Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

by Patterson, James

  “We must be doing something right,” Starkey said as he held Judie in his arms and toasted the other couples.

  “You sure did,” Judie “Blue Eyes' said. ”You boys married well. Who else would let their husbands sneak off for a weekend every month or so, and trust that they were being good boys out there in the big, bad world?"

  “We're always good. Nobody does it better,” Starkey said, and smiled good-naturedly at his closest friends in the world. “It doesn't get any better than this. It really doesn't. We're the best there is.”

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Forty-Two

  On Saturday night the three killers made their way north to a small town in Virginia called Harpers Ferry. During the road trip, Brownley Harris's job was to study maps of the AT, as the Appalachian Trail was called by many of the people who hiked it regularly. The spot where they were headed was a particularly popular place for hikers to stop.

  Harpers Ferry was tiny, actually. You could walk from one end of town to the other in less than fifteen minutes. There was a point of tourist interest nearby called Jefferson Rock, where you could see Maryland, Virginia, and West Virginia. Kind of neat.

  Starkey drove for the entire trip, no need for any relief. He liked to be at the wheel and in control anyway. He was also in charge of entertainment, which consisted of his Best of Springsteen tape, a Janis Joplin, a Doors, a Jimi Hendrix anthology, and a Dale Brown audio book

  Warren Griffin spent almost the entire trip checking the team's supplies and readying the rucksacks in back. When he was finished, the packs weighed around forty pounds, a little more than half of what they used to carry on their re-con missions in Vietnam and Cambodia.

  He had prepared the packs for a 'hunt and kill', the kind of ambush Colonel Starkey had planned for the Appalachian Trail. Griffin had packed standard-issue canteens; LRPs meals which were pronounced 'lurps'; hot sauce to kill the taste of the LRPs; a tin can for coffee. Each of them would have a K-Bar, the standard military combat knife; cammo sticks, with two colors of greasepaint; boo ny hats; poncho liners that could do double duty as ground cover; night-vision goggles; Clocks as well as an M-16 rifle fitted with a sniper scope. When he was finished with the work, Griffin uttered one of his favorite lines, “If you want to get a good belly laugh out of God, just tell Him about your plans.”

  Starkey was the TL, or Team Leader. He was in control of every aspect of the job.

  Harris was the Point Man.

  Griffin was Rear Security, still the junior guy after all these years.

  They didn't have to do the 'hunt and kill' exactly like this. They could have made it a whole lot easier on themselves. But this was the way Starkey liked it, the way they had always committed their murders. It was 'the Army way7.

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Forty-Three

  They made camp about two clicks from the AT. It was dangerous for them to be seen by anybody so Starkey established an NDP, a Night Defense Position, for the camp. Then they each kept watch in two-hour shifts. Nostalgia rules.

  When Starkey took his shift, he passed the time thinking not so much about the job looming ahead of them, but the job in general. He, Harris and Griffin were professional killers and had been for over twenty years. They'd been assassins in Vietnam, Panama, the Gulf War, and now they were assassins for hire. They were careful, discreet and expensive. The current job was their most lucrative and involved several murders over a period of two years. The curious thing about it was they didn't know the identity of their employer. They were given new targets only after the previous job was completed.

  As he stared into the dark, restless woods, Starkey wanted a cigarette, but he settled for an Altoids. Those little fuckers kept you awake. He found himself thinking about the blonde bitch they had offed near Fayetteville, pretty Vanessa. The memory got him hard and that helped the time pass. While they were still in Vietnam, Starkey had discovered that he liked to kill. The murders gave him a powerful feeling of control and elation. It was like electricity was passing through his body. He never felt guilt, not anymore. He killed for hire; but he also killed in between jobs, because he wanted to, and liked it.

  “Strange, scary stuff,” Starkey muttered as he rubbed his hands together. “Scare myself sometimes.”

