Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

by Patterson, James

Or Jamilla.

  Detective Cross. While you are at West Point, you ought to see Colonel Owen Handler. He teaches political science. He might have some answers for you. He's a friend of the Bennetts. He might even know who killed them.

  I'm just trying to be helpful. You need all the help you can get.

  Foot Soldier.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  The three killers had been right here. I couldn't get the thought out of my head, but the feeling was in my bones, my blood.

  Sampson and I walked along the main drag toward Thayer Hall. Several cadets were out practicing for parade on the Plains. As we got closer, I saw that wooden pegs were driven into the ground to show the cadets exactly where to turn their faultlessly sharp corners. I had to smile. It reminded me that so many things in life were an illusion. Maybe even the 'facts' I was collecting on this case.

  “So what do you think about this help we're getting? The mad e-mailer? The Foot Soldier?” Sampson asked. “I don't like it, Alex. It's too convenient, too pat. This whole case is about being set up.”

  “You're right, we don't have any reason to trust the information we're getting. So I don't. On the other hand, we're here. Why not talk to Colonel Handler? It can't hurt.”

  Sampson shook his head. “I wish that was so, Alex.”

  I had called the History Department immediately after I received the 'helpful' e-mail from Foot Soldier. I was told that Colonel Handler had a class that met from eleven until noon. We had twenty minutes to kill, so we took in a few sights: Washington Hall, a cavernous three-story building where the entire Corps of Cadets could sit simultaneously for meals; the Eisenhower and MacArthur Barracks; the Cadet Chapel; plus several incomparable river vistas.

  Cadets flowed past us lickity-split on the sidewalk. They wore long-sleeved gray shirts with black ties, gray trousers with a black stripe, brass belt buckles shined to perfection.

  Everybody was moving in double time! It was contagious.

  Thayer Hall was a huge gray building that was virtually windowless. Inside, the classrooms all looked identical, each with desks arranged in a horseshoe so that everyone was in the front row.

  Sampson and I waited in a deserted hallway until Handler's class was finished and the cadets filed out.

  They were incredibly orderly for college students, which didn't surprise me, but it was still impressive to watch. Why aren't students in all universities orderly? Because no one demands it? Well hell, who cares? But it was a striking scene. All these young kids with so much purpose and resolve. On the surface anyway.

  Colonel Handler trailed his students out of the classroom. He was a burly man, around six feet one with short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard. I already knew he'd served two tours of duty in Vietnam,

  had an MA from the University of Virginia and a doctorate from Penn State. That much was on the West Point web-site.

  “We're Detectives Cross and Sampson,” I said as I walked up to him. “Could we talk to you for a moment?”

  Handler grimaced. “What's this about, Detectives? One of our cadets in trouble?”

  “No, no,” I shook my head. The cadets seem beyond reproach."

  A smile broke across Handler's face. “Oh, you'd be surprised. They only look blameless, Detective. So if it isn't one of our charges, what is it you'd like to talk to me about? Robert and Barbara Bennett? I've already spoken to Captain Conte. I thought CID was handling that.”

  “They are,” I told him. “But the murders might be a little more complicated than they appear. Just like the cadets here at West Point.”

  As concisely as I could, I told Handler about the other murder cases that Sampson and I had been investigating. I didn't tell him about the e-mail from the Foot Soldier that had led us to him. As I spoke, I noticed a professor in the classroom next to Handler's. He had a bucket with water and a sponge, and he was actually washing the blackboard before the next class. All the classrooms had identical buckets and sponges. Hell of a system.

  “We think there's a connection to something pretty bad that took place in Vietnam,” I said to Colonel Handler. “Maybe the murders actually started there.”

  “I served in Southeast Asia. Two tours,” Handler volunteered. “Vietnam and Cambodia.”

  “So did I,” said Sampson. “Two tours.”

  Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, Colonel Handler seemed nervous. His eyes narrowed and darted around the hallway. The cadets were gone now, no doubt rushing off to Washington Hall for lunch.

  “I'll talk to you,” he finally said, 'but not on the grounds. Pick me up at my place tonight. It's Quarters ninety-eight. We'll go somewhere else. Come by at eight sharp."

  He looked at Sampson and me, and then Colonel Handler turned and walked away.

  In double time.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  I had the feeling that we were close to something important, at West Point, and maybe with Colonel Handler. It was something ineffable that I'd seen in his eyes when the subject had turned to Vietnam. Maybe the murders started there.

  The colonel had made reservations at what he called an 'extraordinarily misplaced' northern Italian restaurant in Newburgh, II Cenacolo. We were on our way there, riding the Storm King Highway, a winding rollercoaster with incredible views of the Hudson, which stretched out hundreds of feet below.

  “Why didn't you want to talk to us closer to home?” I finally asked the colonel.

  Two of my best friends were just murdered there," Handler said. He lit up a cigarette, blew out a stream of smoke. It was pitch black outside and the mountainous road had no lights to guide our way.

  “You believe the Bennetts were murdered?” I asked.

  “I know they were.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I might. You've heard of the blue wall of silence with the police? In the Army, it's the same, only the wall is gray. It's higher, thicker, and has been here for a hell of a long time.”

