The Summer House

Chapter 18

Time passes slowly, but Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson is in no rush. Earlier, when Specialist Tyler unexpectedly left, he whispered quick orders to Barnes and Ruiz, the other members of his fire team, about what to do next, and like the good men they are, they followed his orders.

A door opens up with a metallic clunk, and the woman jail attendant — Marcy — brings Ruiz in, putting him back into his cell, and Jefferson stands up.

Marcy comes to the old-fashioned barred cell door and says, “Your turn, Sergeant Jefferson, if you wish.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You promise to be a gentleman, like before?”

“Absolutely, ma’am.”

“You know what’s next.”

“I do, ma’am.”

He puts his hands through a slot in the bars so Marcy can handcuff them, and after the shackles snap into place, he steps back, as she uses a large metal key on a wooden stick to unlock the door.

With the cell door open, she gestures him forward, and he follows her direction. She and the other jailers seem in awe of him and his team, which is just fine, because they are widely ignorant of what he and they are capable of.

Jefferson thinks that in under a minute he could hurt and disable Marcy, free himself, Barnes, Tyler, and Ruiz, and get out of this small town in under ten minutes, never to be seen again.

It’s certainly something to think about.

In the small interrogation room, he stares at the Army psychiatrist as he pulls his chair up close to the small table and lets his handcuffed hands and thick arms stretch across the tabletop, invading Dr. John Huang’s personal space.

Jefferson knows a lot about shooting people, leading men, and blowing things up, but he also knows a bit of how an officer’s mind works.

Huang is slim, well dressed, and of Chinese descent. To Jefferson, this means he’s come from the kind of strict Asian upbringing in which Mom and Dad force their children to be 100 percent at all times. Tiger moms and tiger dads. He, on the other hand, grew up in Gilmor Homes in Baltimore, living with his grandmother, Mom in jail and Dad gone, and the street education he got there was probably one hell of a lot rougher and to the point than what the good doctor experienced.

“So,” Jefferson says, “what do you want?”

Huang is leaning back in his chair, trying to look cool and inviting, and Jefferson will have none of that. His brown eyes are tight and intelligent, and the staff sergeant is going to be cautious with this bright man, even if he’s probably never picked up a weapon since Basic.

“You came to see me,” the doctor says. “Why is that?”

Jefferson says, “You came here and specifically asked for Specialist Tyler. That’s why I’m in this room with you. To see what you did to him. He’s the youngest member of my team. You trying to tempt him, break him?”

The doctor says, “I just wanted to talk to him.”

“How did it go?”

“It went fine.”

Jefferson smiles. “How did the other two interviews go? Not as well?”

“They went fine,” the doctor repeats.

Jefferson slightly shakes his head. “Oh, come on, Doc. It didn’t go well so don’t bullshit me. I’ve got one hell of a good bullshit detector, built and polished over the years, working with upstanding officers like you. Don’t tell me otherwise.”

He says, “Fair enough. I won’t bullshit you. And I’ll say the other two men — Barnes and Ruiz — were quiet. And formidable. They barely went beyond name and rank. And said you were the best staff sergeant they’ve ever served with.”

“Not surprised,” Jefferson says. “They’re the best I’ve ever led. Now. Back to the original question. What... do... you... want?”

“To talk to you and your men,” Huang says. “You’ve been arrested. All four of you are facing serious charges.”

“That’s like telling me the sun just set,” Jefferson says. “You’ve got to do better than that.”

Huang tries to maintain his composure, but Jefferson knows he’s getting under the doctor’s skin. Jefferson says, “You want to talk to me. Fine. I’ll save us all a bunch of time and tell you what’s what.”

Huang says, “All right. I’m curious to hear what you have to say.”

Jefferson makes a point of leaning over a bit more. “Just a question before I begin. You ever been out in the field?”

“I don’t see how—”

“Lieutenant, I get an answer or I’m out of here.”

Huang doesn’t look happy. “No,” he says.

“All right, let’s put it out there. My men and I, we don’t fight for God, country, or whatever clown is sitting in the Oval Office. We fight for one another or our platoon or our battalion. That is it. When you’re in a trench in the middle of the night and the muj are coming through the wire, sending RPG rounds your way, you may hate the guy next to you for stealing your clean socks last week, but by God, you’ve got his back.”

Huang sits quietly, and Jefferson says, “And who’s got our back? The Army? JAG? CID? You? Anybody else?”

The doctor says, “I can help. You tell me what’s going on, what happened, I might be able to—”

“Help in what way?” Jefferson asks. “Are you going to get that county sheriff to set us free? Think the district attorney won’t indict us? You think the families of those folks in that old historical house are going to forget what happened? You going to tell CID that it was all a mistake and put pressure on the county sheriff to let us go?”

Huang snaps to. “You’re telling me that you and your squad were in that house, Staff Sergeant?”

Jefferson withdraws his hands, puts them in his lap. That was stupid, getting angry like that.

“That’s enough,” Jefferson says. “Enough.”

Huang slowly unfolds himself from his chair and leans over the table. “Tell me, Sergeant. Tell me what happened in that home. Why were you there? Did they shoot first? Did you respond automatically, not able to stop?”

Jefferson says, “You like being a doctor?”

“What?” Huang asks, confused. “Yes, yes I do.”

Jefferson slowly stands up. “I love docs, honest to God I do. Combat medics in the field, shit, they are the goddamn best. Mortar rounds exploding around you, grenades flying overhead, rounds whipping near you... you hunker down so hard you want to dig a hole eight meters deep with your hands. But when a guy gets a piece of shrapnel in his neck, when somebody screams out, ‘I’m hit, I’m hit, Medic,’ those guys jump up and run out and do their job. God, I love ’em and respect them.”

He turns, anger building in him. “But not you, Lieutenant. You’re a goddamn head doc, worthless. And if you come talk to my squad again without my permission, one of these days I’ll track you down and hurt you. Bad.”