Oh God, no. Don't let this happen.
When I got close to her bed, I heard shallow breaths. Then her eyes popped open.
“Alex?” she whispered. “What's happening? Why are you in here? What time is it?”
“Hi there, sweetheart. You okay?”I asked.
“I'm just kind of tired. Feeling a little under the weather this morning.” She squinted her eyes to look at the old Westclox on her night table. “Seven? Oh my. Half the morning's gone.”
“You want a little breakfast? How about breakfast in bed this morning? I'm buying,” I said.
She sighed. “I think I'll just sleep in a little longer, Alex. You mind? Can you get the kids ready for school?”
“Sure. Are you positive you're okay?”
“I'll see you later. I'm fine. Just a little tired this morning. Get the children up, Alex.” Rosie was trying to get in bed with Nana, but she wasn't having any of it. “Scat, cat,” she whispered.
I got the three kids up, or so I thought, but then I had to rouse Jannie and Damon a second time. I put out their favorite cereals, some fruit, and then I made scrambled eggs overdoing it a little to compensate for Nana's not being there. I warmed Alex's milk then fixed his breakfast and spoon-fed it to him.
The kids marched off to school and I cleaned up after they were gone. I changed Alex's diapers for the second time that morning, and put him in a fresh onesie covered with fire trucks. He was liking this extra attention, seemed to think it was funny.
“Don't get used to this, little buddy,” I told him.
I checked on Nana, and she was still resting. She was fast asleep, actually. I listened to her breathing for a couple of minutes. She seemed all right.
Her bedroom was so peaceful, but not old lady rosy.
There was a fuzzy, very colorful orange and purple rug at the foot of the bed. She said it gave her happy feet.
I took little Alex upstairs to my room, where I hoped to get some work done that morning. I called a friend at the Pentagon. His name's Kevin Cassidy. We had worked a murder case together a few years back.
I told him about the situation at Fort Bragg, and how little time Sergeant Cooper had on death row. Kevin listened, then cautioned me to be extremely careful. “There are a lot of good folks in the Army, Alex. Good people, well intentioned, honorable as hell. But we like to clean up our own mess. Outsiders aren't usually welcome. You hear what I'm saying?”
“Ellis Cooper didn't commit those murders,” I told him. “I'm almost certain of it. But I'll take your advice to heart. We're running out of time, Kevin.”
“I'll check into it for you,” he said. “Let me do it, Alex.”
After I got off the phone with the Pentagon, I called Ron Burns at the FBI. I told him about the developing situation at Fort Bragg. The director and I had gotten fairly close during the troubles with Kyle Craig. Craig was a former senior agent I'd helped put away. I still didn't know exactly how many murders he had committed but it was at least eleven, probably much more than that. Burns and I had believed Kyle was our friend. It was the worst betrayal in my lifetime, but not the only one.
Burns wanted to get me over to the Bureau and I was thinking about it.
“You know how territorial local cops can be,” he said.
“The Army is even worse, especially when it comes to a homicide.”
“Even if one of their own is innocent and wrongly accused? Even if he's about to be executed? I thought they didn't leave their own out there to die.”
“If they believed that, Alex, the case would have never gone to trial. If I can help, I will. Let me know. I don't make offers that I don't keep.”
“I appreciate it,”I said.
After I got off the phone, I brought little Alex downstairs for some more milk. I was becoming faintly aware of just how much work was involved every day, every hour of every day, at the house. I hadn't even done any cleaning or straightening up yet.
I decided to check on Nana again.
Gently I opened the door. I couldn't hear anything.
I moved closer to the bed.
Finally, I could hear the sound of her breathing. I stood stock-still in her bedroom and, for the first time that I could remember, I worried about Nana.
She was never sick.
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nana finally got up around noon. She shuffled into the kitchen holding a thick new book, The Bondswoman's Narrative. I had a hot lunch ready for her and the baby.
She didn't want to talk about how she was feeling and didn't eat much, just a few spoonfuls of vegetable soup. I tried to get her over to Dr. Rodman's, but she wasn't having any of it. She did let me cook the meals for the rest of the day, and take care of the kids, and clean the house from top to bottom per her explicit instructions.
The next morning I was up before Nana for the second day in a row. It was unheard of in all our years together.
While I waited for her to come to the kitchen, I took in the familiar sights. Paid attention, that is.
The room is dominated by her old Caloric gas stove. It has four burners and a large space she uses to hold goods cooked earlier or cooling. There are two ovens side by side. A large black skillet sits on top of the stove at all times. The refrigerator is also an older model that Nana refuses to give up for a newer one. It's always covered with notes and schedules about our life together: Damon's choir and basketball schedules; Jannie's 'whatever' schedule; emergency phone numbers for Sampson and me; an appointment card for little Alex's next pediatrician checkup; a Post-it on which she has written her latest sage advice: You will never stumble while on your knees.
“What are you up to, Alex?” I heard the familiar scuff of her slippers. I turned and saw her standing there, hands on hips, ready for battle, or whatever.
“I don't know. The ghost of breakfast past? How are you feeling, old woman?” I said. “Talk to me. You okay?”