  I had to ask another question. I couldn't hold back. “Are you Foot Soldier, Colonel? If you are, we need your help.”

  Handler didn't seem to understand. “What the hell is Foot Soldier? What are you talking about?”

  I told him that a mysterious someone had been periodically slipping me information, including Handler's own name. “Maybe you thought it was time we met face to face,”I said.

  “No. I may be a source for you now. But it's only because of Bob and Barbara Bennett. I'm not Foot Soldier. I never contacted you. You came to see me. Remember?”

  As convincing as he sounded, I didn't know whether to believe him, but I had to pursue the identity of Foot Soldier. I asked Handler for names, others who might be helpful in the investigation. He gave me a few, some Americans, even a couple of South Vietnamese who might be willing to help.

  Handler spoke from the darkened backseat of the sedan. “I don't know who's been contacting you, but I'm not so sure that I'd trust whoever it is. Right about now, I'm not sure that I'd trust anyone.”

  “Not even you, Colonel?”

  “Especially not me,” he said, and laughed. “Hell, I'm a college professor.”

  I glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw a single pair of headlights approaching. I hadn't noticed much traffic so far and most of it had been speeding in the opposite direction, heading south.

  Suddenly Sampson raised his voice and turned to Handler. “Why don't you tell us what's really going on, Colonel? How many more have to die? What do you know about these murders?”

  That's when I heard a gunshot, then the sound of glass breaking. The car behind was already on us, and passing on the right shoulder.

  My eyes darted and I saw a driver, then a gunman leaning out the window of the backseat.

  “Get down!” I yelled at Handler and Sampson. “Cover up!”

  More shots came from the pursuing car. I swerved the wheel violently to the left. We ski
dded hard across double-yellow lines, heading for the cliffs, and the Hudson River far below. Handler yelled, “Watch it, Jesus! Watch it!”

  We hit a straight part of the highway, thank God. I stomped on the accelerator, picked up some speed. But I couldn't lose the other car.

  He was in the right-hand lane now.

  I was in the wrong lane, the one meant for oncoming traffic.

  Sampson had gotten to his gun and returned fire. More shots struck our car.

  The other sedan stayed right with us. I couldn't shake loose. I was doing over ninety on a twisty road built for fifty or sixty. On my right side was a shoulder and then the mountain wall; on my left, a sheer drop down toward the Hudson River and certain death.

  I was going too fast to see faces in the other car. Who the hell was it?

  Suddenly I stomped on the brakes and our car skidded badly. Then it fish tailed! We wound up facing in the opposite direction, south.

  I took off that way. Back toward West Point.

  I floored it again, got back up to ninety in an awful hurry.

  I passed two cars heading north, both blaring their horns at me. I couldn't blame them. I was over the double line and racing at about forty miles an hour over the speed limit. They must have thought I was drunk, or mad, or both.

  When I was sure no one was following, I slowed down.

  “Handler? Colonel?” I called out.

  He didn't answer. Sampson hung over the backseat to check on him. “He's been hit, Alex.”

  I pulled to the side of the road and turned on the interior lights. “How bad? Is he alive?”

  I saw that Handler had been shot twice. Once in the shoulder. And once in the side of the head.

  “He's dead,”Sampson said. “He's gone.”

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I wasn't the target, and that boy in the car could shoot. He was after Handler. We just lost our first real lead.”

  I wondered if we had lost Foot Soldier as well.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Seventy

  There's nothing like an attempt on your life to get you properly focused and to get the blood boiling.

  It was an exercise in futility, but Sampson and I rushed Owen Handler to the ERat West Point Hospital. He was pronounced dead at around nine. I'm certain he was dead when we brought him in. The shooter in the other car was a chillingly good marksman, a professional killer. Had three men actually been in the pursuing car? I didn't think so.

  We were questioned by the local police and also CID officers from West Point. Captain Conte even came to see us, spouting off his concern for our safety, but also playing twenty questions with us, almost as if we were suspects. Conte informed me that the commanding officer at West Point, General Mark Hutchinson, was personally supervising the investigation now. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  Then General Hutchinson actually showed up at the hospital. I saw him speaking to Captain Conte, then a few other grim-faced officers gathered in the hallway. But

  Hutchinson never came over to see Sampson and I. Not a word of condolence or concern.

  How goddamn strange, and inconsiderate. It was maddening. The gray wall of silence, I thought, remembering Owen Handler's words. General Mark Hutchinson left the hospital without making contact with us. I wasn't going to forget that.

  All the while I was at West Point Hospital, I couldn't get one thought out of my head: There is nothing like an attempt on your life... to get your blood boiling. I was shaken by the attack on Colonel Handler, but I was also angry as hell.

  Wasn't that part of the motive behind the massacres at My Lai and others like it? Anger? Fear? The need for retribution? Unthinkable things happened during combat. Tragedies were inevitable. They always had been. What was the Army trying to cover up now? Who had sent the killers after us tonight? Who had murdered Colonel Handler, and why?

  Sampson and I spent the night at the Hotel Thayer again. General Hutchinson decided to put MPs on the second floor to protect us. I didn't think it was necessary. If the gunmen had been after us, they wouldn't have driven off and left us alive.

