The Summer House(50)

The laptop is warm under her arm. “Old cop slang. An after-hours meeting, unofficial, no records kept. Usually it means an after-shift party. Or an ass kicking. Care to guess what we’re in for?”

“No,” Pierce says.

Inside room 11 it’s warm and stuffy, and it smells of sweat and old grease, just like her own room with Pierce. If there’s housekeeping at this motel, Connie has yet to see it.

Huang and Sanchez are there, sitting next to each other, wearing shorts and T-shirts. Sanchez has a number of tattoos on his large upper biceps. The major waits until everyone is seated and then slams the door shut.

Nobody says a word. Everyone is paying attention. Cook’s face is mottled red, and York thinks this is the first time she and the others have seen his wounded leg. She’s shocked at how pale and thin it is, and how the flesh is puckered and ridged with scars and burn tissue. The pain her boss goes through every day must be tremendous.

He says, “Listen up. Look around. This is a special unit, coordinated by the Criminal Investigation Division of the goddamn United States Army, tasked to investigate crimes of high interest and severity. That means Colonel Phillips and myself thought at one point you had the experience and guts to get the job done.”

York’s computer is on her lap, and she’s slowly manipulating the keys, wanting to take a closer look at what the new browser window is revealing.

Cook leans into his cane, and she thinks he’s standing here, leg exposed, to shock all of them, and the major’s doing a good job. Even though she’s quietly working on something else, his words shoot out at them like chunks of cold stone.

“Right now, damn it, you’re failing. All of you. You’ve done some preliminary work gathering information and evidence, but you know what? It’s all been fed to us! All of it! The police reports, the witnesses, the surveillance tape, the forensics, the county coroner…everything has been set up on the proverbial goddamn silver platter, and right now it stops!”

York freezes the browser.

My God.

Can this be true?

Cook nearly shouts, “Sanchez!”

He sits up. “Sir!”

“Wendy Gabriel, the witness who has the dog. Find her or find someone who knows why she’s gone, or where she’s gone. You hit every mobile home and shack within five miles of that place. You go back to her home and you look it over, see if there’s anything there that says why she left and where she went.”

“Sir, she’s a hoarder and—”

“I don’t care if she collects her dog’s urine in mason jars. You get back into that house and find something. Pierce.”

“Sir,” Pierce says.

York slowly moves her fingers, the digits feeling fat and clumsy, because she can’t believe what she’s just found.

“Pierce, you get your ass back to the Ralston jail. Do whatever you have to do to talk to the Rangers. Why in hell are they planning to defend themselves without outside counsel? Are they being pressured? Blackmailed? And when you go to Ralston, you take Huang with you.”

Huang says in a tired voice, “But, sir, I mean—”

“Doctor, shut up and do your job,” Cook says, his face even more red. “You suck it up and get back to Ralston, and you do your damn professional best and get in there and talk to those Rangers. What happened to them in Afghanistan with that civilian house they supposedly hit? What rivalries and jealousies do other members of their battalion have against them? What do they think drove Tyler to kill himself?”

York is staring at her computer screen, hoping she’s right, hoping she’s—

“Agent York!” Cook yells. “What the hell is so goddamn important on your goddamn computer? Have you listened to a goddamn word I’ve said?”

“Sir, I—”

A phone rings. York feels warm and ashamed, like a high school student caught cheating on a test. Everyone looks around the room to see which one of them has interrupted the major, until he curses, reaches into his shorts, pulls out his phone.

He glances at the screen.

“Colonel Phillips,” Cook says. “Good. Let’s see what he’s found out about our Rangers and the CIA.”

The major brings his phone up and says, “Cook, here. Sir, could I—oh.”

Then, amazingly and frighteningly, his red face drains of all color, becoming pasty white.

Something is wrong, York thinks.

Cook says, “But, sir—”

No.

Something is very seriously wrong.





Chapter 41



MY LEFT LEG feels like the femur inside is a piece of old wood blazing with white-hot heat, and I do my very best to ignore the pain when I say, “I’m sorry, sir, could you say that again?”

Even though the caller ID said PHILLIPS CID QUANTICO, it’s not our commanding officer speaking to me.

It’s his deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Broderick, and he says, “Colonel Phillips is in the hospital. We’re not sure how long he’s going to be there, or when—or if—he’s getting out.”

“Can I ask what’s wrong, sir?”

“No,” Broderick says. “I’ve been placed in command. Major, how long before you can wrap it up and report back to Quantico?”

I find for a moment that I’ve lost my voice.