Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

by Patterson, James

It was just past four in the morning when Thomas Starkey waltzed out the kitchen door of his home. He walked across a dewy patch of lawn, then climbed into his blue Suburban. It started right up. Starkey always kept it in perfect condition, even serviced it himself.

  “I'd like to take a few potshots at the fucker right now,” Sampson said at my side. We were parked in deep shadows at the end of the street. “Blow out a few windows in his house. Spread a little terror his way.”

  “Hold that thought,” I said.

  A few minutes later, the Suburban stopped and picked up Warren Griffin, who lived nearby in Greystone. It drove on to Knob Hill and picked up Brownley Harris. Then the Suburban sped out of Rocky Mount on US-64, heading in the direction of Raleigh.

  “None of them look shot up,” Sampson said. “That's too bad. So who'd you shoot on Fifth Street?”

  “I have no idea. Complicates things though, doesn't it? These three know something. They're in this conspiracy we've been hearing about.”

  The silent gray wall?"

  “That's the one. Seems to work pretty well, too.”

  I didn't have to follow too closely, didn't even have to keep the Suburban in sight. Earlier that morning, around three o'clock, I'd slapped a radio-direction-finding device under the vehicle. Ron Burns was helping me in any way he could. I'd told him about the shooting at my house.

  I kept a good distance behind the killers. The Suburban stayed on US-64 past Zebulon, then 1-440 to 85th South. We went by Burlington, Greensboro, Charlotte, Gastonia and then entered South Carolina.

  Sampson sat beside me on the front seat, but he fell asleep before we got to South Carolina. He had worked a shift the day before and he was exhausted. He finally woke up in Georgia, yawned, and stretched his big body as best he could in the cramped space.

  “Where are we?”

  “Lavonia.”

  “Oh, that's good news. Where's Lavonia?”

  “Near Sandy Cross. We're in Georgia. Still hot on their trail.”

  “You think this is another hit coming up?”

  “We'll see.”

  At Doraville we stopped at a diner and had breakfast. The state-of-the-art device attached to the Suburban was still tracking. It seemed unlikely that they'd check and find it at this point.

  The breakfast cheese omelets, country ham and grits -was a little disappointing. The diner looked just about perfect, and it sure smelled good when we walked inside, but the generous portions were bland, except for the country ham, which was too salty for me.

  “You going to follow up with Burns? Maybe become an FBI man?” Sampson asked after he'd downed his second coffee. I could tell he was finally waking up.

  “I don't know for sure. Check with me in a week or so. I'm a little burnt out right now. Like this food.”

  Sampson nodded. “It'll do. I'm sorry I got you involved in all this, Alex. I don't even know if we can bring them down. They're cocky, but they're careful when they need to be.”

  I agreed. “I think they did the hits solely for money. But that doesn't explain enough. What happened to start the killing? Who's behind it? Who's paying the bills?”

  Sampson's eyes narrowed. “The three of them got a taste for killing in the war. Happens sometimes. I've seen it.”

  I put down my knife and fork and pushed the plate away. No way could I finish off the omelet and ham. I'd barely touched the grits, which needed something. Maybe cheddar cheese? Onions, sauteed mushrooms?

  “I owe you. This is big debt, Alex,” Sampson said.

  I shook my head. “You don't owe me a thing. But I'll probably collect on it anyway.”

  We went back out to the car and followed the signal for another two hours. The trip had taken from morning into the early afternoon.

  We were on 1-75 which we took to US-41, and then old 41. Then we were on some narrow, meandering country road in Kennesaw Mountain Park. We were following three killers in northern Georgia, about eight hours from Rocky Mount, close to five hundred miles.

  I passed the turn-off the first time and had to go back. A turkey vulture was sitting there watching us. The hills around here were heavily forested and the foliage was thick and ornery-looking.

  “We ought to park somewhere along the main road. Hide the car as best we can. Then walk on in through the woods,” I said.

  “Sounds like a plan. I hate the fucking woods, though.”

