The Summer House(32)

Connie rubs her face with both hands. “Seems like a good explanation, sir.”

My heart rate is calming down. I look around at the darkness about us, imagine men hidden there, watching us, considering us, armed and waiting.

At least we’re not on fire.

“Ask you a question, Connie?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Your first marriage. To George. Why did it end?”

She says not a word, which I expected.





Chapter 24



CONNIE TURNS AND stares at Major Cook. After this chase and the collision and nearly having both of their heads torn off, why in God’s name is he asking her about her first failed marriage?

What the hell is going on?

Cook is quiet, but Connie gives him a good long look, sees his cane on the floor, his left injured leg shaking, his hands gripping his SIG Sauer, and his eyes looking straight out there into the darkness.

Now she knows.

He’s not all here.

Part of him is back in Afghanistan.

Asking her about her first failed marriage…something safe, something domestic to talk about after this violent chase reminded him of a war zone.

He’s trying to get back here, all of him.

“Boxes, sir,” she says, noticing the Ford’s engine is running rough.

“Go on.”

“After we moved in together, he had about twenty cardboard boxes filled with books, clothing, all that stuff,” she says. “And when he got it all unpacked, he kept the empty boxes in the basement, all neatly piled up. Month after month I bugged him to get rid of the boxes, they were taking up so much space. And when he didn’t do that…”

Her boss says, “You knew that deep down, where it counted, he wasn’t committed to the marriage. And Walter? What was his deal?”

She tightens her grip on the steering wheel, lifts herself up a bit from the seat, peers ahead. The dust has settled and there’s nothing more to be seen.

Connie says, “Walter was one for setting traps. Like cleaning out the dishwasher, folding the laundry, getting the oil changed in the car, all without me asking. And those were his traps. ‘Connie, didn’t you see what I did? Why don’t I get credit? Why don’t you notice me?’ And I told him, ‘Walter, you’re so big into ambushes, why the hell don’t you transfer from CID to an infantry unit?’”

“Did he?”

“No,” she says. “Left the CID and joined the FBI. Last I heard he was in Des Moines, chasing down farmers cheating on their government subsidies.”

The engine is running even rougher. Cook reaches down, picks up his cane, and sets it across his lap.

Connie says, “Sorry about the accident. I’ll do the paperwork.”

“No,” her boss says. “My job. I’ll take care of it. But you can turn us around and head us back to the motel. We’ve still got lots of work to do.”

Connie shifts the car into reverse again, and after a bit of careful three-point turning, she heads back up the road.

“I’m also sorry I lost them,” she says.

“Nothing to apologize for.”

The Ford bumps some as they get back onto asphalt.

“Sir?” she asks. “I don’t understand.”

Cook puts his SIG Sauer back into his holster. “I wanted whoever’s out there to know we’re aware of them following us and that we’re going to do something about it. You did well, Connie. No worries. But do get us back to the motel without hitting anything else.”

Connie smiles. “Can do, sir.”

They drive on for a few more minutes, and she looks up in the rearview mirror, makes a quick turn, and then looks again.

“Major.”

“We’re being followed again,” he says.

“That’s right.”

“Let them follow us,” he says, the SIG Sauer coming back out into his hand. “But if they come too close, or try to do anything funny, throw us into a U-turn.”

“And then try to shake them off?”

“No,” Cook says, lowering his window with one hand, pistol firm in the other. “I have other ideas.”





Chapter 25



THE DRIVE GOES smoothly after that, with the not-so-friendly lights still behind us, and as we near our destination, I roll the window up. When Connie gets us back to the Route 119 Motel and Coffee Shop, there’s a huddled group of men and women outside our room 11. Connie parks our damaged Ford as close as she can, and she says, “Sorry, boss, the Fourth Estate has arrived, in all their assumed glory.”

Damn it, I think, because I wanted to get to my room first to secure some painkillers, but I’m not in the mood to maneuver my way twice through that enthusiastic mob. No pain relief any time soon.

“As before, Connie,” I say, grabbing my cane. “I’ll take the lead.”

She unsnaps her seat belt. “You’ll take the lead in answering questions, sir. I’ll take the lead in blocking us a path.”

The next few seconds are a mess as I stay close behind Connie while she forces her way through the dozen or so men and women, dressed in everything from jeans and T-shirts to carefully styled suits, for the network correspondents, and lights from three television cameras glare at us as we get to the door.