The Summer House

Chapter 53

Special Agent Connie York is pushing the damaged Ford rental up Route 119 as fast as she can, with the dented and scraped front hood shaking and vibrating like it’s seconds away from tearing off. She feels like she’s in a race for her life, for justice, for everything, and some damnable folks are up ahead, pulling the finish line away from her.

Next to her, Pierce, the squad’s JAG attorney, gets off his smartphone and says, “No joy, Connie. District Attorney Slate is in meetings all day, can’t be disturbed.”

“Big surprise,” she says, looking up in the rearview mirror, seeing the other two rentals in a train right behind her, Sanchez hanging close again with Huang not far behind. “All right, get on the phone with Briggs, the funeral home director. And put him on speaker.”

She checks the time as Pierce starts making the call. At this point Major Cook is still hours short of arriving in Germany for a refueling stop and, even with the satellite phone, is probably out of reach.

No matter.

She’s seeing this one through.

“All right, sir. Hold on, please. I’m going to put you on speakerphone,” Pierce says. A flick of the finger on the screen and a voice booms out, “This is Ferguson Briggs.”

“Mr. Briggs, thank you,” Connie says, keeping her eye on the narrow state road. “A quick question, if I may. This morning you said something to the effect that you received directions to cremate the remains of Stuart Pike, the man who had been renting that home.”

Briggs says nothing for a moment, and then, cautiously, he says, “Yes, that’s true. I did receive instructions to do that.”

“From his family?”

“No,” he says.

“Who, then?”

Another pause and she glances at Pierce, who glances right back at her with a look of expectation upon his face. Briggs clears his throat. “Why, Sheriff Williams contacted me and told me to go ahead with the cremation. She told me that a family member had contacted her.”

“You just went ahead and did it, then,” Connie asks.

“Why not?”

Connie makes a chopping motion with her right hand, and Pierce disconnects the phone call. Up ahead is the now familiar dirt road off to the right, leading to The Summer House.

She makes the turn, speeding right by the old sign, the other Fords following behind her, and then she sees a haze, some parked vehicles with flashing lights, and when the smell of something burning comes to her, she knows once again she’s too late.

York slows down and approaches the house as Pierce says, “Oh, shit, look at that.”

On the scene are two brown-and-white cruisers from the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department and two fire engines from the town’s volunteer fire department. About a half dozen firefighters wearing bright-yellow turnout gear and helmets are wetting down what’s left of the house, which is a smoldering, smoking pile of collapsed wood, shingles, and broken windows.

She parks the rental behind the nearest cruiser and steps out, the smell of smoke thick and disappointing. Even with Pierce next to her, and quickly followed by Huang and Sanchez, never has she felt so utterly alone. Even doing traffic stops along the highways of Virginia, back in her state trooper days, she was never entirely by herself if something went south. If she got into something desperate or dangerous back then, help was one quick radio broadcast away.

Not here.

This entire place is against her and the CID team.

Two men and a woman dressed in the brown and tan of the Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department are talking to an older man who has ASST. CHIEF lettered on the back of his coat, and then the woman — Sheriff Williams, of course — breaks away and comes over, a very happy and satisfied smile on her face.

Even with the thick Georgia heat, York is taken aback by the confidence in that woman’s smile.

She’s getting away with it, whatever the hell it is, and she’s not showing any fear or concern.

“Morning, folks,” she says, stepping closer. “Hell of a thing, isn’t it? A nice old historical home like this burning down. A real pity.”

York shakes her head. “Arson?”

A shrug. “Could be. We’ll have to wait for the fire inspectors to figure it out. Might take a month or two.”

One by one, the other members of her squad line up next to her, tired, beat down, and now seeing another piece of evidence literally go up in smoke.

“How convenient,” York says.

Sanchez says, “Yeah, damn convenient.”

Something seems to crackle in the air. The sheriff steps in closer, and her two deputies do the same. Williams’s face seems to change, from the open cheeriness of earlier to something hard and dark, and then she changes again.

Smiles.

She reaches out, touches the damaged hood of the Ford. “Wow, will you look at this. Recent collision damage. Looks like you hit something hard.”

York keeps quiet. A piece of the shattered roof of the house collapses, causing a flare-up and another billow of smoke. The sheriff says, “You know, funny thing, the other night Randy Poplar, he runs a private shooting club over on the north side of town, he reported that somebody ran into his pipe gate. Dented it all to hell.”

The sheriff rubs the hood of the car. “His pipe gate is painted white, and look what we got here. White paint scrapes. Damn coincidence, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” York says.

“Still, to be certain, I might want to investigate further,” and again her tone changes, becoming slow, threatening. “Seize this vehicle. Match the paint scrapings here. Hell, the more I look into this, there might be charges down the road. Know what I mean? Failure to report an accident. Leaving the scene of an accident. Causing an accident resulting in excess of a thousand dollars in damages. Lots of potential criminal liabilities out there.”

The smile pops back. “But, Agent York, I hear you folks are being called back to Virginia. Packing up and leaving. Wrapping up your work here. Looks like the only problem you’ll have is facing the rental company when you get back to the Savannah airport.”

York smiles back. “Sorry, Sheriff, you’ve heard wrong.”

That startles the sheriff. Good.

“What did you say?”

York says, “You heard wrong. We’re not leaving. Not today, not tomorrow. We’re leaving when our job is done. No matter what burns down, who disappears, or who flies back to Mumbai, we’re staying on this case. If you’ve forgotten, we’re the US Army, and we don’t back down.”

Williams makes the slightest shake of her head, and the two strong-looking and armed deputies move as one to back her up.

The sheriff says, “This county ain’t for you.”

York heads back to the open door of her car.

“Oh, you’re wrong, Sheriff,” York says. “I love it here. It’s a great, charming place. You know, when I retire, I might even move down here and find a little place to live. Get used to it, Sheriff. My squad and I are going to be here for a long time to come.”