  I found a little turn-in that would keep the car hidden. We opened the trunk and took out guns, ammo and night-vision goggles for each of us. Then we walked about half a mile through the thick woods before we could see a small cabin. Smoke was curling out of a field stone chimney.

  A very cozy spot. For what, though? A meeting of some kind? Who was here?

  The cabin was near a small lake that was fed by the headwaters of the Jacks River, at least that was how it was marked. A stand of hemlocks, maples and beech trees enveloped the clearing in deep green. Some of the trees were easily six feet wide.

  The blue Suburban was parked in front of the cabin -but so was a silver Mercedes station wagon. It had North Carolina plates.

  “They've got company. Who the hell is this?” Sampson asked. “Maybe we caught a break.”

  We saw the front door open and Colonel Thomas

  Starkey stepped outside. He had on a green tee-shirt and baggy fatigue pants.

  Right behind him was Marc Sherman, Cumberland County's district attorney. Christ.

  It was the lawyer who had prosecuted and convicted Ellis Cooper for the murders of three women that he didn't commit.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  What the hell is this? You know who he is?" Sampson asked. His temperature was rising fast.

  “I remember him. Like you said, maybe we caught a little break. But why would Marc Sherman be here?”

  Sampson and I were crouched behind a couple of ancient beech trees about a hundred yards from the cabin. The forest was eerily dark and almost seemed primitive. The roots of the huge trees all around us were carpeted by small ferns. On the walk there our legs got a good lashing from the catbrier and blackberry stickers.

  “We're in deep shit somewhere around Kennesaw, Georgia. We traveled a lot of hours to get here. Now what? ”John asked.

  “Now we wait. We listen,”I said.

  I reached into a cloth duffel bag and pulled out a black box attached to what looked like a silver wand. The apparatus was a long-distance microphone, compliments of my new good buddies at the Bureau in Quantico.

  Sampson nodded when he saw what it was. “FBI wants you real bad.”

  I nodded back. “That they do. This is a state-of-the-art unit. But we should get a little closer.”

  We made our way up toward the cabin, crawling on our hands and knees between the towering trees. Besides the long-distance mike, Sampson and I had rifles, and 9-millimeter Clocks.

  Take one of these,“ I said. ”In case you don't like the NVGs. "I handed him a pocket scope that worked in day or night. Fully extended, it was less than six inches long. Another valuable loan from the

  FBI.

  “Only fair, I guess,” Sampson said. “The boys probably have a couple of war toys of their own inside that log cabin.”

  “That's what I was thinking. It's the argument I used with Burns. That and the fact that they came after me at my house. Burns has three kids of his own. He was sympathetic.”

  Sampson glanced over at me. “I thought you didn't know it was them in Washington?” he whispered.

  “I don't. I'm not so sure it was. I had to tell Burns something. I don't know that it wasn't them.”

  Sampson grinned and shook his head. “You're gonna get fired before you get hired.”

  I stayed close to the ground and trained one end of the mike at the cabin. We were only fifty yards away now. I worked the microphone around until the voices were as clear as if they were just a few feet away from us.

  I recognized Starkey's voice. Thought we'd
party a little tonight, Counselor. Tomorrow we're going to hunt deer up on the mountain. You in?"

  “I have to go back tonight,” said Marc Sherman. “No hunting for me, I'm afraid.”

  There was a brief silence, then a burst of laughter. Three or four men joined in.

  Brownley Harris spoke up. “That's just fine, Sherman. Take your blood money and run, why don't you? You hear this one? The Devil takes a meeting with this lawyer.”

  “I heard it,” said Sherman.

  “Funny, Marc. Now listen. Devil is slick as shit, you know. I mean, you know, right, Counselor? Devil says, ”I'll make you a senior partner right now. Today.“ Young turk lawyer asks, ”What do I have to do?“ Devil says, ”I want your immortal soul. Beat. And also the immortal souls of everyone in your family. “The young lawyer stops and thinks, and he eyes the Devil something fierce. Then the lawyer says, ”What's the catch?" '

  There was raucous laughter from inside the cabin. Even Sherman joined in.

