The Summer House(35)

In the next few minutes there’s more pounding at the door from various journalists, which we all continue to ignore. Sanchez is in the corner, speaking Spanish to his wife, three time zones away. Huang and Pierce discuss the challenges of finding a way to get a pizza delivered past the reporters, Connie works on her computer, and I stare at the whiteboard.

We’re starting to get evidence, which is a good thing.

But between the photos up there of the Rangers and the list of the dead civilians, there’s still a wide and visible gap.

What’s the connection?

Why were the Rangers there?

If Staff Sergeant Jefferson knows the layout of the property, doesn’t that put them there? Especially with the forensic evidence of fingerprints and shell casings?

My cell phone vibrates and I dig it out of my jacket pocket. The ID says ANONYMOUS CALLER once more.

I answer it, thinking if I’m lucky this time I’ll be told my Microsoft computer needs repairs, when a woman’s voice says, “Major Cook?”

“Here,” I say.

There’s the sound of music and people talking in the background, and she says in a louder voice, “It’s Sheriff Williams. I know it’s late and all, but I was hoping we could talk.”

“Certainly,” I say. “What’s going on, Sheriff?”

She says, “I just found out why your Rangers killed all those people.”





Chapter 27



THE PARKING LOT of the Sullivan Memorial Baptist Church is nearly packed, and Special Agent Connie York wants to drop off Major Cook and Special Agent Sanchez at the entrance, but from the rear seat her boss says, “No. We’ll all go in together.”

Connie finds a spot after a couple of minutes circling the parking lot, like a Predator drone seeking targets of opportunity. When they get out of the battered Ford Fusion and start toward the church, Sanchez looks at the hood and shakes his head.

“Great driving there, Connie,” he says. “I’m sure it’ll buff right out.”

Before Connie can shoot back a comment, Cook says, “I told her to go down that road, to follow the car that had been tailing us. Unless you want to try fixing it when we get back to the motel, knock it off, Sanchez.”

Inwardly Connie smiles as Sanchez takes the hit from the major, and the three of them slowly make their way to the side entrance of the church hall. Amplified voices come from inside the building, followed by applause and cheers. Two extended black vans pull up into open handicapped spots and the doors pop open, TV camera crews and reporters sprinting out.

“Incoming Fourth Estate,” Sanchez says.

Through a grimace—no doubt from his aching leg—Cook says, “Just ignore them.”

Connie gets to the church door first and opens it up, and a plump woman in a pink dress holding a clipboard and a deputy sheriff in a brown-and-tan uniform are standing there. The deputy sheriff—LINDSAY, according to his name tag—says, “Help you folks?”

From behind them Connie hears voices say, “Hold on, just a moment, please, we have some questions…”

Cook says, “Major Jeremiah Cook, Army CID, with Special Agents York and Sanchez. We’re here to see Sheriff Williams.”

The woman frowns as she looks down at the clipboard, but the young uniformed man says, “Bonnie, it’s okay, the sheriff told me they were coming in.”

They slip inside, and Connie looks back as the TV crews and reporters try to come in, but Bonnie—raising the clipboard like a shield—holds them back, saying over and over again, “I’m sorry, you’re not on the list…I’m sorry, you’re not on the list…”

The interior of the hall is hot and crowded, with rows of folding chairs packed with people, and at the other end of the hall—flanked by US and Georgia state flags—a ruddy-faced man with carefully set black hair, wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and red tie and standing on a small stage, speaks into a wireless microphone, an arm around the shoulders of Sheriff Emma Williams. Four male deputies stand to the other side of the man speaking, all four looking embarrassed to be there.

“And I know you people well, and your brothers and sisters, serving overseas, for whom I pledge my undying assistance, many of whom I’ve met firsthand. And I thank Sheriff Williams and everyone here in Sullivan County for your continuing and deep support, which I’ll take with me to the United States Senate! Thank you and God bless!”

Whoops, hollers, and applause, the flashing of cameras, and the man hands off his microphone to an aide, turns and gives the sheriff a handshake and a peck on the cheek, and then moves into the crowd.

Major Cook raises his voice to Deputy Lindsay. “Who’s that?”

“Him?” Lindsay answers. “That there’s Representative Mason Conover from Georgia’s First District, and in less than two weeks he’s gonna be one of our new senators. Come along, folks, I know Sheriff Williams wants to see you.”

The large, muscular deputy sheriff clears a path for Connie, Sanchez, and the major, and Connie has the oddest feeling she’s met Lindsay before, which is impossible. But there’s that little itch at the base of her skull that tells her she knows him from somewhere.

Large campaign signs, including Conover’s, are tacked up around the walls, naming other candidates, from potential Congress members to potential sheriffs—and there’s Williams’s name, and sure enough, there’s Briggs, the local funeral home director, running again for county coroner.