Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

by Patterson, James

  “Everybody is having such a good, all-American time,” Sampson said as we sat and watched the world go by. “Remind me to tell you about Billie in Jersey.”

  “Billie?”I asked. Who's Billie?"

  Tell you later, partner. We're working now. On the trail of three stone-cold killers."

  That we were. We were busy watching the families of Starkey, Harris and Griffin from a safe distance. I noticed that Thomas Starkey looked our way once or twice. Had he spotted us? If he had, he didn't seem overly concerned.

  “You think they're the ones who killed Colonel Handler? Think they know who we are, sugar?”Sampson asked.

  “If they don't, they probably will soon.”

  Sampson didn't seem to mind. “That's your big plan? Get us killed down here in Rocky Mount?”

  “They won't do anything with their families around,” I said.

  “You sure?”

  “No,” I said. “I'm not sure. But that's what my gut tells me.”

  “They're killers, Alex.”

  “Professional killers. Don't worry, they'll pick their spot.”

  “Oh, I'm not worried,” Sampson said. “I'm just anxious to get it on with these boys.”

  As the afternoon progressed, we talked casually to some more H and K employees and their families. The people were easy to talk to and we were real friendly. Most of them said they liked where they worked a lot. Sampson and I passed ourselves off as new to the company and nobody questioned it. In fact, most everyone was cordial and welcoming, almost to a fault. Hard not to like the folks in Rocky Mount, most of them anyway.

  Lunch was followed by team sports and other competitive games: swim races, volleyball, soccer, softball, and organized contests for the kids.

  Starkey, Harris and Griffin eventually headed off toward one of the adjoining softball fields.

  Sampson and I followed at a distance.

  Let the games begin.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  I eed a couple more to fill out this team. You big fellows play any ball?“ asked an old man wearing a dusty Atlanta Braves shirt and ball cap. ”You're welcome to join in. It's a friendly little game."

  I glanced over at Sampson. He smiled and said, “Sure, we'll play some ball.”

  The two of us were put on the same team, which seemed the more ragtag and needier of the two. Starkey, Harris and Griffin were on the other team. Our worthy opponents for the friendly game.

  “Looks like we're the underdogs,” Sampson said.

  “We're not down here to win a softball game,” I said.

  He grinned. “Yeah, and we're not here to lose one either.”

  The game was good-natured on the surface, but everything was heavily stacked against our team. Starkey and Harris were good athletes, and everybody on their team seemed decent and knew how to play. Our group was uneven, and they exploited our weaknesses. We were behind by two runs after the first inning, and four runs after the third.

  As we jogged off the field to take our turn at bat, Sampson patted my butt. “Definitely not down here to lose,” he said.

  Sampson was scheduled to bat third that inning. I would be up fourth if somebody got on base. A skinny, older Mexican man led off with a bunt single and got razzed by our macho opponents for not having any cojones. The next batter, a big-bellied accountant, blooped a single just over the second baseman's head. More semi-good-natured razzing came from our opponents.

  “Rather be lucky than good,” our guy yelled back from first base as he slapped his big beer belly.

  Now Sampson stepped to the plate. He never took a practice swing, just touched the rubber base with the tip of the longest and heaviest bat he could find on the rack.

  “Big power hitter. Better move back those fences!” Starkey called from shortstop. He looked like a ballplayer, moved easily and fluidly at bat and in the field, bent the peak of his cap just so.

  Sampson just stood there with the bat on his shoulder. Nobody except me knew what to expect from the big man, and even I couldn't always tell with him. The two of us had played a lot of ball together when we were kids. Sampson had been an all-city receiver as a junior in high school, but he didn't go out for the football team in his senior year. He was an even better baseball player, but he never played organized ball after Little League.

  I stood on deck, trying to figure how he would play it.

  Actually, there weren't any fences at the field, so he couldn't hit one out of the park if he wanted to. So what would he do?