  “That's even funny the fourth time. You do have the rest of my money?” he asked once the laughter had stopped.

  “Of course we do. We've been paid, and you're going to be paid in full. We keep our deals, Mr. Sherman. You can trust us. We're men of honor.”

  Suddenly, I heard a loud noise off to the left of where we were crouched. Sampson and I swiveled around in a hurry. What the hell was this? A red sports car was coming fast up the dirt road. Too fast.

  “Now who the hell is this?” Sampson asked in a whisper.

  “More killers? Maybe the shooters from Washington?”

  “Whoever it is, they're moving.”

  We watched as the red car bounced up the badly rutted dirt road. It pulled in behind the Suburban, screeched to a stop.

  The front door of the cabin opened. Starkey, then Harris stepped outside onto the porch.

  The doors of the sports car were flung open simultaneously, almost as if the action was choreographed.

  Two dark-haired women stepped out. Asian and very pretty. They were wearing skimpy tops and short skirts. Both had on outrageous shoes with high-heels. The driver held up a bottle in silver wrapping paper, smiled, and waved it at Starkey.

  “Chao mung da den voi to am cua chung toi,” Starkey called from the front porch.

  “Vietnamese,” Sampson said. “Starkey said something like, ”Welcome to our hootch." '

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  We had been observing the rustic cabin for more than two hours, and now we watched the sun dip behind the mountains. It had gotten much colder and my body was feeling stiff and I was tired from the drive. The wind whistled through the forest, whistled and sometimes roared. It felt like it was blowing right through me.

  “We're going to get them,” Sampson whispered hoarsely. I think he was trying to cheer me up. “Maybe tonight, maybe not. They're making mistakes, Alex.”

  I agreed with that. “Yes, they are. They're not invincible. I'm not even sure if they have the whole story themselves. They're just a piece of this.”

  We could hear them inside the cabin every word. Marc Sherman had apparently decided to stay for the party. Rock music echoed from the cabin. Janis Joplin was wailing, and one of the Asian women sang along. It sounded like bad karaoke, but nobody complained. Then the Doors came on. Memories of Vietnam, I suppose. “This is the end...”

  Occasionally, someone would pass by a window. The Asian women had both taken off their tops. The taller of the two stepped outside for a few minutes. She smoked a joint, taking greedy puffs.

  Harris came out and joined her. They spoke English on the porch.

  “I used to know your mama-san,” he said, and giggled.

  “You're kidding?” the girl laughed and blew out jets of smoke. “Of course you're joking. I get it. Sort of.” She looked to be in her late teens, maybe early twenties. Her breasts were large and too round, augmented. She wobbled slightly on the high-heels.

  “No, I knew her. She was my hootch mama. I made it with her, and now I'm going to make it with you. See the irony?”

  The girl laughed again. “I see that you're stoned.”

  “Well, there's that too, my smart little dink. The thing is, maybe you're my daughter.”

  I tuned out on the conversation and stared at the outline of the A-frame cabin. It looked like some family's vacation house. We'd heard that the three of them had been using the place since the mid-eighties. They'd already talked about murders committed in these woods, but it wasn't clear who had been killed, or why. Or where the bodies were buried.

  Jim Morrison was still singing' The End'. The TV was on too, a University of Georgia football game. Georgia versus Auburn. Warren Griffin was rooting loudly and obnoxiously for Auburn. Marc Sherman had apparently gone to Georgia and Griffin was breaking his chops.

  Sampson and I stayed in a culvert, a safe distance away. It was getting even colder, the wind screaming through the large hemlocks and beech trees.

  “Starkey doesn't seem to be partying,” Sampson finally said. “You notice that? What's he doing?”

  “Starkey likes to watch. He's the cautious one, the leader. I'm going to move a little closer. We haven't seen or heard from the other girl in a while. Makes me nervous.”

  Just then, we heard Marc Sherman raise his voice. “Jesus, don't cut her. Be careful! C'mon, man. Put away the K-Bar!”

