The Summer House(21)

A good sign.

He walks up to the wide front porch, taking everything in. There’s a parked Volkswagen Beetle—a new model, though rusted and battered some—and a sagging clothesline, and an old washer-dryer combo dumped to the side. He takes a step up onto the porch, the dog barking even louder, and knocks on the door. The porch has two chairs whose upholstery is torn, letting some stuffing dangle out. There’s a water bowl on the wooden planks, and the door leading into the house has deep gouges, like a dog is used to scratching it, begging to come inside.

He knocks twice more before a woman cautiously opens the door. “Yes?” she asks.

The woman is in her late forties or early fifties, face worn and tired, her gray-black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’s wearing a floral housecoat that she’s grasping around her neck, and she’s keeping the screen door closed.

“Ma’am, sorry to bother you, but I’m Special Agent Manuel Sanchez of the US Army.”

Her tired eyes widen. “The Army? For real?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Here’s my badge and identification.”

He holds his leather wallet up to the screen, and the woman gives it a quick glance and says in a voice that’s almost a hoarse whisper, “What’s the Army doing around here?”

“I’m part of a team investigating the murders of seven civilians who lived up the road, at The Summer House,” he says. “Four Army personnel have been arrested.”

The woman looks uneasy, and Sanchez says, “I’ve talked to Sheriff Williams about her investigation. She said a woman walking her dog saw a Ford pickup truck leave the house right after the shootings. It was you, correct?”

He waits.

Behind the woman the barking dog is louder and louder.

Sanchez wonders if he should press her when she says, “That’s right.”

Finally, he thinks, and he opens the screen door and gently presses himself into the house. “I promise, this will only take a few minutes.”



Inside the house, a large dog that looks to be a brown mongrel with large floppy ears leaps up and nearly knocks Sanchez on his ass. He backpedals as the woman says, “Toby, Toby, you knock that off, right now!’

A large smear of dog drool hits Sanchez’s pants leg as the dog barrels past him and bursts through the open front doors, howling and barking in apparent joy after breaking free.

She closes both doors and says, “That Toby. He sure has a spirit ’bout him. When he wants to run, he runs. When he don’t want to come in, he don’t come in.”

Sanchez quickly takes in the house. Before him and to the left is a kitchen area, and to the right is a small living room. Behind him is a small coatrack with a light jacket, a raincoat, and an umbrella hanging from pegs. There’s another water bowl and a half filled dog bowl below the coatrack.

He’s still looking around when he says, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”

“Oh,” she says. “Wendy. Wendy Gabriel. Would you like to sit down?”

The interior of the house is relatively cool after spending the last couple of hours traipsing outside in the hot Georgia sun, but Sanchez isn’t sure how to reply. The interior of the house is so crowded and cluttered that he can’t believe it’s still standing. There are piles of newspapers, magazines, stuffed cardboard boxes, folded-up clothes, more newspapers, and more magazines, and mail…hundreds of pieces, it looks like. A hollowed-out area in the living room reveals a worn couch and a television set, and a nightstand piled with bags of dog treats and candy.

A hoarder, he thinks, but he gives the woman credit: she’s a neat hoarder. Everything seems to be in its place, though there are lots of places.

“This way,” she says, and they go into the kitchen, where there’s a lonely uncluttered chair. Wendy picks up thick piles of Newsweek magazines—the top one has a photo of Ronald Reagan on the cover—and he sits down.

“Thank you, ma’am. I promise I won’t stay long.”

She sits down, too, hand still holding the housecoat closed. “Those killings…horrible, simply horrible. My God. Is the Army going to arrest them, too?”

“The crimes were committed off post, ma’am, so it’s under civilian police authority,” he says, taking out a small notebook and pencil. “But the Army still wants to know what happened, the how and the why.”

She says, “But how come you’re not in uniform?”

Which is approximately the nine hundredth time Sanchez has been asked this, and he says, “I’m with the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division. We usually wear civilian clothes because it helps us blend in while we’re doing our job. Now, if I may…”

He flips open to a blank page in the notebook and says, “Sheriff Williams told me that you witnessed a Ford F-150 pickup truck leaving the residence sometime Wednesday night. Do you recall what time it was?”

She says, “Oh, yes, without a doubt. A bit after 8:00 p.m., right after Jeopardy! was over. I was taking Toby for a walk.”

“Along the main road, then, right?”

“That’s right,” she says.

“And what did you see?”

She shifts in her chair. “We were heading home. We were on the side of the road where the dirt path leads into that place where the college kids were stayin’. The one everyone calls The Summer House. Is it true, they was all shot? And a baby girl, too?”