doesn’t like losing, but she knows the facts. She can’t go to DC on her own.”

  York says, “I saw her the other night at a campaign rally for…what’s his name again?”

  “Conover,” she says. “Mason Conover. A dim bulb among our congressional delegation, which means he’ll go far when he’s elected senator next week. And rumor has it that Sheriff Williams is on tap to be his chief of staff once he moves to better quarters.”

  “But her background here, I mean—”

  Peggy says, “Damn it, Roscoe, how can you get heavier by just sitting here?” She picks up the cat and gently puts him on the floor. “Oh, who’s going to investigate her? Me? The Washington Post? Nope. She has a clear path to Washington, where she’s always wanted to be. Which will be nice for me and this county, not having her looking over us day after day, like some bloodthirsty medieval queen.”

  York just stares at this older woman’s calm and nearly relaxed face.

  Peggy says, “Why, she told me last year she planned to get to DC no matter how many bodies she had to step on along the way.”

  Chapter 67

  THE HONORABLE EMMA WILLIAMS, sheriff of Sullivan County in the state of Georgia, strides through the crowded interior of Babe’s Breakfast in Tanner, a town in the western area of her county, smiling and nodding to its customers, either sitting at the counter or in booths, until she gets to the last booth in the row and sits down.

  Across from her this early Wednesday morning is a surprised Cornelius Slate, district attorney, a full breakfast plate of scrambled eggs, toast, grits, and sausage links in front of him.

  “Hey, Corny,” she says, knowing just how much he hates the nickname. “Fancy me finding you here.”

  “Uh…”

  A heavyset waitress in a stained pink uniform comes over, and before she can say anything, Williams holds up a hand. “Ah, just coffee. Black. And put it on Corny’s tab. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  The waitress shuffles away, and Williams takes off her campaign-style hat, puts it on the padded seat next to her, and says, “You know, Corny, I don’t know how anyone can start a day with something so filling and heavy. I put away a breakfast like that, I’d be snoozing for half a day.”

  Slate doesn’t say anything, but his face is ashen, and Williams says, “But, if something is in front of me, I can’t stand the temptation. ’Scuse me.” Williams picks up a sausage link, takes a healthy bite. “Yum. Boy, this is something, isn’t it? Sure doesn’t taste like one of those tofu or turkey sausages. It’s the real deal.”

  Slate says, “Er…”

  She finishes the sausage link, picks up another one from Slate’s breakfast plate, and takes another pleasing bite. “Corny, just what in the hell are you up to?”

  “My job, Sheriff. You know how it is.”

  She shakes her head. “No, I don’t know how it is. What I do know is that you went behind my back last night and made some sort of criminal plea deal with that Sergeant Jefferson. Corny, why in hell did you do that without clearing it with me?”

  The flush on his face deepens. “Ah, Sheriff, with all due respect, I am the senior law enforcement officer in this county. I really don’t have to, ah, clear anything with you.”

  She eyes him coldly as she chews on the sausage link. Slate stays quiet. Williams reaches out and takes the last link off his plate. “Corny, with all due respect, do I really need to reaffirm the facts of life for you? Do I? Remind you of the times my boys drove you home from the American Legion or the Trackside Roadhouse when you had too much to drink? Or the time that your nephew Bobby Tim beat the crap out of his wife, a real embarrassing mess for you, and I took care of it? Or other times we helped out your office in finding last-minute evidence that let you prosecute cases that were dead-enders?”

  Slate picks up a forkful of scrambled eggs, changes his mind, puts the fork back down on his plate. “Ah, that’s all in the past now, isn’t it? The truth is, I don’t have to clear anything with you now, Sheriff. What happened is the staff sergeant agreed to plead guilty at the hearing tomorrow. That gets that case out of here, saves time and money for the county. Everybody wins.”

  Williams takes her time chewing the last of his sausage link. “Win? What kind of win is that? Those two other Rangers go free.”

  “But you know there’s no forensic evidence linking them to the crimes. It all goes back to the staff sergeant. He’s taking the blame, and it’s still a win.”

  She chews some more. “I don’t see it that way.”

  “Well, I do, Sheriff.”

  “You know what I see? I see you up for reelection next Tuesday, running against that Falconer fella, and you want to crush him. You had the votes, Corny, to win…but that wasn’t enough. You want to go into Tuesday’s election with this high-profile case behind you. The case of The Summer House murders. Impress the voters. Make it a landslide instead of a decent win. Make up for all your shortcomings.”

  Slate lowers his eyes.

  Williams says, “Hell, that’s not a bad strategy, Corny, but you should have cleared it with me first. You know it, and I know it. But you had to go rogue, go off the reservation, and I can’t—and won’t—stand for that. Pretty soon I’ll have to square accounts with you, and I warn you, it won’t be pretty.”

