The Summer House(57)
“Fine by me,” Sanchez says. “Maybe he can counsel the funeral home director to cooperate with us. See you in a bit.”
“Hey,” Pierce says. “You say you’re done at that woman’s house. Did you find something?”
“I sure as hell did,” Sanchez says, and disconnects the call.
Chapter 49
INSIDE HIS CELL at the Ralston town jail, Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson is sitting cross-legged on his bunk, waiting, thinking, pondering. There’s a fresh smell of soap and bleach in the air, and he knows it’s from yesterday, from cleaning up the adjacent cell after Specialist Vinny Tyler—his man, his responsibility!—ended his life.
A good leader always takes care of his men, always brings them back, the best he can, and he feels bone-deep inside that he’s a failure. Not that he hasn’t lost men before, but that was overseas in the ’stan, where a sniper’s bullet, a mortar round, or an RPG could end a life in the blink of an eye. That was the job. That was the risk everyone took.
But not here. Not in this pissy little cell. Not in Georgia.
Corporal Barnes whispers, “How are you doing, Sergeant?”
“Shut up,” Jefferson says.
The other surviving member of their squad pipes up as well. “Sergeant, we all agreed about what happened. Vinny…he just couldn’t hack it anymore. That’s all. It’s not your fault.”
“Ruiz?”
“Yes?”
“You can shut up, too.”
They quiet down.
He continues to sit, brooding.
Out there is his other responsibility, his stepdaughter, Carol, though truthfully, he never really uses the word step. The two of them bonded almost instantly when he started seeing her mother, Janice, with none of the fighting and griping about “You’re not my real daddy,” and she was his daughter as much as any biological father’s out there.
He wonders how she is. He wonders about Major Moore, the battalion’s XO, if he got to Aunt Sophie in time.
The planning, the agreements, everything else must stay in place.
Jefferson realizes he’s clenching his fists.
But what if he’s wrong?
And what if all this ends up killing the last two members of his squad?
Chapter 50
SHE CAN’T SEE Hunter Army Airfield, but the noise of the aircraft taking off and landing can be heard just beyond the thick grove of pines and messy swamp. Mosquitoes fly around her in clouds, and after a minute she gets back into her civilian car, waits, slapping and killing two of the little monsters that got into the car with her.
Today she has on her uniform, and it feels good. Even though it’s nice to get into civvy clothes when one’s shift is done, it’s also nice to wear the uniform and to have people look at it, connect her to a powerful organization, and, for the most part, give her the respect and attention she deserves.
She checks the time just as her burner phone chimes.
Right on schedule.
“Yes?” she answers.
Again there’s a burst of static and a harsh whine, and the caller’s familiar voice comes on and says, “Tell me what’s new.”
“The investigation has been officially closed,” she says. “They’ve been ordered to wrap up and go back to Quantico. Within a day everything here will calm down. The Army can screw up here and there, but one thing they’re good at is following orders.”
Even with the bad connection and the distance, she can sense the relief in the man’s voice. “Good news indeed. Finally. Jesus.”
She shakes her head, not happy she has to spoil his good mood.
“But there’s a complication,” she says. “Cook is on his way to Afghanistan. Somehow he found out what happened to the Rangers over there.”
Her desperate man swears for a long minute, and he says, with more bursts of static interrupting him, “…never should have trusted you…gone along with this scheme. Damn it, we’re both going down!”
She says, “Shut up and listen good. We both agreed to this, and we’re both going to see it through. It’s going to take Cook nearly a day to get over there. Lots of time for me to continue cleaning things up on this end. And when he gets there, it’s going to be one crippled CID officer with no orders, no backup, in a combat zone. Lots of bad things can happen to him.”
Hiss of static.
“Like what?” he says.
“Like never you mind,” she says. “But things are getting more complicated. No more calls. Just see it through. In a few more days, it will be fine. Trust me.”
The signal wavers some and then the call is over. Damn him, she thinks. What creature has she hooked her wagon to, anyway?
She gets out of the car, takes the burner phone apart as before, breaking the SIM card, and she scoops out some mud with her dress boot and buries the phone and pieces.
Then she hears the sound of a vehicle approaching.
From the narrow dirt road behind her a mud-spattered black jeep with a black canvas top grinds up through the brush, engine rumbling. On the front bumper a faded sticker is barely visible, showing the bars and stars, and the words THE SOUTH SHALL RISE AGAIN.
Two men get out of the jeep, bearded, wearing worn jeans and hooded sweatshirts.