Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

by Patterson, James

  I could feel her breasts touch my chest, then her whole body was pressing into me. Our kisses became deeper and more passionate, and lasted longer.

  I undid her bra and it slipped to the floor. Then I slid off her panties and she pulled down my shorts.

  We stood there and looked at each other for a long time, appraising, admiring I guess, building up anticipation and passion and whatever else was going on between us. I wanted Jamilla badly now, but I waited. We waited.

  “Disappointed?” she whispered, so low I almost couldn't hear what she said.

  Her question threw me a little. “God no. Why should I be? Who could be disappointed with you?”

  She didn't say anything, but I thought I knew who she was thinking about. Her ex-husband had said things that had hurt her. I pulled Jamilla to me and her body felt hot all over. She was trembling. We slid down on the bed and she rolled on top of me. She kissed my cheeks, then my lips. “You sure you're not disappointed?”

  “Definitely not disappointed,” I said. “You're beautiful, Jamilla.”

  “In your eyes.”

  “Okay. In my eyes, you're beautiful.”

  I raised my head to her breasts and she lowered herself to me. I kissed one, then the other, playing no favorites. Her breasts were small, just right. In my eyes. I continued to be amazed that Jamilla didn't seem to know that she was attractive. I knew it was a terrible thing that happened to some women, and some men, too.

  I lay my head down and looked at her face, studied it some. I kissed her nose, her cheeks.

  She was smiling in a way I'd never seen before. Open and relaxed, beginning to trust, which I loved to see. I felt that I could stare into her deep brown eyes forever.

  I eased myself inside Jamilla, and I had a thought that this was just about perfect. I had been right to trust her. Then I had another thought that I hated what will spoil it this time?

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Jamilla started to laugh and then she said, “Phew.” She ran her hand past her forehead.

  “What's ”phew“?” I asked her. “Don't tell me you're tuckered out? You look in a lot better shape than that.”

  “Phew. I was worried about the two of us being together, and now I'm not worried. Phew, sometimes men are really self-centered or rough in bed. Or it just feels all wrong.”

  I smiled at her. “Slept with a lot of men, huh?”

  Jamilla made a little face. Cute. “I'm thirty-six years old. I was married for four years, engaged another time. I date some. Not too much lately, but some. How about you? Was I your first?”

  “Why? Did it seem like it?”

  “Answer the question, smart guy.”

  “I was married once, too,” I finally said.

  Jamilla lightly punched my shoulder, then she rolled over on top of me. “I'm really glad I came to Washington. Took a little nerve on my part. I was definitely scared.”

  “Oohh, Inspector Jamilla Hughes was scared. Well, so was I,” I admitted.

  “How come? What scared you about me, Alex?”

  "Some women are so self-centered. Or rough in bed '

  Jamilla leaned over and kissed me a long, lingering kiss probably to shut me up. I was ready again, and so was she. Jamilla pulled me close and I moved inside her. This time I was on top.

  “I am your love slave. Completely submissive,” she whispered against my cheek. “I'm definitely glad I came to Washington.”

  Our second time together was even better than the first, and also edged out the third time. No, there had been nothing for either of us to be afraid of.

  Jamilla and I stayed at the hotel through the afternoon and into the early evening. It was almost impossible to leave. As it had been right from the start with the two of us, we found it easy to talk about anything on the planet.

  “I'll tell you something really strange, ”she said. “And the more I'm with you, the stranger this seems to me. See, my first husband and I could never really talk. Not the way you and I do. And we still got married. I don't know what I was thinking.”

  A little while later, Jamilla got up and disappeared into the bathroom. I saw the light go on the telephone on the night stand. She was making a call.

  Once a detective... oh boy. Here we go.

  When she came out, she confessed, "I had to call work. Murder case I'm on out there is a mess. Nasty stuff. Sorry, sorry. Won't happen again. I promise. I'll be good. Or bad.

  ; 126

  Whatever you want me to be."