  He lifts his eyes, looking defiant. “How’s that, Sheriff? Word we get is that when Mason gets elected to the Senate, he’s taking you along to Washington. Good for you—you’re heading out, going to your dream job and place of residence. That means those of us back here, we’re on our own. We need to look out for ourselves. That’s the truth.”

  She picks up a napkin, wipes the grease off her fingers. The truth is the truth, and she has hitched her hopes and dreams to Representative Mason Conover, doing what it takes to get him elected to the Senate—even putting up with his whiny phone calls these past few days—but why admit it to this clown?

  “Aw, hell, Corny, what makes you think that? Sure, I might be leaving Sullivan County if the congressman wants me to come along after he wins, but I intend to keep my organization in place, humming along, even with me gone. Deputy Lindsay, he’ll be taking my place. Just you wait and see.”

  Slate’s eyes widen. “That boy Clark Lindsay? Are you kidding? He’s the one who shot and killed Mrs. Gendron’s dog.”

  “The dog charged him.”

  “The dog was blind!” Slate says.

  “Still, it should have known better,” Williams says, tossing the used napkin on the district attorney’s plate. “Thing is, Corny, if everybody knew their place and stayed in their place, it’d be a better world.”

  The waitress from earlier comes over, puts down a white mug of coffee. Williams picks up the coffee cup, gently blows across it.

>   “Ah,” she says, taking a sip. “Nice and black. Just like our souls, Corny.”

  Chapter 68

  Afghanistan

  MY NOT-SO-GREAT ESCAPE ends with me coming up against a smooth concrete wall, maybe a blast barrier or something separating this part of the compound from another set of buildings. I turn, and two male corporals in standard ACUs and carrying holstered pistols approach me, wearing patrol caps and very serious looks on their faces.

  “Major Cook?” the one on the left asks.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I say, returning their salutes, feeling tired, defeated, and just worn-out. All the way here and to be picked up in a narrow alley by two MPs, no doubt dispatched from Quantico, way on the other side of the world. Mission definitely not accomplished.

  I’m in deep trouble, and with the pain and the exhaustion coursing through me, I also feel shame, that I’m letting down not only my investigative squad but also the three imprisoned Rangers.

  The one on the left says, “Sir, would you come with us? Please?”

  The other one steps forward, holds out a hand. “I’ll take your rucksack, sir.”

  Then I notice the special skill tab on the soldier’s shoulder: RANGER.

  We’re traveling on one of the access roads paralleling the main Bagram runway when the corporal driving says, “Sir?”

  I’m sitting in the rear of the uncomfortable Humvee, my muscle memory roaring back, reminding me of a previous ride in a Humvee and how it nearly killed me and—

  “Yes?”

  “Do me a favor, sir, huddle over and pretend you’re napping, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a checkpoint up ahead. I think they might be looking for you…and I got my orders.”

  Shit, I think, and I lower my cap and hunch over to my right, like I’m resting against my rucksack. The Humvee slows. The front door opens. Some voices.

  I try to ease my breathing, like I’m really asleep, instead of being moments away from being arrested for a variety of charges.

  The door is shut.

  The Humvee resumes its motion.

  The corporal says, “Boy, the MPs sure are stirred up about an Army major named Cook who smuggled himself into this shithole. Lucky for me, I didn’t spot your name tag back there.”

  I slowly sit up. “Some luck.”

  A few minutes after the checkpoint, I’m in a cluttered cubicle made of plywood, in a secure area near the runway. The sounds of jets taking off and landing and the deep thump-thump of helicopters roaring overhead is constant, and before me is an Army Ranger captain talking to someone on a phone. The plywood walls are covered with maps, calendars, charts, and a Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders poster.

  The captain says, “Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am…I understand, ma’am.”

  He suddenly stands up, a frown on his weathered face, and says, “This call is for you, Major. Excuse me while I step out.”

  I take the phone and wait until the captain leaves the cubicle, a thin squeaky wooden door closing behind him, and I say, “This is Major Cook.”

  A strong woman’s voice comes across the phone line. “This is Major Fredericka West, Special Troops Battalion, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment, out of Fort Benning. We need to talk.”

  I feel like a wide-eyed young rookie out on his first real street patrol back in the NYPD, facing real trouble for the first time. “Major…about what?”

  “I don’t want to do it over the phone,” she says. “Has to be face-to-face.”

  “Here?” I ask as an overhead helicopter makes the plywood walls shake.

  “Hell no,” she says. “Where I am. At an FOB near Khost. Close to a village called Pendahar. Interested in seeing me now?”

  “Very much so,” I say. “But, Major…how did you…I mean…”

  Her voice is filled with steel and determination. “I’m with the battalion’s Military Intelligence Company. And one bit of interesting intelligence has come my way in the last twelve hours. You know Major Frank Moore?”

  Instantly I reply, remembering the pleasant man I met a few days ago with Connie, before going up before the Fourth Battalion’s colonel. “Certainly. The executive officer for the Fourth Battalion.”

