The Summer House(81)

York again thinks of two-year-old Polly Zachary. “Did you shoot that little girl?”

“Shit no!” he says, raising his voice, causing some customers in the nearby booths to turn their heads and look at him. “There were two guys sitting on a couch. I took them out. Clark and Teddy…they took care of the rest, the girl downstairs and the folks upstairs.”

“But the Rangers were arrested two nights later,” she says. “You’re telling me they weren’t involved?”

Another shake of the head. “Nope.”

“But there was evidence from the scene. Fingerprints, shell casings.”

Dwight says, “I heard later from Clark that the Rangers were there about an hour or so ’fore we got there. That’ll take care of the fingerprints, I guess. And Clark…he’s got another job working as a civilian attendant at the shooting range at Hunter. I bet he could get some empty shell casings from a certain Ranger’s pistol if he had to.”

York is writing so hard and fast that she is sure the pen is close to shredding the paper. She has a memory of once working on a computer jigsaw puzzle, with none of the 128 pieces fitting, until she used the Help feature of the program and reduced the number of puzzle pieces to 24. Then the puzzle was solved within seconds.

This deputy, this disgraced soldier, this killer sitting so calmly across from her, he is her own Help feature.

Damn, won’t the major be happy when she calls him later.

“But here’s the big question, Dwight,” she says. “Why? What was the real reason to frame the Rangers for those killings? What was it?”

He seems to be wrestling with something, and she says, “Dwight, what I signed there, I’m behind it one hundred percent. I won’t let you be by yourself. I promise.”

The man squeezes his hands together. “It had something to do with Afghanistan, when they was there.”

Afghanistan, she thinks, just like Major Cook thought.

“Dwight,” she says, “tell me.”





In the parking lot of the Waffle House, Bo Leighton carefully parks the stolen Honda Accord that he and his cousin Ricky lifted a few minutes ago after they had tailed the guy earlier from Sullivan. Lesson he learned a long time ago is that if you need wheels, get something dull-looking and ordinary that doesn’t stand out, and then use it quick, ’fore the owner makes the call and the stolen car is sent out over the wires.

He and Ricky are both wearing black wrestling sneakers, loose khaki pants, and short black hoodies. Each has a ski mask on his head, ready to be pulled down in the next thirty seconds when they start dancing.

Bo switches off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. He says, “You ready?”

His cousin says, “Damn it, now that I’m here, I’m kinda hungry. Why can’t we get something to eat and then do the job?”

Bo feels the usual frustration bubble to the surface. His cousin has dead-aim with a gun and is quick with his fists and boots, but most times he fails to see the larger picture. Like the time when he was first picked up on an adult charge that got reduced, and he was on work release, with two weeks left on his sentence, and he left a county lawn-mowing job to get a beer at a nearby tavern. In doing so, he got an extra twelve months tacked on for attempted escape. And why? I was thirsty for a beer, he said.

Bo swivels in his seat and picks up a black gym bag, unzips it, and hands over a Desert Eagle .45 semiautomatic pistol. “Because we were told by Sheriff Emma that the job has to be done now, as soon as possible.”

“Funny thing, what we’re about to do to that deputy, ’cause of his boss.” Ricky works the action of the Desert Eagle, sits up, and slides it into his waistband.

Bo does the same with his. “Don’t worry, he’ll get a nice cop funeral. Make his family so proud.”

Before Bo opens the door, Ricky says, “What happens if some other cop or do-gooder gets in the way?”

Bo says, “Kill ’em all.”





Chapter 73



THE DEPUTY BEFORE York is about to speak when two men burst through the door at the far end, wearing ski masks over their heads and brandishing pistols. One yells out, “Nobody moves! This is a goddamn robbery!”

York instantly thinks, No, no, it isn’t—she doesn’t believe in coincidences—and lowers her right hand to her open bag to grab her SIG Sauer. She says, “Stay put, Dwight, stay put.”

But Dwight’s flipped his head around, spots the two men. “Shit,” he says.

The first gunman is pointing his pistol at the cashier, making her put cash into a small green plastic bag. The nearer gunman is slowly walking down the center aisle. He yells out, “Hands on the table! Now! Hands where I can see ’em!”

Some whispers and words from the customers as they all follow the shouted directions, and the gunman says, “Freeze! I want everybody to stay put. We’ll be outta here in a minute!”

York doesn’t believe him. She quickly grabs a napkin, covers her right hand with it, and in a moment has both hands on the table, the napkin concealing her pistol.

In a low voice she says, “Dwight. Slide under the table, now.”

With the man at the other end focusing on getting the money—a cover for what they’re actually here for, York has no doubt—the approaching gunman is looking at each customer as he comes down the aisle.