  “No, no, it's fine. I understand,” I said. I did, of course. Sort of, anyway. I saw so much of myself in Jamilla. The detective! I think that was a good thing.

  I hugged her and held her close once she got back into bed. Then the truth finally came out. It was my turn to confess. “Long time ago,” I told her,“ I was at this hotel with my wife.”

  Jamilla pulled back a little. She looked deeply into my eyes. That's okay,“ she said. ”Doesn't mean anything. Except I really love that you were guilty about it. That's nice. I'll always remember that about my trip to Washington."

  “Your first trip,” I said.

  “My first trip,” Jamilla agreed.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Our time together in Washington raced by like a couple of blinks of the eye, and before I knew it Jamilla had to go back to San Francisco. Sunday afternoon at a very crowded Reagan International. Fortunately my badge got me out to the gate area. I was bummed to see her leave, and I didn't think she wanted to go, actually. The two of us hugged for a long time at the gate and we didn't much care if anyone was staring.

  Then Jam had to run to her plane or miss it.

  “Why don't you just stay another night?”I asked. “Lots of planes tomorrow. And the next day. Day after that.”

  “I really, really liked this,” she said as she pulled away from me and started to back-pedal. “Bye, Alex. Please miss me. I liked Washington more than I thought I would.”

  A flight attendant followed her in and closed the door between us. Jeez, I even liked the way Jamilla ran. She glided. And I did miss her already. I was starting to fall again and that scared me.

  That night at home I was up long after midnight. At one particularly low point I went out to the sun porch and sat at the piano playing a pretty pathetic "Someone To Watch Over Me', thinking about Jamilla Hughes, romanticizing like hell, loving every painful second of it.

  I wondered what was going to happen to the two of us. Then I remembered something Sampson had once said. Don't ever be Alex's girlfriend. It's dangerous. Unfortunately, he had been right so far.

  A few minutes later, I became aware of banging on the screen door out front. I went around and found Sampson leaning against the doorjamb. He didn't look real good. Actually, he looked awful.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  He was unshaven, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes red and swollen. I had the feeling he'd been drinking. Then I opened the door and smelled liquor all over him, as if he'd taken a bath in the stuff.

  “Figured you'd be up,” he slurred out a few words. “Knew you would be.”

  Yeah, he'd been drinking a lot. I hadn't seen John like this in a long time, maybe ever. He didn't look real happy either.

  “C'mon inside,” I said. “Cmon John.”

  “Don't need to go anywhere,” he said loudly. “Don't need, any more help from you. You helped enough, man.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I said, and tried to guide him inside the house again.

  He shook loose, his long, powerful arms flailing. “What did I say? I don't need your help!” he yelled at me. “You already fucked up enough. The great Dr. Cross! Yeah, right. Not this time. Not for Ellis Cooper.”

  I took a step back away from him. “Keep your voice down. Everybody's sleeping inside. You hear me?”

  “Don't tell me what the hell to do.
Don't you fucking dare, ”he snarled. “You fucked up. We fucked up, but you're supposed to be so smart.”

  Finally I told Sampson, “Go home and sleep it off.” I shut the door on him. But he pulled it open again, almost took the damn thing off its hinges.

  “Don't walk away from me either! ”he yelled.

  Then he shoved me hard. I let it go, but Sampson pushed again. That was when I lunged at him. I'd had enough of his drunken shit. The two of us tumbled down the wood steps and onto the lawn. We wrestled on the ground and then he tried to throw a punch. I blocked it. Thank God he was too messed-up to throw a straight punch.

  “You fucked up, Alex. You let Cooper die!” he yelled in my face as we both struggled to our feet.

  I refused to hit him, but he struck out at me again. The punch connected with my cheek. I went down as if I didn't have any legs. I sat there, stunned, my eyes glazing over.

  Sampson pulled me up, and by this time he was gasping and wheezing. He tried for a headlock. Christ, he was strong. He connected with a short, hard punch to the side of my face. I went down again but struggled back up. We were both groaning. I hurt where he'd hit me on the point of my cheekbone.