  The first pitch floated up to the plate, fat and juicy, but Sampson never took his bat off his shoulder. It was hard to imagine a more tempting pitch would come his way.

  Warren Griffin was doing the pitching for their team. He was a decent-enough athlete, fielded his position well.

  “Didn't like that one? ”he called to Sampson. “What's the matter with it?”

  “No challenge.”

  Griffin smiled. He signaled for Harris to come out to the mound. Brownley Harris was doing the catching, and he looked like a slightly shorter version of the old Red Sox great, Carlton Fisk. Pudge.

  On the next pitch, Griffin wound up and delivered a windmill-style fastball toward home plate. He was real quick, what they call sneaky fast.

  But so was Sampson.

  He dropped his bat and sent a near-perfect drag bunt down the third-base line. They were so surprised, he could have walked to first base and made it easily. He was on, the bases full.

  “Up to you, sugar,” Sampson called from first base. He was grinning at me, winking, pointing an imaginary six-gun my way.

  I started to smile as I strolled to the plate. He'd put me on the spot, just like he'd planned it.

  “You like a challenge, too?” Warren Griffin called from the pitcher's mound.

  “You a hunter or a hitter?” Starkey taunted from his spot at shortstop.

  The catcher, Brownley Harris, settled in behind me. “What's it going to be, hot-shot? How you want it?”

  I looked back at him. “Surprise me,”I said.

  Griffin set up for a windmill-style pitch so I figured he was coming with heat. What the hell? I thought. Just a friendly little game.

  The fast pitch came in a little high, but it was close enough to my power wheel that I couldn't resist taking a whack. The bat cracked and the ball shot straight over the pitcher's head, still picking up speed and altitude. It flew over the center fielder's head, too. Our team of misfits was going crazy, screaming and cheering from the bench. Suddenly, there was some joy in Mudville.

  I was on my horse, rounding the bases. Starkey gave me a look as I touched second and raced past him. It was as if he knew something. Did he?

  I made it to third and saw Sampson ahead of me; he was waving me home. I didn't even look toward the outfield I was coming no matter what happened out there.

  I curled around third base, and then I accelerated. I probably hadn't moved this fast in years.

  I was really motoring.

  Brownley Harris was waiting for me at home plate but where was the ball? I was moving like a runaway train when I saw the throw from the outfield skipping through the infield on two hops. Hell, it was going to beat me home. Goddamn it.

  Harris held his ground as he took the perfect throw from the center fielder. He had me dead to rights.

  I kept barreling toward him. Harris was blocking home plate with his beefy body. If I hit him hard it might shake the ball loose. His dark, hooded eyes held mine. He was ready for impact, whatever I could give him. He looked like he'd played some football; still looked tough and in shape. Army Ranger. Killer. His eyes bordered on mean.

  I was bearing down on Harris and, as I got close, I lowered my shoulder. Let him see what was coming his way.

  Then, at the last possible instant, I went wide and low. I did a pretty hook-slide around the catcher. With my left hand I touched home plate between his thick legs and muddy cleats.

  “Safe!
”the umpire yelled and spread his arms wide.

  As I was getting up, I caught sight of Harris out of the corner of my eye. He was moving toward me fast. This could be trouble. No more friendly little game.

  His right arm suddenly shot forward and he slapped me 'five'.

  “Nice play,” he said. “You got us that time, partner. Be ready for you next time. Hell, we're all on the same team anyway, right? H and K all the way.”

  Jesus, he actually seemed like a nice guy.

  For a killer.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  You run pretty good for a washed-up cop in his early forties," Sampson said as we walked through a dusty lot filled mostly with minivans and trucks. We'd seen enough at the company picnic. After our show of respectability we'd lost the softball game by seven runs, and it could have been even worse.

  “At least I don't have to bunt to get on base,” I said.

  “Last thing they expected, sugar. Worked, didn't it? Pissed'm off, too.”

  “We lost the game.”

  “But not the war,” said Sampson.

