The Summer House

Chapter 50

She can’t see Hunter Army Airfield, but the noise of the aircraft taking off and landing can be heard just beyond the thick grove of pines and messy swamp. Mosquitoes fly around her in clouds, and after a minute she gets back into her civilian car, waits, slapping and killing two of the little monsters that got into the car with her.

Today she has on her uniform, and it feels good. Even though it’s nice to get into civvy clothes when one’s shift is done, it’s also nice to wear the uniform and to have people look at it, connect her to a powerful organization, and, for the most part, give her the respect and attention she deserves.

She checks the time just as her burner phone chimes.

Right on schedule.

“Yes?” she answers.

Again there’s a burst of static and a harsh whine, and the caller’s familiar voice comes on and says, “Tell me what’s new.”

“The investigation has been officially closed,” she says. “They’ve been ordered to wrap up and go back to Quantico. Within a day everything here will calm down. The Army can screw up here and there, but one thing they’re good at is following orders.”

Even with the bad connection and the distance, she can sense the relief in the man’s voice. “Good news indeed. Finally. Jesus.”

She shakes her head, not happy she has to spoil his good mood.

“But there’s a complication,” she says. “Cook is on his way to Afghanistan. Somehow he found out what happened to the Rangers over there.”

Her desperate man swears for a long minute, and he says, with more bursts of static interrupting him, “...never should have trusted you... gone along with this scheme. Damn it, we’re both going down!”

She says, “Shut up and listen good. We both agreed to this, and we’re both going to see it through. It’s going to take Cook nearly a day to get over there. Lots of time for me to continue cleaning things up on this end. And when he gets there, it’s going to be one crippled CID officer with no orders, no backup, in a combat zone. Lots of bad things can happen to him.”

Hiss of static.

“Like what?” he says.

“Like never you mind,” she says. “But things are getting more complicated. No more calls. Just see it through. In a few more days, it will be fine. Trust me.”

The signal wavers some and then the call is over. Damn him, she thinks. What creature has she hooked her wagon to, anyway?

She gets out of the car, takes the burner phone apart as before, breaking the SIM card, and she scoops out some mud with her dress boot and buries the phone and pieces.

Then she hears the sound of a vehicle approaching.

From the narrow dirt road behind her a mud-spattered black jeep with a black canvas top grinds up through the brush, engine rumbling. On the front bumper a faded sticker is barely visible, showing the bars and stars, and the words THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN.

Two men get out of the jeep, bearded, wearing worn jeans and hooded sweatshirts.

“Hey, sweetie,” the one on the right says, grinning. “Howzabout moving your crap car so we can get by? Hughie and me are in the mood for some four-wheelin’.”

She says, “I was here first. Why don’t you back up and let me get by?”

The two men laugh. The other man says, “Shit, sweetie, you think that uniform impresses us? You’re out of your jurisdiction, hon, so why don’t you move your hunk of junk so we can push on by?”

The driver says, “Yeah. I don’t reverse for no one, and especially some broad who thinks she’s all that.”

She nods. “All right,” she says. “I was just trying to be nice.”

Her pistol slides easily right out of her holster, and she shoots them both in the head.