The Summer House

Chapter 76

Special Agent Manuel Sanchez is speeding east on Interstate 16, about fifteen minutes outside Savannah, when he glances up at the rearview mirror and sees a dark-blue police cruiser right on his tail, blue lights flashing.

Sanchez looks at the speedometer.

One hundred two miles per hour.

It’ll be hard to talk his way out of this one, but he’s going to try.

He switches on the Ford’s directional and slowly pulls over to the side, where there is nothing around save for tall pines and flat swampy areas, while recalling the text he got a few minutes ago from Pierce, back at Sullivan.

A thought comes to him. If he’s lucky and can spin a good tale, maybe this trooper will let him go. Hell, almost everyone down here is a huge supporter of the military. Say the right words, Sanchez thinks, and maybe the trooper back there will give him a police escort to the hospital, shave off some of the desperate minutes left in his travel time.

The cruiser pulls to the side as well, comes up to him, and in Sanchez’s rearview mirror, he spots that it’s from the Georgia State Patrol. The cruiser sits there, and Sanchez taps his fingers on the steering wheel, impatient for the process to start. From the glove box he pulls out the rental agreement and takes his driver’s license out of his wallet.

The door to the cruiser opens up. A heavyset African American woman steps out, putting on her gray campaign-style hat, and starts walking in his direction. She has on a light-blue uniform shirt and gray trousers with a black stripe down the side.

Sanchez lowers the window, switches off the engine.

She maintains a distance behind him and says, “Are you sick, sir? Is there an emergency?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “But there is an emergency. I’m trying to get to Memorial Health in Savannah as fast as I can.”

“I see,” she says. “Family member?”

“No, ma’am,” he says. “My coworker. I’m a special agent with the US Army. She’s been shot.”

The woman bends over a bit. “May I see your license and registration?”

He passes over his California driver’s license and rental agreement. “I don’t have a registration. This vehicle is a rental.”

“Uh-huh,” the officer says. She seems to take her time examining his license and the rental agreement.

Minutes seem to drag as traffic roars by, the occasional tractor-trailer truck buffeting the Ford.

What’s taking her so long?

“Mr. Sanchez, you say you’re a special agent? With the US Army?”

“That’s right,” he says. “Hold on, I’ll show you my identification.”

He opens his leather wallet with the badge and identification, and she gives it a quick glance. Her eyes seem to darken, and she bites her lower lip.

“Well, I’ll be,” she says. “You sure are an agent, then. A special agent.”

Sanchez takes back his identification and says, “Yes, ma’am. And please... would you consider giving me an escort to Memorial Health?”

“I clocked you going at one hundred miles an hour, Mr. Sanchez. You think I could do better?”

His hands squeeze the steering wheel. “Ma’am, I—”

“That group in the Army,” she says. “Known as CIS or something, right?”

“United States Army Criminal Investigation Division,” he says, trying very hard not to lose his temper.

“Ah, that’s right,” she says, smiling. “I remember now. You see, my boy, Troy, he was an E-4 in the Army, in the 173rd Airborne, stationed over there in Italy. He had a nice Italian girlfriend, but she kept it on the down low, and when her Eye-tie family found out that their blond princess was dating an American black fellow, they freaked. Got the locals to arrest him for rape. And the Army was supposed to protect him... and you know what happened?”

Sanchez grits his teeth. “Ma’am, I’m quite sorry for what happened to your son, but—”

Her voice is louder. “That Army CID over there in Italy and the rest of the Army, they made the rape case go away, by forcing my Troy out of the Army. That’s what happened.”

“Ma’am, I—”

“You hold your ass right in place till I check you out.”

She turns around and goes back to her cruiser, the blue lights on the roof’s light bar still flashing. The officer seems to take her time getting back into the cruiser.

Shit, he thinks.

He’s done this before, back on the job in LA, showing a suspect or a driver or a pain-in-the-ass civilian who’s really in charge.

Now it’s this trooper’s turn.

Shit, he thinks again.

And...

All right. Suppose she checks through the GCIC system here, looking at his driver’s license status. Everything is fine — no outstanding warrants or violations, of course — but suppose Colonel Broderick up at Quantico... could he be so angry at his calls being ignored that he flagged his license?

Meaning that trooper could bring him into custody?

Sanchez looks back at the cruiser, and the traffic.

There’s an opening behind him, with two tractor-trailer trucks in the distance, traveling side by side, heading in his direction.

He starts up the Ford’s engine, puts the car into drive, and slams the accelerator with his foot, pulling out in front of the approaching trucks.