  “This is true. Not the war. Not yet anyway.”

  I drove from the picnic site out to the Falling River Walk development. I parked right around the corner from Thomas Starkey's house. It was redbrick with white trim on the windows, black shutters. The lot looked to be about an acre and was landscaped with rhododendron, hemlock and mountain laurel. It was well kept. We walked past a mass of yellow chrysanthemums to the side door.

  This how it's going to be from here on?“ Sampson asked. ”Breaking and entering in broad daylight?"

  They probably know who we are,“ I said. ”Know we're here for them."

  “Probably. Rangers are the premier light-infantry unit in the Army. Most are good guys, too. ”Rangers lead the way.“ That's been their motto since Omaha Beach, D Day. Tip of the spear.”

  “How about in Vietnam?” I asked.

  “Lots of Rangers over there. They performed the heavy re-con missions. Seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment, three battalions. Exemplary soldiers, the best. Most of them. Probably had the best military assassins, too.”

  It took me less than a minute to get inside the side door of the Starkey house, which led into a small laundry room that reeked of bleach and detergent. We didn't hear any alarm going off, but that didn't mean we hadn't tripped one coming inside.

  “Could the three of them still be in the Army? Special assignment?” I asked.

  “The thought had crossed my mind. I hope this isn't about something the Army is trying to hide.”

  “But you think it might be?”

  “Like I said I hope it's not. I do like the Army, sugar. Hoo-hah!”

  The house was only a few years old, and it was immaculate and strikingly ordered inside. Two field stone fireplaces on the first floor, vaulted ceilings, a game room with a wet bar and a pool table. I figured the house was probably around five thousand square feet and cost maybe four hundred thousand. Thomas Starkey lived pretty well for a salesman. So did Griffin and Harris from the look of their new houses.

  Everything was neat and clean; even the kids' toys were stacked and arranged on shelves. Starkey and his wife sure ran a tight ship.

  The kitchen was high tech, with a big Below Zero refrigerator. Shiny, stainless-steel All-clad pots and pans hung above the work station. A giant cast-iron skillet had a place of pride on the right back burner of the stove.

  Off the master bedroom was a small room that turned out to be Starkey's den. Lots of Army souvenirs and pictures. I looked at the photographs on the walls, saw Harris and Griffin in several. But none of the men whom they had set up. I didn't really expect to see Ellis Cooper in a picture on Thomas Starkey's wall, but that didn't stop me from hoping.

  Sampson was opening desk drawers and examining the contents of several cabinets built into the wall. He came to a closet with a padlock on it. He looked over at me.

  I shrugged. “Go for it. That's what we're here for.”

  “No turning back now.”

  He took out his Clock and smashed down with the butt. The padlock held, but he had snapped the hinge off the wall. Obviously, the lock was just to keep out Starkey's kids, and maybe his wife.

  “Dirty pictures,” Sampson said as he rummaged around inside. "Skin magazines, some nasty bondage. One with really young girls. Here the women are shaved. Lots of Asian girls. Fancy that. Maybe they did those girls in New York

  He checked the closet for false sides. “Nothing. Just the sleazy porn collection. He's not the husband and daddy of the year, but I guess we knew that already.”

  I kept looking, but I didn't think I'd find anything incriminating. “He must keep the good stuff somewhere else. I guess we should go. Leave everything the way it is. I want Starkey to know we were here.”

  “Might get Tom in some trouble with the missus,” Sampson said, and winked.

  “Good deal. He should be in trouble with somebody.”

  Sampson and I walked back through the house and out the side door again. Birds were chirping in the trees. How sweet. The sun was a brilliant white-gold orb in blue skies. Nice town, Rocky Mount.

  A blue CMC Suburban was parked out front. Starkey, Harris and Griffin were waiting for us.

  Three Blind Mice.

  Also, three against two.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  No point in being subtle. Sampson and I took our guns out. We held them with the barrels down, not pointed at anyone. The three of them didn't appear to be armed. Just a friendly little game, right.