She winked and nodded her tiny head. “I'm just fine. How 'bout yourself? You okay? You look tired. Hard work taking care of this house, isn't it?” she said, then cackled, and liked the sound of it so much that she cackled again.
I went across the kitchen and picked her up in my arms. She was so light under a hundred pounds. “Put me down!” she said. “Gently, Alex. I might break.”
“So tell me about yesterday. You going to make an appointment at Dr. Rodman's? Of course you are.”
“I must have needed a little extra sleep, that's all it was. It happens to the best of us. I listened to my body. Do you?”
“Yes I do,” I said. “I'm listening to it now and it's voicing some serious concerns about you. Will you make an appointment with John Rodman, or do I have to make it for you?”
“Put me down, Alex. I'm already seeing the doctor later this week. Regular visit, no big thing. Now. How do you want your eggs this morning?”
As if to show me how fine she was, Nana said that I should go back to Fort Bragg with Sampson and finish up my business there. She insisted. I did need to go to Bragg at least once more, but not before I got Aunt Tia to come and stay with Nana and the kids. Only after I was sure that everything was under control did I set out for North Carolina.
On the ride I told Sampson what had happened with Nana, and also gave a blow by blow of my day with the kids.
“She's eighty-two, Alex,” he said, but then added, “She'll probably only be with us for another twenty years or so.” We both laughed, but I could tell John was worried about Nana, too. By his own admission, she's been like a mother to him.
Finally we arrived at Fayetteville, North Carolina, around five in the afternoon. We had to see a woman about an alibi that could maybe save Sergeant Cooper.
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Twenty-Four
We drove to the Bragg Boulevard Estates, less than half a mile from Fort Bragg. The jets were still flying non-stop overhead and the artillery kept pounding away.
Just about everyone at Boulevard Estates worked on the base and lived in what is known as Basic Allowance Housing. BAH is based on rank and pay grade, the size and quality of the residence improving dramatically with rank. Most of the places we saw were small ranch houses. Several of them looked like they needed serious maintenance work. I had read somewhere that over sixty percent of the current Army was married and had children. It looked like that statistic was about right.
Sampson and I walked up to one of the brick ranch houses, and I knocked on the battered and bent aluminum front door. A woman in a black silk kimono appeared. She was heavy-set, attractive. I already knew that her name was Tori Sanders. Behind her, I could see four small children checking out who was at the door.
“Yes? What is it?” she asked. “We're busy. It's feeding time at the zoo.”
“I'm Detective Cross and this is Detective Sampson,” I told her. “Captain Jacobs told us you're a friend of Ellis Cooper's.”
She didn't respond. Didn't even blink.
“Mrs. Sanders, you called me at my hotel about a week ago. I figured your house had to be within walking distance of the base if Sergeant Cooper stopped here on the night of the murder. I did a little checking. Found out he was here that night. Can we come in? You don't want us standing out here where all your neighbors can see.”
Tori Sanders decided to let us in. She opened the door and ushered us into a small dining area. Then she shooed her kids away.
“I don't know why you're here, or what you're talking about,” she said. Her arms were crossed tightly in front of her body. She was probably in her late thirties.
“We have other options. I'll tell you what we can do, Mrs. Sanders,” Sampson spoke up. “We can go out and ask around the neighborhood about you and Sergeant Cooper. We can also involve CID. Or you can answer our questions here in the privacy of your home. You do understand that Cooper is going to be executed in a few days?”
“God damn you. Both of you!” she suddenly raised her voice. “You got this all wrong. As usual, the police have it wrong.”
“Why don't you straighten us out then,” Sampson said,
softening his tone some. “We're here to listen. That's the truth, Mrs. Sanders.”
“You want to be straightened out, well then here it is. You want it real? I did call you, Detective Cross. That was me. Now here's what I didn't say on the phone. I wasn't cheating on my husband with Sergeant Cooper. My husband asked me to make the call. He's a friend of Ellis's. He happens to believe the man is innocent. So do I. But we have no proof, no evidence that he didn't commit those murders. Ellis was here that night. But it was before he went drinking, and he came to see my husband, not me.”
I took in what she had said, and I believed her. It was hard not to. “Did Sergeant Cooper know you were going to call me?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “I have no idea. You'll have to ask Ellis about that. We were just trying to do the right thing for him. You should do the same. The man is on death row, and he's innocent as you or I. He's innocent. Now let me feed my babies.”
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Twenty-Five
We were getting nowhere fast and it was frustrating as hell for both of us, but especially Sampson. The clock was ticking so loud for Ellis Cooper I could hear it just about every minute of the day.
Around nine that night, John and I had dinner at a popular local spot called the Misfits Pub, out in the Strickland Bridge shopping center. Supposedly, a lot of non-com personnel from Fort Bragg stopped in there. We were still nosing around for any information we could get.
“The more we know, the less we seem to know.” Sampson shook his head and sipped his drink. “Something's definitely not right here at Bragg. And I know what you're going to say, Alex. Maybe Cooper is the heart of the problem. Especially if he put the Sanders up to calling you.”
