The Summer House(62)

Huang says, “I went out for a run early yesterday morning. There’s a Dumpster out behind the coffee shop.”

She brushes by them, goes out, and, damn it, a herd of reporters is out there, with cameras, notepads, pens, and they pepper her with questions as she makes a quick walk to the coffee shop.

“Excuse me, do you have any comment on the suicide…”

“Will the Army defend these killers of innocents…”

“Do you think the Army is responsible for the death of that little girl…”

She pushes through, gets around the corner of the building, and Sanchez is behind her, and bless Pierce and Huang, they hang back, block the reporters, trying to give her a few seconds to herself.

There’s low brush, plastic bags of trash, broken bottles, wooden pallets leaning up against the concrete-block wall. Ventilation fans hum in the side of the building. A dirt lot bordered by brush and saplings. A green Dumpster is next to the rear entrance of the coffee shop. She stops, sees a puddle near the bottom of the metal container, where grease, waste, and other nasty fluids have seeped out. Clouds of flies are buzzing around the open cover.

Sanchez says, “Damn,” but he’s smiling at her, like he’s daring her.

Dare taken.

She steps up to the Dumpster, grabs the greasy metal edge, hauls herself up, and falls in, losing a shoe in the process.

York tries breathing through her mouth, but it’s hard to keep focused. She’s knee-deep in trash, sludge, bottles, empty cans. No recycling program here in Sullivan County. There are vegetable peelings, cold mashed potatoes, clumps of grease, chewed rib bones, crumpled and soiled napkins, chicken bones. So many flies are buzzing and hovering that she’s afraid she’s going to swallow some.

Get to work, she thinks. Get to work.

Using bare hands—damn it, why didn’t she get a pair of gloves before diving in so quickly?—she moves piles of trash, broken green bags, more trash and peelings and sludge tumbling out, and she makes a mistake, breathing through her nose, and her mouth starts filling with saliva. Nausea is coming at her in waves.

“You okay in there, Agent York?” Sanchez asks from outside.

She’s afraid if she tries to talk, the vomiting will begin, and she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

In a corner is a pile of smaller, white plastic trash bags.

Like the ones motel and hotel maids use on their carts. She trudges over, breathing hard, something sharp poking her left leg, and she tears open the near bag. Crumpled paper towels, used tissues, scraps of plastic, and— Bits of paper. Note paper.

Sopped through with coffee.

Connie carefully unfolds the notes, laying out the little bits of paper on a nearby piece of cardboard. CNN, the New York Times, Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

A note in careful cursive, with a phone number at the bottom.

Dear Army officer,

It would really make me happy to talk to you about what happened at The Summer House.

Sincerely,

Peggy Reese



Connie memorizes the phone number, folds up the wet paper, puts it into her coat pocket. The flies are so thick that it looks like ashes are falling from the sky. She stumbles through the piles again, gets to the wall, and hauls herself up and over, falling to the ground. Sanchez is there and steps back, bringing a hand up to his face.

“God, Agent York, you stink.”

She sits up against the Dumpster. “Nice powers of observation. Get me my bag, will you?”

There’s just a passing look in Sanchez’s eyes—What am I, your gofer?—but he does as he’s told, and he brings over her bag. She digs out her cell phone and makes the call to Peggy Reese of the Sullivan County Times.

No answer.

She can hear the voices of reporters out there, beyond the brush and piles of trash.

Sanchez squats down next to her.

“We’ll try later,” she says.

“I don’t like it,” Sanchez says. “You talk with reporters, you always get screwed.”

“Well, good for the investigation that I don’t agree with you.”

York goes back into the bag, takes out her Iridium 9555 satellite phone, powers it up. Waits a moment, and then dials a preprogrammed number.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Nothing.

Sanchez says, “I thought these phones have worldwide coverage.”

“Most times,” she says. “Most times.”

Damn it, she thinks as the crowd of reporters plows its way through and starts asking questions, taking photos, pushing and shoving.

A horrible thought comes to her. The last time she saw their boss he was walking into Fourth Battalion headquarters. But that doesn’t mean he got on a transport to Afghanistan, now, does it? Maybe the reason the sat phone isn’t getting answered is that it’s not in his possession. Maybe he’s in detention somewhere back at Hunter.

Where’s Major Cook?





Chapter 55



IN HIS CELL at the Ralston town jail, Staff Sergeant Caleb Jefferson makes a decision and then gets off his bunk. Funny, when the decision is made, then it’s done. You go out and do the job, and respond to emerging threats and situations, but there’s no second-guessing, not in the Rangers. You learn lessons at some point, but when you set off on a mission, there’s no looking back.