  “That’s right,” she says. “His body was pulled from the Savannah River last night, local time, with a bullet to the forehead. It looks like he was murdered right after an unauthorized visit to Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson over in Ralston, in Sullivan County.”

  Damn, I think.

  Her voice changes in tone. “Major, do you remember a specialist from the Eighty-Second Airborne named Conner? Brad Conner? He was charged with stealing a crate of 7.62-millimeter ammunition and selling it to a gang in Charlotte.”

  The name pops up in my memory, and I say, “Yes. Nearly three years back.”

  “Right. Your investigation cleared him.”

  “Well, Major, my investigation went to the evidence. That’s what cleared him.”

  She says, “That’s your point of view. You knew that Specialist Conner’s dad was an Army Ranger, correct?”

  “Well…yes, I did learn that during the course of my investigation, but that’s about it. It didn’t matter.”

  The major on the other end of the line says, “Well, it matters to us. His father is Trent Conner. Former command sergeant major at the Ranger Training Brigade at Fort Benning, and prior to that…well, I don’t have the time to tell you his service record and list of awards and decorations. Let’s just say Command Sergeant Major Conner is a goddamn legend in the Ranger community, and you earned a solid, helping out his son.”

  I know this is an exaggeration, but I’m not going to correct the major.

  She adds, “So let’s you and me get together to figure out what the hell is going on with Fourth Battalion and that damn Ninja Squad.”

  I say, “Yes, let’s.”

  Chapter 69

  EVEN THOUGH IT’S his day off, Dwight Dix of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department—known to family and friends as DD—is not having a good morning. He pulled an unexpected late shift last night on direct orders from Sheriff Emma, and he’s still humiliated by how he was chased away by that slick spic who fooled DD into thinking he had a pistol in his hand.

  He paces back and forth in the small kitchen of his double-wide, barefoot, wearing blue jeans and nothing else, drinking a cold cup of coffee. Out in the living room with the orange shag carpeting that stinks because his wife Penny’s two cats keep on pissing there, his son, Morris, and daughter, Tina, are yowling and tussling over some broken plastic toys.

  “Penny!” he calls out to his wife. “Will you tell those two to settle down?”

  Penny murmurs, “Tell ’em yourself,” and goes back to her late morning, hell, her now daily routine of lying on the couch with the scuffed and worn cushions, watching one of those damn chick chat shows on TV, balancing a bowl of cheddar snack crackers on her swelling stomach, where their third child is coming along.

  DD pours the cold coffee down the sink and stares out the grease-stained kitchen window. He doesn’t belong here. He’s never belonged here. But after he was dismissed during his first deployment for some crazy reason due to his temper, he found himself working as a fry cook outside Savannah before Sheriff Emma recruited him. It was a sweet gig when it started—nice pay, bennies, and for once his temper was seen as an asset instead of a liability—but now it’s different.

  Oh, he doesn’t mind doing shit for the greater good, like tuning up suspects or planting crystal meth in some toad’s pickup truck, making it easier for the district attorney to get a conviction, but the stuff he did and saw in The Summer House, the shooting, the screaming, and…

  That poor baby girl. Why her?

  He shakes his head. Enough is enough. It’s time to man up and get a deal, get the hell out of here and bring along Penny and the kids, and if she doesn’t want to move her fat ass off the couch to go with him, well, he’ll figure it out.

  DD ducks i
nto the bedroom, past piles of clothes, socks, and panties on the floor, and quickly gets dressed. He grabs the keys to his truck from an ashtray loaded with old coins and paper clips and heads back out to the kitchen.

  “Where you going, DD?” Penny asks.

  “Out,” he says, tugging on a pair of sneakers.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I got to.”

  “Got to do what?”

  He doesn’t even look back at her when he heads to the door. “Out to finally make things right.”

  Penny Dix waits until she hears DD’s truck roar out of the trailer park and then picks up the bowl of snack crackers, puts it on the cluttered coffee table, and, with an “Oomph” and a heavy sigh, gets off the couch. She moves into the kitchen, takes her cell phone out of her purse, and makes a call.

  “Sullivan County Dispatch. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

  “I need to speak to Sheriff Williams.”

  The snotty-sounding woman says, “She’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.”

  Her bratty kids are screaming again, and Penny sticks a finger in one ear so she can hear better. “Look, missy, this here is her cousin Penny calling, and I need to talk to Sheriff Emma right now.”

  The woman says nothing. The line goes quiet.

  A click and a reassuring voice comes on the line. “Hey, Penny, hon, what’s going on?”

  “Sheriff Emma…it’s DD.”

  The reply is quick. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Something’s been botherin’ him these past few days. He’s been using the chaw more than he does, drinking more, and at night he gets these awful dreams. And right now he left the house without even much saying good-bye.”

  Her cousin says, “Did he say what was wrong? Or where he was going?”