  I kept thinking: two men had been in the car that attacked us.

  There had been three men involved in the earlier killings.

  I couldn't get that fact out of my head either.

  Three, not two.

  Eventually, I called Jamilla and shared everything that had happened with her. Detective to detective, friend to friend. She didn't like the actions of General Hutchinson and the Army either. Just talking it through with her helped tremendously.

  I was thinking about doing it more often, like maybe every night.

  Finally, I fell asleep on that thought.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The following morning the New York papers were filled with a story about the murder of four call girls, a madam and a bouncer on the East Side of Manhattan. The women were Vietnamese and Thai, and because of that I talked to the detective in charge of the investigation in Manhattan. So far, the NYPD was nowhere on the grisly case. I thought about going to New York, but there were other pressing things on my mind.

  There was an important lead I hadn't even begun to satisfactorily check out. The Foot Soldier. Who the hell was he? Or she? And why had Foot Soldier contacted me by e-mail? What was the mystery person trying to tell me?

  Owen Handler had given me a few names, and once I returned to Washington, I dug around until I tracked a few of them down. The most interesting to me was Tran Van Luu, a former Kit Carson scout who was now living in the United States.

  There was a catch, a big one. Tran Van Luu was on death row in Florence, Colorado. He'd been found guilty of murdering nine people in Newark and New York City. I knew a little about the federal prison at Florence and had even been there once. That was the second catch. Kyle Craig was imprisoned there, my old nemesis. Kyle was also on death row.

  The Florence ADX was one of the so-called super max prison facilities. Thirty-six states now had them. Death row was located in the Security Housing Unit, a kind of prison within a prison. It turned out to be a bland, sand-colored building with extraordinarily heavy security inside and out. That was comforting, since Kyle Craig was being held inside, and Kyle had nothing but disdain for prison security.

  Two heavily armed guards accompanied me to death row. As we walked down the otherwise empty, fluorescent-lit hallways, I heard none of the usual chaotic noise of a prison. My mind was somewhere else anyway.

  I had arrived in Colorado around noon. Everything was running smoothly on the home front, and hopefully I'd be back in DC that night. Nana wasn't missing any opportunities, though. Before I left the house she sat me down and told me one of her story-parables. She called it The story of the thousand marbles. “I heard this on NPR, Alex. It's a true story, and I'm passing it along to you for what it's worth. Seems there was this man who lived in Southern California, around San Diego I believe it was. He had a family, nice family, and he worked very hard, long hours, lots of weekends. Sound familiar?”

  “Probably familiar to a lot of people,” I said. “Men and women. Go ahead, though, Nana. This hardworking man with the extraordinarily nice family living outside San Diego. What happened to him?”

  “Well anyway, this man had a kindly grandfather who adored both him and his family. He'd noticed that his grandson was working too hard, and he was the one who told him about the marbles. He told it this way. He said that the average life span for men was around seventy-five years. That meant thirty-nine hundred Saturdays to play when you were a kid, and to be with your family when you got older and wiser.”

  “I see,” I said. “Or to play once you got older. Or even to give lectures to anyone who'll listen.”

  “Shush, Alex. Now, listen. So the grandfather figured out that his grandson, who was forty-three, had about sixteen hundred and sixty Saturdays left in his life. Statistically speaking. So wh
at he did was he bought two large jars and filled them with beautiful cat's-eye marbles. He gave them to his grandson. And he told him that every Saturday, he should take one marble out of the jar. Just one, and just as a reminder that he only had so many Saturdays left, and that they were precious beyond belief. Think about that, Alex. If you have the time,” said Nana.

  So here I was at a super max prison on a Saturday. I didn't think I was wasting the day, not at all. But Nana's message had sunk in anyway.

  This was my last murder case. It had to be. This was the end of the road for Detective Alex Cross.

  I focused my mind on the baffling case as I walked toward the cell of Tran Van Luu. He would make my trip worth at least one marble.

  Or so I had to hope.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Tran Van Luu was fifty-four years old and he informed me that he spoke Vietnamese, French and English fluently. His English was excellent and I couldn't help thinking that he looked more like a college professor than a prison inmate convicted of several murders. Luu wore gold wire-rim glasses and had a long, gray goatee. He was philosophical about everything apparently. But was he the Foot Soldier?

  “Nominally, I am a Buddhist,” he said as he sat in a cell that was only seven by twelve feet. A bed, a stool and a fixed writing shelf filled more than half of the space. The fixtures were all made of poured concrete so they couldn't be moved or disassembled by the inmates.

  “I will give you some history, ”he said. The back story.“ I nodded. ”That would be a good place to start.“ ”My birthplace is Gon Track Village in the Quang Bihn Province, just north of what was the DMZ. This is one of the country's poorest provinces, but they are all relatively poor. I started work in my family's rice fields at five.

  Everyone was always hungry, even though we grew food. We had one real meal a day, usually yams or cassava. Ironically, our rice was handed over to the landlord. All loyalty was to family, including ancestors, a plot of land and the village. Nationalism was non-existent, a Western notion imported by Ho Chi Minh.