“My family moved south in nineteen sixty-three and I enlisted in the Army. The alternative was starvation, and besides, I had been brought up to hate the Communists. I proved to be an excellent scout and was recommended to MAC-V/Recondo school run by US Army Special Forces. This was my initial encounter with Americans. I liked them at first.”
“What happened to change that?” I asked Luu.
"Many things. Mostly I came to understand that many of the Americans looked down on me and my countrymen. Despite repeated promises, I was left behind in Saigon. I became a boat person.
“I finally got to America in seventy-nine. Orange County in California, which has a very large Vietnamese population. The only way we could survive was to recreate the family village structure from our own country. I did so with a gang the Ghost Shadows. We became successful, at first in California, then in the New York area, including Newark. They say I murdered members of rival gangs in New York and Jersey.”
“Did you?” I asked Luu.
“Oh, of course. It was justifiable, though. We were in a war.” He stopped talking. Stared at me.
“So now you're here in a super max prison. Have you received a date for the execution?”
“No. Which is very humorous to me. Your country is afraid to execute convicted murderers.”
“It's comical? Because of things you saw in Vietnam?”
“Of course. That is my frame of reference.”
“Atrocities committed in the name of military activity.”
“It was war, Detective.”
“Did you know any of these men in Vietnam: Ellis Cooper, Reece Tate, James Etra, Robert Bennett, Laurence Houston?”
Luu shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Over thirty years. And there are so many American surnames to remember.”
“Colonel Owen Handler?”
“I don't know him.”
I shook my head. “I think you do. Actually, Colonel Handler was in charge of the MAC-V/Recondo school when you were there being trained as a Kit Carson scout.”
Luu smiled for the first time. “Believe it or not, Detective Cross, the scouts didn't usually get to meet the man-in-charge.”
“But you met Colonel Handler. He remembered you to the day he was killed. Can you help me stop the murders?” I asked Luu. “You know what happened over there, don't you? Why did you agree to see me?”
He gave another indifferent shrug. “I agreed to see you... because my good friend asked me to. My friend is Kyle Craig.”
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Seventy-Three
I could feel a cold spot where my heart was supposed to be. This couldn't all be leading to Kyle Craig. I had put him here in Florence for all the murders he had committed and now, somehow, he'd gotten me to come and visit.
“Hello, Alex. I thought you'd forgotten all about me,” Kyle said when he saw me. We met in a small interviewing room near his cellblock. My head was full of paranoid thoughts about the 'coincidence' of seeing him again. He couldn't have set this up. Not even he could do that.
Kyle had changed physically, so much so that he resembled one of his older brothers, or maybe his father, more than himself. When I had been pursuing him, I'd met everyone in Kyle's family. He'd always been gaunt, but in prison he had lost at least twenty pounds. His head was shaven and he had a tattoo on one side of his skull: it was part dragon, part snake. He actually looked like a killer now.
"Sit down, Alex. I missed you even more than I thought
I would. Sit, please. Let's talk the talk. Catch up with the catch up."
“I'll stand, thanks. I'm not here to make small talk, Kyle. What do you know about these murders?”
“They've all been solved by the police or the Army, Alex. The guilty have been charged, and in some cases executed. Just as I will be eventually. Why waste your time on them? I'm a hundred times more interesting. You should be studying me.”
His words were delivered in a low-key manner, but they went through me like a powerful electric current. Was Kyle the missing goddamn connection? He couldn't be behind the murders? They had started long before he'd been arrested. But did that really matter?
“So, you don't know anything that can help me? Then I'm leaving. Have a nice life.”
Kyle raised a hand. “I'd like to help, Alex. I mean that sincerely. Just like the old days. I miss it. The chase. What if I could help?” he asked.
“If you can, then do it, Kyle. Do it right now. We'll see where it goes from there.”
Kyle leaned back in his chair. Finally, he smiled, or maybe he was laughing at me? "Well since you didn't ask, it's better here in prison than I could have hoped. Believe it or not, I'm a minor celebrity. And not just among my peers. Even the kick-ass guards cater to my wishes. I have lots of visitors. I'm writing a book, Alex. And, of course, I'm figuring out some way to get out of here. Trust me, I will some day. It's just a matter of time. It almost happened a month ago. This close. I would have come to visit,
of course. You and Nana and those sweet children."
“Does Luu know anything?”I asked.
“Oh, absolutely. He's very well read. Speaks three languages fluently. I like Luu very much. We're dear friends. I also like Ted Kaczynski; Yu Kikimura, the Japanese terrorist; and Ramon Matta, formerly with the Medellin cartel. Interesting inmates, fascinating lives, though more conservative than I would have expected. Not Ted, but the others.”
I'd had enough. Of Kyle Craig. Luu. Florence.
“I'm going,” I said. I started to walk away.
“You'll be back,” Kyle whispered. “Or maybe I'll come and visit you next time. At any rate, best of luck with your fascinating murder case.”
I turned back. “You'll be in here for the rest of your life. Not too long, I hope.”