  The three of them were up and ready by five the next morning, which was shrouded in a thick, bluish-gray fog. The air was cool, but incredibly fresh and clean. Starkey figured the fog wouldn't burn off until at least ten.

  Harris was in the best physical shape of the three, so he was designated as the scout. He wanted the job anyway. At fifty-one, he still played in a men's basketball league and did triathlons twice a year.

  At 5:15 he set off from camp at a comfortable jogging pace. Christ, he loved this shit.

  Nostalgia.

  Harris found that he was wide awake and alert once he was on the move. He was operating beautifully after just a few minutes on the trail. The hunt and kill was a satisfying combination of business and pleasure for him, for all three of them.

  Harris was the only person around this early on the AT, at least this particular stretch of it. He passed a four-person dome tent. Probably some white-bread family. Most likely' section hikers' as opposed to' through hikers'

  who would take up to six months to do the entire trail, finally ending at a place called Katahdin, Maine. Around the dome tent he noticed a camp stove and fuel bottles, ratty shorts and tee-shirts laid out to air. Not a target, he decided, and moved on.

  Next, he came upon a couple in sleeping bags laid just off the trail. They were young, probably' go see the world' types. They slept on inflatable air mattresses. All the comforts of home.

  Harris got up close, no more than ten yards from them, before he finally decided to move on. He could tell the girl was a looker, though. Blonde, cute face, maybe twenty. Just watching her sleep with her boyfriend got his jets-going pretty good. They were a definite maybe.

  He saw a second couple already up and exercising near their tent about a quarter mile farther on. They had high-tech internal frame packs, $200 hiking boots, and looked like snooty city slicks. He liked them as potential targets, mainly because he disliked them so much immediately.

  Not far past the couple's camp, he came upon a single male hiker. This guy was definitely in for the long haul. He had a high-tech pack which looked light and tight. He would probably be carrying dried food, trail mix, protein drink powder fresh food was too heavy and difficult to haul around on your back all day. His wardrobe would be no frills too nylon shorts, tank tops, maybe long underwear for the cold nights.

  Harris stopped and watched the single hiker's camp for a couple of minutes. He let his heartbeat slow and controlled his breathing. Finally, he slipped right into the man's camp. He wasn't afraid, and he never doubted himself. He took what he needed. The hiker never stirred from his sleep.

  Harris checked his sports watch and saw it was only 5:50. So far, so good. He walked back to the trail, then he began to jog again. He felt invigorated, excited about the hunt and kill out here on the nature trail. Man, he wanted to kill somebody bad. Man or woman, old or young, it didn't much matter.

  The next camp he came upon was close another couple, still asleep in a two-person dome tent. Harris couldn't help thinking how easy it would be to take them out right now. Ducks on a pond. Everybody was so vulnerable and trusting out here. What a bunch of loonies. Didn't they ever read the funny papers? There were killers on the loose in America, lots of them.

  A little less than a mile beyond, he reached the camp of another family. Someone was already up.

  He hid in the pine trees and watched. A fire had been started and was throwing up sparks. A woman of about forty was futzing around with a rucksack. She wore a red Speedo swimsuit and seemed in good physical shape -well-muscled arms and legs; a nice ass, too. She called out,“Wakee, wakee!”

  Moments later, two shapely teenage girls emerged from the larger
tent. They had on one-piece bathing suits, and they were slapping their lithe bodies with their arms and hands, trying to get warm in a hurry, trying to 'wakee, wakee'.

  “Mama bear and two baby bears,” Brownley Harris muttered. “Interesting concept.” Maybe too close to the murders at Bragg, though.

  He watched as the three women huddled for a moment around the fire, then took off at a run. Soon he could hear a chorus of war whoops and screams, then laughter and loud splashes as they hit the small brook that ran directly behind their camp.

  Brownley Harris moved quickly and silently through the trees until he reached a choice point where he could watch the mother and her pretty daughters frolic in the cold stream. They sure reminded him of the women in the massacre in Fayetteville, outside Fort Bragg. Still, they could be the secondary target.

