The Summer House(27)
Jefferson makes a point of leaning over a bit more. “Just a question before I begin. You ever been out in the field?”
“I don’t see how—”
“Lieutenant, I get an answer or I’m out of here.”
Huang doesn’t look happy. “No,” he says.
“All right, let’s put it out there. My men and I, we don’t fight for God, country, or whatever clown is sitting in the Oval Office. We fight for one another or our platoon or our battalion. That is it. When you’re in a trench in the middle of the night and the muj are coming through the wire, sending RPG rounds your way, you may hate the guy next to you for stealing your clean socks last week, but by God, you’ve got his back.”
Huang sits quietly, and Jefferson says, “And who’s got our back? The Army? JAG? CID? You? Anybody else?”
The doctor says, “I can help. You tell me what’s going on, what happened, I might be able to—”
“Help in what way?” Jefferson asks. “Are you going to get that county sheriff to set us free? Think the district attorney won’t indict us? You think the families of those folks in that old historical house are going to forget what happened? You going to tell CID that it was all a mistake and put pressure on the county sheriff to let us go?”
Huang snaps to. “You’re telling me that you and your squad were in that house, Staff Sergeant?”
Jefferson withdraws his hands, puts them in his lap. That was stupid, getting angry like that.
“That’s enough,” Jefferson says. “Enough.”
Huang slowly unfolds himself from his chair and leans over the table. “Tell me, Sergeant. Tell me what happened in that home. Why were you there? Did they shoot first? Did you respond automatically, not able to stop?”
Jefferson says, “You like being a doctor?”
“What?” Huang asks, confused. “Yes, yes I do.”
Jefferson slowly stands up. “I love docs, honest to God I do. Combat medics in the field, shit, they are the goddamn best. Mortar rounds exploding around you, grenades flying overhead, rounds whipping near you…you hunker down so hard you want to dig a hole eight meters deep with your hands. But when a guy gets a piece of shrapnel in his neck, when somebody screams out, ‘I’m hit, I’m hit, Medic,’ those guys jump up and run out and do their job. God, I love ’em and respect them.”
He turns, anger building in him. “But not you, Lieutenant. You’re a goddamn head doc, worthless. And if you come talk to my squad again without my permission, one of these days I’ll track you down and hurt you. Bad.”
Chapter 19
SPECIAL AGENT MANUEL SANCHEZ pulls over to the side of the road in his rented Ford sedan, yawns, rubs at his eyes. It’s been one long grueling day, for after his interview with Wendy Gabriel he decided to continue going up and down Route 119, interviewing other households that might have witnesses to what happened on Wednesday night.
Not surprisingly, the interviews went bust. He’s talked to two men, three women, and two young boys, in a variety of rural houses and mobile homes, up and down this lonely stretch of Georgia state highway, and no one saw a thing. Lunch was a bottle of orange Fanta and two packages of peanuts from a service station’s vending machine just outside Sullivan.
He checks the car’s clock. It’s just after 8:00 p.m., the time when Wendy said she saw the pickup truck owned by Staff Sergeant Jefferson leave the kill house four nights ago. The dirt driveway to The Summer House and a utility pole with a single streetlight are up ahead.
Time to see what Wendy claims she saw.
He puts the car in drive, goes to the driveway, and backs in a couple of meters. Sanchez leaves the engine in park, gets out, and walks in the glare of the headlights, out to the road.
He turns around, looks at the Ford sedan. Even with the glare of the headlights it’s easy to make out the license plate. He goes back to the car, flicks off the headlights, leaving the amber parking lights on.
There.
Still visible.
He stands on the road, looks up at the streetlight. It’s an old streetlight, the kind with a large bulb screwed into a metal dome. The light is yellow and weak, gradually fading in and out.
Interesting.
He looks around at the scenery. So dark, so empty. Just brooding, heavy trees. The bare pavement. So quiet, save for insects out there, and night birds and a dog barking. Toby Baby? Maybe. So very, very different from the constant lights, noise, horns, engines, and music back home in LA.
Sanchez goes back to the car, switches off even the parking lights, and then returns to the road.
The overhead utility light is still bright enough to make out the license plate. Not crystal clear but enough to do the job, for someone to get the first three letters and a number.
“There you go,” he whispers.
His jacket feels clammy and confining on him, so he takes it off, folds it in half, and then stops.
A car or truck engine, out there.
He turns.
No headlights.
He looks back at the sedan.
Walks to it, opens the door, drapes the jacket—a Brooks Brothers coat with shiny buttons his wife, Conchita, bought for him when he got a promotion last year—over the driver’s seat, so the buttons are facing up.
He switches on the headlights.