Kyle Craig laughed heartily. More than ever, he gave me the creeps.
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Seventy-Four
As John Sampson drove into Bay Head, New Jersey, he felt his spirits rise dramatically, and the very pleasant sensation inside made him smile to himself. He was doing a lot of that lately. Hell, he was going to ruin his tough guy image if he kept this shit up much longer.
He drove along Route 35, past sprawling beach houses, Central Market, and a couple of picturesque, whitewashed churches. This part of the Jersey shore was quiet and undeniably pretty. He couldn't help but appreciate the serenity and the well-preserved beauty. A slight breeze from the ocean blew through the open windows of his Cougar. Geraniums and rose hips bloomed along the side of the road, obviously planted by the village itself.
What was not to like? He was glad to be here again.
Long ways from DC, he found himself thinking. And it's not all bad. For a change of pace anyway. For a break from all the murders.
During the drive up from DC, Sampson had tried to convince himself that this excursion to the Jersey shore was all about Ellis Cooper and the other murders, but that wasn't the whole truth. Coop was definitely a big part of it, but this was also about Billie Houston.
He thought about her all the time. What was it about that wisp of a woman?
Actually, he knew at least part of the answer. From the moment he'd met her, he was completely comfortable. She was the female friend he'd been hoping to meet for a long time. It was hard to describe the feeling, but he knew he'd never had it before. He felt that he could tell Billie things about himself that he'd held inside for a long time. He trusted her already. When he was with her he could come outside of himself, leave the castle he had constructed to guard the person he really was from being hurt.
On the other hand, John Sampson had never had a successful long-range relationship with any woman. Never been married, not even seriously tempted. So he wasn't going to delude himself, or get too soppy and sentimental about Billie. He had good reasons to be here in Jersey. A few more questions had to be asked about her husband's time in Vietnam. He and Alex had learned things from Owen Handler that nee
ded filling in. He was going to solve these murder cases. Somehow, some way.
Well, hell, that cynical little introspection had sure dampened his spirits, and any burgeoning romance in his soul.
Then he happened to see her up ahead on East Avenue.
Yep, it was her!
Billie was climbing out of her light green convertible with an armful of groceries. He'd called ahead and said he might be coming.
Now who had she been shopping for? Did she expect him to stay for dinner? Oh brother, he needed to calm himself down. Slow down. You're on the job, that's all. This is just police business.
Then Billie saw his car and waved her free arm, and he found himself leaning out of the window of the Cougar, calling up the street. “Hey there, little one. ”Hey there, little one?
What the hell had happened to smooth and cool and detached John Sampson? What was happening to him?
And why did he feel so good about it?
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Seventy-Five
Billie understood that she and John Sampson needed to talk about her husband and his murder. That was why he'd come back, probably the only reason. She made a pitcher of sweetened iced tea, and they went out to the ocean side porch. Might as well be comfortable. Try not to make an ass out of herself.
“Another perfect day in paradise,” he said, and smiled brilliantly. Billie couldn't keep herself from staring a little at the policeman. He was strong and good-looking and his smile was dazzling whenever it came. She had the sense that he didn't smile enough, and wondered why that was. What had happened to him growing up in Washington? And then living and working there? She wanted to know everything about him, and that natural curiosity was something that had been missing since Laurence had died.
Don't make this into something it isn't, she reminded herself. He's a policeman on a murder case. That's all this is. You just have a silly crush on him.
“Average day in paradise,” she laughed. Then she got a little more serious. “You wanted to talk some more about Laurence. Something else happened, didn't it? That's why you're back here.”
“No, I came to see you.” There was that amazing smile of his again.
Billie took a little swing at the air with her hand. “Sure you did. Anyway your murder case?”
He told her about the recent deaths of Robert and Barbara Bennett in West Point, and then the shooting of Colonel Owen Handler. He shared his and Alex's theory that three men might be responsible for at least some of the murders. “Everything seems to point back to Vietnam. Something incredible happened, something so bad that it's probably the root cause of all these murders in the present. Your husband may have been involved in some way. Maybe he didn't even know it, Billie.”
“He didn't like to talk about his experiences over there.” She repeated what she'd told him during his first visit. “I always respected that. But then something strange happened. Several years ago, he brought home books about the war. Rumors Of War was one that I remember. He rented the movie Platoon, which he'd always insisted he wouldn't watch. He still didn't want to talk about the war, though. Not to me anyway.”
Billie sat back in the navy blue wicker rocker she'd chosen. She stared out at the ocean. Several gulls floated over the tall dunes. Picture pretty. Miles away, she could see the blurred outline of an ocean liner on the horizon.
"He always drank, but during those last years, he drank much more. Hard liquor, wine. He wasn't ever abusive, but I felt he was drifting farther and farther away.
"One night around dusk he took off down the beach with his fishing pole and a pail for anything he might catch. It was early September, and the bluefish were running. He could have caught them with his pail.