  He returned to his camp at a little past six-thirty. Griffin had prepared breakfast: eggs, bacon, plenty of coffee. Starkey was sitting in a familiar lotus position, thinking and plotting. He opened his eyes before Harris announced himself. “How'd you do?” he asked.

  Brownley Harris smiled. “We're right on schedule, Colonel. We're good. I'll describe the targets while we eat. Coffee smells good. Hell of a lot better than napalm in the morning.”

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Starkey took full command that morning. Unlike the other hikers on the AT, he kept his men deep in the woods, unseen by their fellow travelers or anyone else.

  It wasn't hard to do. In their past lives they'd spent days, sometimes weeks, being invisible to enemies who were out to find and kill them, but who frequently ended up getting killed themselves. One time it had been a team of four homicide detectives in Tampa, Florida.

  Starkey demanded that they treat this like a real-life combat mission, in real-life war. Total silence was imperative. They used hand signals most of the time. If someone had to cough, he did so in his neck rag, or in the crook of an arm. Their rucksacks had been packed tight by Sergeant Griffin so that nothing shook or rattled as they walked.

  The three of them had slathered on bug juice, then laid on the cammo. They didn't smoke a cigarette all day.

  No mistakes.

  Starkey figured that the kill would take place somewhere between Harpers Ferry and an area known as Lowdown Heights. Parts of the trail were densely forested there, an endless green tunnel that would be good for their purposes. The trees were mostly deciduous, leafy, no conifers. A lot of rhododendron and mountain laurel. They noticed everything.

  They didn't actually make camp that night, and were careful not to leave evidence that they had been in the woods at all.

  Brownley Harris was sent on another scouting mission at seven-thirty, just before it got dark. When he returned, the sun was gone and darkness had fallen like a shroud over the AT. The woods had a kind of jungle feel, but it was only an illusion. A state road ran about half a mile from where they were standing.

  Harris reported in to Starkey. Target One is approximately two clicks ahead of us. Target Two is less than three. Everything's still looking good for us. I'm pumped."

  “You're always ready for a hunt and kill,” said Starkey. “But you're right, everything's working for us. Especially this friendly, trust-your-neighbor mindset all these recreational hikers have.”

  Starkey made the command decision. “We'll move to a point midway between Targets One and Two. We'll wait there. And remember, let's not get sloppy. We've been too good for too long to blow it all up now.”

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Forty-Five

  A three-quarter moon made the going easier through the woods. Starkey had known about the moon beforehand. He wasn't just a control freak; he was obsessive about details because getting them wrong could get you killed, or caught. He knew they could expect mild temperatures, low wind and no rain. Rain would mean mud, and mud would mean a lot of footprints, and footprints would be unacceptable on their mission.

  They didn't speak as they moved through the woods. Maybe it wasn't necessary to be so cautious out here, but it was habit, the way they had been conditioned for combat. A simple rule had always been drummed into them: remember how you were trained, and don't ever try to be a hero. Besides, the discipline helped them to concentrate. Their focus was on the killings that would soon take place.

  The three men were in their own private worlds as they walked: Harris fantasized about the actual kills with real-life faces and bodies; Starkey and Griffin stayed very real time, and yet they hoped that Harris wasn't pulling their chain with his description of the targets. Starkey remembered one time Brownley had reported the prey was a Vietnamese schoolgirl, whom he went on to describe in elaborate detail. But when they got to the kill zone, a small village in the An Lao Valley, they found an obese woman well into her seventies, with black warts all over her body.

  Their reveries were cut short by a male voice piercing the air.

  Starkey's hand flew up in warning.

  “Hey! Hey! What's going on? Who's out there?” the voice called. “Who's there?”

  The three of them stopped in their tracks. Harris and Griffin looked at Starkey, who kept his right arm raised. No one answered the unexpected voice.