  He threw a roadhouse punch that missed by an inch. Then a hard blow caught my shoulder and made it ache. I warned myself to stay away from him. He had me by four inches and forty pounds. He was drunk, angry, insane as I'd ever seen him.

  But he wouldn't stop coming at me. Sampson was filled with rage. I had to take him down if I could. Somehow. But how?

  Finally I hit him with an uppercut to the stomach. I jabbed his cheek. Drew blood. Then I fired a short right hand into his jaw. That one had to hurt.

  “Stop it! Stop it right now! Both of you, stop!”

  I heard the voice ringing in my ear. “Alex! John! Stop this disgraceful behavior. Stop it, you two. Just stop it!”

  Nana was pulling the two of us apart. She was wedged in between us like a small but determined referee. She'd done it before, but not since I was twelve years old.

  Sampson straightened up and looked down at Nana. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I'm sorry, Nana.” He looked ashamed.

  Then he stumbled away without saying a word to me.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Forty

  I came down to breakfast the next morning at a little before six. Sampson was sitting there eating eggs and his personal favorite, farina. Nana Mama was across from him at the table. Just like old times.

  They were talking quietly, as if sharing a deep secret that no one else should know.

  “Am I interrupting?” I asked from the doorway.

  “I think we have it sorted out now,” Nana said.

  She motioned for me to come sit at the breakfast table. I poured coffee first, popped in four slices of whole-wheat toast, and then finally sat across from Nana and Sampson.

  He had a big glass of milk propped in front of him. I couldn't help remembering back to when we were kids. Two or three mornings a week he'd show up at around this time to break bread with Nana and me. Where else could he go? His mom was a junkie. In a way, Nana had always been like a mother or grandmother to him too. He and I had been like brothers since we were ten. That's why the fight the night before was so disturbing.

  “Let me talk, Nana,” he said.

  She nodded and sipped her tea. I'm pretty sure why I chose psychology for a career, and who my original role model was. Nana has always been the best shrink I've seen. She's wise, and compassionate for the most part, but tough enough to insist on the truth. She also knows how to listen.

  “I'm sorry, Alex. I didn't sleep last night. I feel awful about what happened. I was way over the line,” Sampson said. He was staring into my eyes, forcing himself not to look away.

  Nana watched the two of us as if we were Cain and Abel sitting at her breakfast table.

  “You were over the line all right,” I said. “That's for sure. You were also crazy last night. How much did you drink before you came over?”

  “John told you he was sorry,” Nana said.

  “Nana,” he turned to her, then back to me. “Ellis Cooper was like a brother to me. I can't get over the execution, Alex. In a way, I'm sorry I went to see it. He didn't kill those women. I thought we could save him, so it's my fault. I expected too much.”

  He stopped talking.

  “So did I,” I said. “I'm sorry we failed. Let me show you something. Come upstairs. This is about payback now. There's nothing left but payback.”

  I brought Sampson to my office in the attic of the house. I had notes on Army murder cases pinned all over the walls. The room looked like the hideout of a madman, one of my obsessive killers. I took him to my desk.

  “I've been working on these notes since I met Ellis Cooper. I found two more of these remarkable cases. One in New Jersey, the other in Arizona. The bodies were painted, John.”

  I took Sampson through the cases, sharing everything. “During the past year more than sixty soldiers have been murdered.” I finished up.

  “Sixty?” Sampson said, and shook his head. “Sixty murders a year?”

  “Most of the violence has to do with sex and hate crimes,” I said. “Rapes and murders. Homosexuals who've been beaten or killed. A series of vicious rapes by an Army sergeant in Kosovo. He didn't think he'd get caught because there was so much rape and killing going on there anyway.”

  “Were any other bodies painted?” he wanted to know.

  I shook my head. “Just the two cases I found, New Jersey and Arizona. But that's enough. It's a pattern.”

  “So what do we really have?” Sampson shook his head and looked at me.

