The Summer House

Chapter 9

I look at the red numerals on the little digital clock on the nightstand. I’ve been awake for an hour. At night, when the dreams and the memories come back, it seems like the walls and ceilings and floor are conspiring to close in on me, choking out my breath, choking out my life.

I get out of bed and drape a sheet and blanket around my shoulders, unlock the motel room door, and go outside. There’s a lawn chair, and I sit down, wrapping everything about me.

Outside it’s still warm and muggy, and flying insects are swarming around the motel parking lot lights. The lot is nearly deserted. It’s just about 2:00 a.m., and the other two members of my squad are delayed due to flight problems.

Typical hurry up and wait.

I shift and tug the sheet and blanket closer. Army planning. Still hard to believe I’m now Army, through and through. For years I was with the NYPD, climbing the ladder, making good collars, going from precinct to precinct, and putting in my time in the Reserves. I was just out of high school when the Towers came down, and after graduating from the Academy I felt I could do a bit of payback while still wearing the shield, if luck came my way.

But luck and payback came to somebody else first on a dirt road in Afghanistan. A place that still haunts me but where I will never return.

The drone of an approaching car jolts me back to my present assignment. I think of Colonel Phillips, still not liking the depth of his cough during my last talk with him. Nearly a year ago he called me into his office at Quantico and said, I’m setting up a special squad. You’re going to lead it. It’s going to have CID investigators, a JAG lawyer, and a psychiatrist. Your job is going to take on major crimes, here and abroad, make sure justice gets done, that there are no cover-ups, and most of all, that the locals don’t frame our folks.

And I said, Yes, sir, and now I’m in Georgia. In 1864 General William T. Sherman made his march from Atlanta to Savannah, and just before Christmas Day he sent a message to President Lincoln:

Up there in Quantico, my Colonel Phillips is waiting for a gift, and I know it cannot wait until Christmas, or even until next week.

A car pulls into the lot and parks near me. The headlights switch off. Two doors open up, and the men inside get out and approach me.

“Major Cook,” the first one says. It’s Lieutenant John Huang, US Army Medical Corps, psychiatrist.

“Sir,” the second one says. Special Agent Manuel Sanchez, US Army CID, former LAPD officer.

I say, “Glad to see you, gents.” I swivel in my chair and add, “You’re in room 9. It’s unlocked. Two sets of room keys on the bureau. Agent York and Captain Pierce are in room 8. We’ll be getting up at 0600 later this morning. We’ll check the service records for the four Rangers and prep the rest of our day. Get organized and try to get some sleep.”

Both say, “Yes, sir,” and they get their gear and head to their room.

I sit and wait, the parking lot quiet again, and the bugs continue surging around the bright lights.

More sounds of cars approaching.

At this hour?

I think about our meeting with the county sheriff and how she described the last murder in this county, years back, when the abused Millie Porter took her vengeance against her Barry.

A common secret among us cops is that most murders get cleared in just a day or so. They’re easy, they’re blatant — drug deal turns bad, husband or wife gets tired of abuse, an armed robbery goes south.

Two cars and a rental van pull into the lot, come to a stop. Doors fly open, there are loud conversations, and I see two men go to the rear of the van, haul out television equipment.

The members of the Fourth Estate have rolled in, ready to pass sentence and convict with a few chosen words or sixty seconds of videotape, always able to duck out with that blessed word alleged.

Not me. I’m old-fashioned, I know, but I still want to see where the evidence leads us.

I get up from the chair, blanket and sheet still over me, wanting to get back to my room before one of the reporters decides to see who this odd man is. Once inside, I plan to stay awake.

As for Sheriff Williams and myself, we don’t have a crime to solve but a mystery.

And I hate mysteries.