I nursed my drink and looked around the pub. A bar dominated the room, which was crowded, loud and smoky. The music alternated between country and soul. “Doesn't prove he's guilty. Just that he's desperate. It's hard to blame Cooper for trying anything he can,” I finally said. “He's on death row.”
“He's not stupid, Alex. He's capable of stirring the pot to get our attention. Or somebody else's.”
“But he's not capable of murder?”
Sampson stared into my eyes. I could tell he was getting angry. “No, he's not a murderer. I know him, Alex. Just like I know you.”
“Did Cooper kill in combat?” I asked.
Sampson shook his head. “That was war. A lot of our people got killed too. You know what it's like. You've killed men, ”he said. “Doesn't make you a murderer, does it?”
“I don't know, does it?”
I couldn't help overhearing a man and woman who were sitting next to us at the bar. “Police found Vanessa in the woods near 1-95. Only disappeared last night. Now she's dead, she's gone. Some freaks did her with a hunting knife. Probably Army trash,” the woman was saying. She had a thick Southern accent, and sounded angry, but also frightened.
I turned and saw a florid-faced, redheaded woman in a bright blue halter top and white slacks. “Sorry, I couldn't help over-hearing. What happened?” I asked. “Somebody was murdered outside town?”
“Girl who comes in here sometimes. Vanessa. Somebody cut her up,” the redhead said, and shook her head back and forth. The man she was with wore a black silk shirt, cowboy hat, and looked like a failed country and western singer. He didn't like it that the woman was talking to me.
“My name is Cross. I'm a homicide detective from Washington. My partner and I are working a case down here.”
The woman's head shot back. “I don't talk to cops,” she said, and turned away. “Mind your own business.”
I looked at Sampson, then spoke in a lowered voice. “If it's the same killer, he's not being too careful.”
“Or the same three killers,” he said.
Someone elbowed me hard in the back. I whirled around and saw a heavy-set, well-muscled blond man in a checkered sport shirt and khakis. He had a 'high and tight'. Definitely military.
“Time you two got the hell out of Dodge,” he said. Two other men stood behind him. Three of them. They were dressed in civilian clothes, but they sure looked like Army. Time you stopped causing trouble. You hear me?"
“We're talking here. Don't interrupt us again,” Sampson said. “You hear me?”
“You're a big load, aren't you? Think you're a real tough guy?” the front man asked.
Sampson broke into a slow smile that I'd seen before. “Yeah, I do. He's a tough guy, too.”
The muscular blond tried to shove Sampson off his stool. John didn't budge. One of the blond's buddies came at me. I moved quickly and he swung and missed. I hit him hard in the gut and he went down on all fours.
Suddenly, all three men were on us. “Your asshole friend's a killer!” the blond yelled. “He killed women!”
Sampson hit him on the chin and he sunk down on one knee. Unfortunately, these guys didn't stay down once they were hit. Another bruiser joined in and that made four against two.
A shrill whistle sounded inside the bar. I whirled around and looked toward the door. The military police had arrived. So had a couple of eager-looking deputies from the Fayetteville police. They all had batons at the ready. I wondered how they'd gotten here so fast.
They waded in and arrested everybody involved in the bar fight, including Sampson and me. They weren't interested in who'd started it. Our heads bowed, we were escorted out in handcuffs to a black-and-white and shoved down into the squad car.
“First time for everything,” Sampson said.
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Twenty-Six
We didn't need this crap not now, especially. We were taken out to the Cumberland County Jail in a small, blue bus that sat ten. Apparently there were only a couple of cells at the jail in Fayetteville. At no time were we offered any professional courtesy beca
use we were homicide detectives from Washington, who just happened to be working on behalf of Sergeant Ellis Cooper.
In case you're ever looking for it, the booking facility at the County Jail is located in the basement. It took about half an hour for the local police to do our paperwork, fingerprints, and take our photographs. We were given a cold shower, then 'put in the pumpkin patch'. That was the guards' clever way of describing the orange jumpsuit and slippers prisoners were made to wear.
I asked what had happened to the four soldiers who'd attacked us and was told it was none of my goddamn business, but that they'd been' transported to the stockade at Bragg7.
Sampson and I were put in a misdemeanor block in a dormitory cell, which was also in the basement. It was built for maybe a dozen prisoners, but there were close to twenty of us crowded in there that night. None of the prisoners were white and I wondered if the jail had other holding cells, and if they were segregated, too.
Some of the men seemed to know each other from previous nights they had spent here. It was a civil enough group. Nobody wanted to mess with Sampson, or even me. A guard walked by on checks twice an hour. I knew the basic drill. The prisoners were in charge the other fifty-eight minutes an hour.
“Cigarette?” a guy to my right asked. He was sitting on the floor with his back against a pitted concrete wall.
“Don't smoke,” I said to him.
“You're the detective, right?” he asked after a couple of minutes.
I nodded and looked at him more closely. I didn't think I'd met him, but it was a small town. We had shown our faces around. By this time a lot of people in Fayetteville knew who we were.
“Strange shit going down,” the man said. He took out a pack of Camels. Grinned. Tapped one out. Today's Army, man. “An army of one.” What kind of bullshit is that?"
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