  "I don't know yet. It's hard to get information out of the Army. Something very nasty going on. It looks like soldiers may have been framed for murders. The first was in New Jersey, the latest seems to be Ellis Cooper. There are definite similarities, John. Murder weapons found a little too conveniently. Fingerprints and DNA used to convict.

  “All of these men had good service records. In the Arizona murder-case transcripts, there was a mention of ”two or three men“ seen near the victim's house before the homicide took place. There's a possibility that innocent men have been framed and then wrongfully put to death. Framed, then wrongfully executed. And I know something else,” I said.

  “What's that?”

  “These killers aren't brilliant like Gary Soneji or Kyle Craig. But they're every bit as deadly. They're expert at what they do, and what they do is kill and get away with it.”

  Sampson frowned and shook his head. “Not anymore.”

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Forty-One

  Thomas Starkey had been born in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, and he still loved the area passionately. So did most of his neighbors. He'd been away for long stretches while he was in the Army, but now he was back to stay, and to raise his family as best he possibly could. He knew that Rocky Mount was a great place to bring up kids. Hell, he'd been brought up here, hadn't he?

  Starkey was devoted to his family, and he genuinely liked the families of his two best friends. He also needed to control everything around him.

  Just about every Saturday night, Starkey got the three clans together and they barbecued. The exception was the football season, when the families usually had a tailgate party on Friday night. Starkey's son Shane played tailback for the high school. North Carolina, Wisconsin and Georgia Tech were after Shane, but Starkey wanted him to put in a tour with the Army before he attended college. That's what he had done, and it had worked out for the best. It would work for Shane, too.

  The three men usually did all the shopping and cooking for the Saturday night barbecues and the tailgate parties. They bought steaks, ribs, hot and sweet sausages at the farmers' market. They selected corn on the cob, squash, tomatoes, asparagus. They even made the salads, usually German potato, coleslaw, macaroni and, occasionally, Caesars.

  That Friday was no exception, and by seven-thir
ty the men were in their familiar positions beside two Weber grills, staying downwind from the wafting smoke, drinking beer, cooking every meal 'to order'. Hell, they even cleaned up and did the dishes. They were proud to deliver the food just right, and to get pretty much the same kind of applause given to their sons on football nights.

  Starkey's number two, Brownley Harris, tended to intellectualize He'd attended Wake Forest and then gone to grad school at UNC. “The irony is pretty thick here, don't you think?” he asked as he gazed at the family scene.

  “Fuck all, Brownie, you'd see irony in a turkey shoot, or a cluster fuck in a rice paddy. You think too goddamn much,” Warren Griffin said, and rolled his eyes. That's your problem in life."

  “Maybe you just don't think enough,” Harris said, then winked at Starkey, who he considered a god. “We're going off to kill somebody this weekend, and here we are calmly barbecuing thick sirloin steaks for our families. You don't think that's a little strange?”

  "I think you're fucking strange is what I think. We've got a job to do, so we do it. No different than the way it was for a dozen years in the Big Army. We did a job in

  Vietnam, in the Persian Gulf, Panama, Rwanda. It's a job. Of course -I happen to love my job. Might be some irony in that. I'm a family man and a professional killer. So what of it? Shit happens, it surely does. Blame the US Army, not me."

  Starkey nodded his head toward the house, a two-story with five bedrooms and two baths he'd built in 1999.“Girls are coming,” he said. "Put a lid on it.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he called, then gave his wife, Judie, a big hug. Judie "Blue Eyes' was a tall, attractive brunette who still looked almost as good as she had on the day they were married. Like most of the women in town, she spoke with a pronounced Southern accent, and she liked to smile a lot. Judie even did volunteer work three days a week at the playhouse. She was funny appreciative, a good lover, and a good life partner. Starkey believed he was lucky to have found her, and she was lucky to have chosen him. All three of the men loved their wives, up to a point. Hell, that was another juicy irony for Brownley Harris to ponder late into the night.