  “Why the hell not cut her? ”Harris yelled at the top of his voice. “What the hell is she to you? You cut her, then. Try it, you'll like it. You cut her, Counselor. Get your hands dirty for a change!”

  “I'm warning you, Harris. Put the goddamn knife down.”

  “You're warning me? That's pretty rich. Here take the knife. Take it! Here you go!”

  The lawyer groaned loudly. I was pretty sure he'd been stabbed.

  The girls began to scream. Sherman was moaning in excruciating pain. Chaos had taken over inside the cabin.

  “Cockadau!” Harris suddenly yelled in Vietnamese. He sounded a little nuts.

  “Cockadau means kill,” Sampson told me.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Sampson and I were up in a flash and sprinting full-out toward the cabin. We reached the front door together. He went in first with his gun drawn.

  “Police!” he yelled over the blaring rock music and TV. “Police! Hands in the air. Now!”

  I was right behind Sampson when Starkey opened up with an MP5. At the same time, Griffin fired a handgun from across the room. The two Asian women were screaming as they scampered out the cabin's rear door. They had enough street smarts to get out of there fast. I saw that the smaller woman had a deep gash across her cheek. Her face was dripping blood.

  Marc Sherman lay on the floor, motionless. There were dark splatters of blood on the wall behind the lawyer's body. He was dead.

  The big gun erupted again, noise and smoke filling the room. My ears were ringing. I wasn't even sure if I'd been hit or not.

  “Move out!” Sharkey yelled to the others.

  “Di di maul” Brownley Harris shouted, and actually seemed to be laughing. Was he completely mad? Were they all insane?

  The three killers bolted out the back door. Warren Griffin covered the retreat with heavy fire. They didn't want a final shootout inside the cabin. Starkey had other plans for his team.

  Sampson and I fired at the retreating men, but they made it out. We approached the back door slowly. Nobody was waiting there, and no more shots were fired at us for the moment.

  Suddenly there was the sound of shooting away from the cabin. Half a dozen hollow pops. I heard the shrill screams of the two women cut through the trees.

  I peeked my head around the corner of the cabin. I didn't like what I saw. The two women hadn't made it to their car. Both lay on the dirt road. They'd been shot in the back. Neither of them moved.

  I turned to Sampson. “They'll come back for us. They're going to take us out here
in the woods.”

  He shook his head. “No they're not. We're going to take them out. When we see them, we open up. No warnings, Alex. No prisoners. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

  I did. This was an all-or-nothing fight. It was war, not police work, and we were playing by the same rules as them.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  It was awfully quiet all of a sudden. Almost as if nothing had happened, as if we were alone in the woods. I could hear the distant roar of the Jacks River, and birds twittering in the trees. A squirrel scampered up the trunk of a hemlock.

  Otherwise, nothing moved. Nothing that I could see, anyway.

  Eerie as hell.

  I was getting a really bad feeling we were in a trap. They knew we would come here after them, didn't they? This was their turf, not ours. And Sampson was right, this was war. We were in a combat zone, behind enemy lines. A fire fight was coming our way. Thomas Starkey was in charge of the opposition and he was good at this. All three of them were pros.

  “I think one woman is moving a little,” he said. “I'm going to check on her, Alex.”

  “We both go,” I said, but Sampson was already slipping away from the cover of the trees.

  “John?”I called, but he didn't look back.

  I watched him run forward in a low crouch. He was down close to the ground, moving fast. He was good at this combat. He'd been there, too.

  He was about halfway to where the women lay when gunfire erupted from the woods to his right.

  I still couldn't see anybody, just whispers of gun smoke wafting up into tree branches.

  Sampson was hit and he went down hard. I could see his legs and lower torso just over a bramble. One leg twitched. Then nothing.

  Sampson didn't move anymore.

  I had to get to him somehow. But how? I crawled on my stomach to another tree. I felt weightless and unreal. Completely unreal. There was more gunsmoke. Pinging off rocks, thudding into nearby trees. I didn't think I was hit, but they'd come damn close. The fire was heavy.