  “Nothing's going to happen here,” Starkey called to us. “This is where my wife and children live. It's a good neighborhood. Decent people in all these houses up and down the street.”

  “And it's also where you keep your porn collection,” I said. “S&M, bondage. Memories of your sweethearts from the war.”

  He smiled thinly, nodded. “That too. You're detectives, right? DC? Friends of Sergeant Ellis Cooper. Seems to me that you're a long ways from home. Why don't you go back to Washington? It's safer there than here in Rocky Mount. Believe it or not.”

  “We know what you've done,” I told him. “Most of it anyway. We don't know why yet. That'll come. We're getting close. The An Lao Valley in Vietnam? What happened there, Colonel Starkey? It was real bad, right? Things got out of control. Why is Three Blind Mice still working?”

  Starkey didn't deny the murders or anything else I said. “There's nothing you can do to us. Like I said, I think you should go home now. Consider this a friendly warning. We're not bad guys. We're just doing our job.”

  “What if we don't go?” Sampson asked. “What if we continue the investigation here in Rocky Mount? You killed a friend of mine.”

  Starkey clasped his hands together, then he looked at Harris and Griffin. I could tell they weren't into friendly warnings.

  “Don't come near any of our houses again,” Starkey said. His eyes were cold and hard. The assassin. We're not bad guys. We're a whole lot worse than that.

  Brownley Harris pushed himself away from the hood of the Suburban. “You hear what the man said? You two niggers listening? You oughtta be. Now clear the fuck out of here and don't ever come back. You don't come to a man's house with this shit. Not the way it's done, you hear? You fucking hear me?”

  I smiled. “You're the hothead. That's good to know. Starkey is the leader. So what does that make you, Griffin? You just muscle?”

  Warren Griffin laughed out loud. That's right. I'm just muscle. And artillery. I'm the one who eats guys like you for breakfast."

  I didn't move a muscle. Neither did Sampson. We continued to stare at the three of them. “I am curious about one thing, Starkey. How do you know about us? Who told you?”

  His answer shook me to the core.

  “Foot Soldier,” he said. Then Colonel Thomas Starkey smiled and tipped his ball cap.

  Alex Cross 8 - F
our Blind Mice

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Sampson and I rode the Interstate back to Washington late that afternoon. I was really starting to dislike, or at least tire of 1-95 and its thundering herd of slip-sliding, exhaust-spewing tractor-trailers.

  “The circumstances could be better, but it's good spending all this time with you,”I said as we tooled along in the passing lane. “You're too quiet, though. What's up? Something's bothering you.”

  He looked my way. “You remember a time you were about eleven -I came over? Spent a couple of weeks with you and Nana?”

  “I remember a lot of times like that,” I told him. “Nana used to say we were brothers, just not flesh and blood ones. You were always at the house.”

  “This time was different, sugar. I even know why you don't remember. Let me tell it.”

  “All right.”

  "See, I never used to go home after school. Reason being, nobody was there most of the time. That night I got home around nine, nine-thirty. Made myself corned beef hash for dinner. Sat down to watch some tube. I used to like Mission Impossible back then, wait for it all week. There was a knock at the door.

  “I went to see who was there, and it was Nana. She gave me a big hug, just like she still does when she sees me. Asked me if I had some corned beef hash for her, too. Said she liked hers with eggs on top. Then she cackled her cackle, you know.”

  “I don't remember any of this. Why was she at your house so late at night?”

  Sampson continued with his story. "That afternoon my mother was convicted for possession of heroin to sell. She'd been sentenced. Social Services came by, but I was out. Somebody called Nana Mama.

  “So Nana came over, and she actually ate a little of the hash I'd cooked. Told me it was pretty good. Maybe I would be a famous chef one day. Then she said I was coming over to your house for a while. She told me why. She had done some of her magic with Child Welfare. That was the first time that Nana saved me. The first of many times.”