"I waited for him to come back, but he didn't. Finally, I went out looking for him. Most of these houses on the beach empty out after Labor Day. That's the way it is here. I walked south a mile or so. I was getting a little scared.
"I had brought a flashlight, and as I headed back, I turned it on and worked my way up closer to the dunes and the deserted beach houses. That was where I found him.
"Laurence was laying in the sand beside his fishing pole and the bait bucket. He'd finished off a pint of whiskey. Looked like a street bum who'd lost his way and wound up sleeping it off on the beach.
“I lay down beside him and held him in my arms. I asked him to please tell me why he was so sad. He couldn't. It broke my heart that he couldn't tell me. All he said was that ”you can't outrun your past“. It looks like he was right.”
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Seventy-Six
They talked about Vietnam, and her husband's Army experiences after the war, until Sampson was starting to get a headache. Billie never complained. Around four in the afternoon they took a break and watched the high tide coming in. It amazed Sampson that the long stretch of beach could be so empty on such a sunny and blue-skied day.
“Did you bring a suit? ”she asked, and smiled.
“Actually, I did throw a suit in the car,” Sampson said, and returned her smile.
“Want to take a swim?”
“Yeah. Be nice.”
They slipped into their suits and met back on the front porch. She had on a black one-piece. He figured she must do a lot of swimming, or maybe worked out. She was little, but she didn't look like a young girl. She was probably in her early forties.
“I know I look okay,” Billie said, and twirled around. “So do you. Now let's hit the water before you chicken out on me.”
“Chicken out? You know I'm a homicide detective?”
“Uh-huh. Water's sixty-seven today, tough guy.”
“What? Is that cold?”
“You'll soon find out.”
They walked to the top of the dune in front of the house. Then they broke into a full-out run. Sampson was laughing, mostly at himself, because he didn't do this kind of thing.
They high-stepped their way through the low surf like kids on vacation, ignoring that the water was in the sixties, cold as hell, absolutely freezing.
“You can swim?” Billie asked as a huge swell moved toward them. She thought she saw him nod.
“John?” she asked again.
“I can swim. Can you?”
Then they both dove under the wave as it crested high above their heads. A short way out past the first wave, they re-surfaced. Billie started to stroke her way out to a point past the breakers. Sampson followed, and he was a good, strong swimmer. That delighted her for some reason.
“Sometimes, kids from the cities,” she said as they bobbed heads together,“ they don't learn to swim.”
“That's true. I have this good friend. When we were growing up in DC, his grandmother made sure we knew how. She used to take us to the city pool. She said, ”You swim, or you drown“.”
Then Sampson found himself taking Billie in his arms. She used a forefinger to wipe beads of water off his face. Her touch was gentle. So were her eyes. Something was going on here and whatever it was, he didn't know if he was ready for it.
“What?” Billie asked.
“I was just going to say,” he said, 'that you're surprising in a lot of ways."
She closed her eyes for a second, nodded. Then she opened her eyes again. “You're still here. Good. I'm glad you came back. Even if you came to interrogate me.”
“The reason I came was to see you. I told you.”
“Whatever you say, John.”
Nobody but Alex and Nana called him John.
They swam back toward shore and played in the creamy surf for a while. Even though it was late afternoon they took a walk to the south, passing more large houses that were shut up tight for the coming winter. They fell into a nice rhythm along the way. They had to stop and kiss at each house.
“You're getting kind of corny,” Billie finally said. Tt becomes you. You have a tender side, John Sampson."
“Yeah. Maybe I do.”
They ate dinner on the fron
t porch again. Sampson put on the radio. Afterward, they snuggled in the love seat and again he was struck by how tiny she was. She fit against him, though.
"One Night With You' came on the radio. Luther Vandross. Sampson asked her to dance. He couldn't believe it -I just asked Billie to dance on the porch.
He tucked her in close. She fit nicely standing up, too. They moved well together, totally in synch. He listened to her breathing and could feel her heartbeat as well.
An old Marvin Gaye tune came on the radio and they danced to that, too. It all seemed dreamlike to him. Completely unexpected.
Especially when they went upstairs together at around ten-thirty. Neither of them said a word, but Billie took his hand and led him into the bedroom. A three-quarter moon was lighting the whitecaps. A sailboat lazily drifted by out beyond the line of surf.
“You okay?” she whispered.
“I am much more than okay. Are you, Billie?”
“I am Billie. I think I wanted this to happen from the first time I saw you. You ever done this before? ”she asked. There was that sly grin of hers again. She was playing with him, but he liked it.
“First time. I've been saving myself for the right woman.”
“Well, let's see if I'm worth the wait.”
Sometimes, he could be in a hurry, and that would be okay, the way of the world in Washington, but not tonight. He wanted to explore Billie's body, to get to know what pleased her. He touched her everywhere; kissed her everywhere. Everything about her seemed right to him. What's happening here? I came to ask this woman about some murders. Murders! Not love-making in shimmering moon-light.
He could feel her small breasts rising and falling, rising and falling. He was on top of her, supporting his weight on his hands.
“You won't hurt me,” she whispered.
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