The Summer House

Chapter 70

Special Agent Connie York is desperately trying to keep her yawning under control, but based on last night and the previous nights, it’s a damn losing battle. Her worn and dented rental Ford is parked at the end of a dirt road, and the other two Fords are parked a few feet away. Huang and Pierce arrived just a few minutes earlier with their late breakfasts: plastic-wrapped doughnuts, coffee, and orange juice in plastic containers, all purchased a while ago from a convenience store in Chatham County.

Sanchez says, “You sure you two weren’t followed?”

Pierce takes the lid off his coffee. “Look up the road. You see a cruiser coming down?”

Huang joins in. “Maybe there’s a black helicopter coming.”

“Shut up,” Sanchez says.

York says, “All of you, knock it off.”

Cold quiet comes to the group. York feels like a failure. All of them slept in the three cars overnight, though it wasn’t much of a sleep. Tired, achy, and facing a day of...

What?

What to do? Major Cook ordered her to push the investigation, but what was left to push? The dog-walking witness is missing, and so is the owner of the convenience store. The murder house and whatever evidence was inside are a pile of burnt rubble. Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson has cut a deal to plead guilty and is about to make it permanent at tomorrow’s court hearing, and, oh, yeah, the sheriff is corrupt and a criminal to boot, and her deputies are following them wherever they go.

Sanchez says, “You haven’t heard from the major, right?”

York says, “I’ve tried twice. No answer.”

“You sure you’re using the sat phone, right? Agent York?”

Just before she’s about to use her voice to tear off that arrogant cop’s head, her phone rings.

Her cell phone, not the Iridium satellite phone.

She digs into her bag, pulls it out.

York lets the call go to voicemail, like she’s done three times prior.

Huang asks, “Colonel Broderick, ma’am?”

“The one and only,” she says.

Sanchez says, “One of these days you’re gonna have to answer.”

“Maybe I’ll give the call to you, Agent Sanchez.”

Sanchez looks like he’s going to say something when the phone rings again.

Pierce says, “The colonel’s being persistent this morning.”

York is about to say the same thing when she sees her screen: BLOCKED CALL.

She steps away and answers the phone. “Hello?”

An unfamiliar man’s voice. “Is this the Army cop?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, is this the Army cop? The one looking into The Summer House killings, the one the Army Rangers been charged with?”

“I am,” she says. “I’m Special Agent York of the Army CID. Who’s this?”

“Someone who knows what really happened that night, lady. Someone who wants to let you know.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I was there, and I helped, and it made me sick,” the man says, his voice quivering. “I want to make it right. I want to talk to you, lady. Confess it all. Get a deal and get the hell out of this county.”

“How did you get my number?”

“Peggy Reese, that bitch reporter. But I made a deal... she gave me your number, and I promised to give her the whole story a day later, give you folks enough time to do your job.”

Some of her crew are whispering, and York takes a few steps farther away. “How do I know you’re for real? That you’re not just making it up?”

The man sighs. “I’ll tell you something that’s not in the papers. How’s that? Up on the second floor of the house, right-side bedroom, older lady was drug out from under a bed.”

York says. “Okay... that’s a start.”

“Oh? Then how about this, then? The bedroom across the hall, there were three dead folks. A guy in the bed with bandages on his arms, a chunky woman on the floor, and... a poor dead little girl, right there. Like her momma was trying to protect her.”

The air around her suddenly feels chilled. York says, “I need to see you. Right now. Where?”

The man says, “Shit, not in this county. There’s a Waffle House across the north county line on Gateway Boulevard West, just off Route 204, on the way into Savannah. I’ll see you there in ninety minutes. How’s that?”

“That sounds fine,” she says. “How will I know you?”

The man says, “I’ll be the scared son of bitch sitting by himself at the far end. And you, lady, you come by yourself. Okay? I’ll make sure I’m sitting near an exit door, and if you come by with anybody else, I’m outta there.”

He disconnects the call.

York walks back to her crew, tells them what’s just happened. Not surprisingly, Sanchez makes a fuss. “Damn it, York, this whole county is wrapped up and under that sheriff’s thumb. And you’re going off to meet some clown who said he was there?”

“He told me things that haven’t been made public.”

“Sure,” Sanchez says. “And if the sheriff is in on whatever happened, then she might have fed this guy this info. Set you up. Get you going to that Waffle House, and arrest you for crossing a double-yellow line. You could end up in the county jail and never come out.”

“Good point,” she says. “Which is why you’re going to be in charge when I’m gone, Sanchez, so the investigation continues. You’re going to protect those three surviving Rangers. Make sure nothing happens to them until we hear something from the major. Got it?”

Sanchez finally nods, and Huang and Pierce both say, “Yes, ma’am.”

York nods, too. “Good. Now transfer your gear from that rental. I’ve got places to go, and sorry to say, I’m not driving the one with the dented hood. Based on our luck, the damn thing will pop off about halfway there.”

Twenty minutes later, York pulls over for a quick moment, reaches into her bag, comes out with her SIG Sauer. There’s a round in the chamber, of course, but she wants to make sure she has two spare clips nearby when she goes into the Waffle House.

If it is a trap, she’s going to be ready.