  “Cynthia? Is that you, sweetie? Not funny if it is.”

  Male. Young. Obviously agitated.

  Then a bright yellow light flashed in their direction, and Starkey walked forward in its path. “Hey,” was all he said.

  “What the hell? You guys Army?” the voice asked next. “What are you doing out here? You training? On the Appalachian Trail?”

  Starkey finally flicked on his Maglite flashlight. It lit up a white male in his early twenties, khaki walking shorts down around his ankles, a thick roll of toilet paper in one hand. Skinny kid. Longish black hair. A day's growth on his face. Not a threat.

  “We're on maneuvers. Sorry to barge in on you like this,” Starkey said to the young man squatting before him. He chuckled lightly, then turned to Harris. “Who the hell is he?” he whispered.

  “Couple Number Three. Shit. They must have fallen behind Target Two.”

  “All right then. Change of plan,” Starkey said. “I'll take care of this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Starkey felt a coldness in his chest and knew that the others probably did too. It happened in combat, especially when things went wrong. The senses became heightened. He was acutely aware of everything going on, even at the periphery of his eyesight. His heartbeat was strong, even, steady. He loved these intense feelings, just before it happened.

  “Can I get a little privacy here?” the shitter asked. “You guys mind?”

  A brighter light suddenly flashed on Brownley Harris was shooting another video movie.

  “Hey, is that a fucking camera?”

  “Sure is,” Starkey said. He was on top of the crouching, shitting man before he knew what was happening. He picked the victim up by his long hair and slit his throat with the K-Bar.

  “What's the woman like?” Griffin turned to Harris, who was still shooting with the hand-held camera.

  “Don't know, you horny bastard. The girlfriend was sleeping this morning. Never saw her.”

  “Boyfriend wasn't bad-looking,” said Griffin. “So I'm hopeful about the chick. Guess we'll soon find out.”

  Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Sampson and I were riding on 1-95 again, heading toward Harpers Ferry, Virginia. There had been a brutal double murder on the Appalachian Trail near there. So far, it didn't make sense to the FBI or the local police. But it made perfect sense to us. The three killers had been there.

  We hadn't had this much time to talk in a long while. For the first hour we were cops discussing the murder victims, two hikers on the AT, and any possible connection to Ellis Cooper or the victims in Arizona and New Jersey. We had read the investigating detective's notes. The descriptions were bleak and horrific. A young couple in
their twenties, a graphic artist and an architect, had had their throats slit. Innocents. No rhyme or reason for the murders. Both of the bodies had been marked with red paint, which was why I got the call from the FBI.

  “Let's take a break from the mayhem for a while,” Sampson finally said. We had reached the halfway point of our ride south.

  “Good idea. I need a break, too. We'll be knee-deep in the shit soon enough. What else is going on? You seeing anybody these days?” I asked him. “Anybody serious? Anybody fun?”

  “Tabitha,” he said. “Cara, Natalie, LaTasha. You know Natalie. She's the lawyer with HUD. I hear your new girlfriend from San Francisco came to visit last weekend. Inspector Jamilla Hughes, Homicide.”

  I laughed. “Who told you about that?”

  John furrowed his brow. “Let's see. Nana told me. And Damon. And Jannie. Little Alex might have said something. You thinking about settling down again? I hear this Jamilla is something else. Is she too hot for you to handle?”

  I continued to laugh. “Lot of pressure, John. Everybody wants me to get hooked up again. Get over my unlucky recent past. Settle down to a nice life.”

  “You're good at it. Good daddy, good husband. That's how people see you.”

  “And you? What do you see?”

  “I see all that good stuff. But I see the dark side, too. See, part of you wants to be old Cliff Huxtable. But another part is this big, bad, lone wolf. You talk about leaving the police department, maybe you will. But you like the hunt, Alex.”

  I looked over at Sampson. “Kyle Craig told me the same thing. Almost the same words.”