“When should she go in for the procedure?” I asked.
“That’s up to her. I wouldn’t wait more than a couple of weeks. She sounded a little stubborn when I brought up a hospital stay. Says she’s too busy.”
“I’ll talk to her. See if it helps. What do we do until then?”
“Just baby aspirin, believe it or not. One eighty-one-milligram tablet a day. She also has to limit her caffeine — coffee and tea. And Nana should avoid stress-related situations. Good luck on that one.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“For now, yes. Please watch the stress on her. I’ll stay involved if she wants me too.”
“I know she does.”
Kayla Coles laughed. “Good. She’s a smart woman, isn’t she? We’re going to make sure she sees a hundred.”
I laughed. “I hope I get to see her reach a hundred. So, no special precautions until we go in for the procedure?”
“No, not really. Just try not to bring too much excitement into her life.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
“You do your best and try not to get shot,” said Kayla Coles before she hung up.
Chapter 89
NO WAY I was going to get shot staying at home — or so I believed. A couple of mornings after my conversation with Dr. Kayla Coles, I came downstairs to make breakfast for the kids. Nana was sitting at her spot at the kitchen table, a large brown mug steaming in front of her.
“Unh-uh.” I wagged a finger at her.
“Decaffeinated,” she said. “Don’t start in on me, Alex.”
“Nope. I won’t even say that you’re a little touchy this morning. Sleep okay?”
“Nobody my age sleeps okay. I did set up an appointment for the catheter ablation. I go in a week from today. Happy?” she asked.
“Very happy,” I said, then gave her a hug, which Nana returned in kind. Dr. Kayla was right — she was strong for her age.
Later that morning, I had a pretty good talk with FBI Director Burns. He told me he had someone trying to track the e-mail from Foot Soldier, but so far no luck. He asked if I’d given serious consideration about his offer to work at the Bureau. I’d been expecting the question.
“I’ve thought about it some. My life is suddenly a little complicated. For one thing, I need to get some kind of closure on this case with the army.”
“They helping, or getting in the way? The army?” Burns asked.
“A little of both. I’ve met some good people. Army’s like everybody else, though. They want to solve their own problems. There’s something incredibly nasty going on with this murder case. They know it, and so do I. I feel it in my bones. There will be more murders. That’s my fear.”
“If I can help,” Burns said. “No strings attached, Alex. This is a big case. I think it’s important too.”
“I appreciate that.”
After I got off the phone, I went in search of Nana. She was futzing around in the kitchen, as usual. Her kitchen. Her house.
“I need a rest. So do you,” I said to her. “Where do you want to go after your procedure?”
“Paris,” Nana said without blinking an eye. “Then maybe Rome. Venice, of course. Florence would be real nice. Then come home through London. Stop in and see the queen. What do you think? Sound too rich for your blood? Maybe you were thinking of a train ride to Baltimore?” she asked, and laughed at her own joke. She was a funny lady, always had been.
“I have some money put away,” I told her.
“Me too,” she said. “Mad money. What about Jamilla? What about your job?”
“If Jamilla could take some time off, that would be great. She likes her job, though.”
“That sounds familiar, doesn’t it? How’s your marble collection? Maybe you should buy a couple of jars for her.”
I laughed. Then I went over and put my arms around Nana again. Couldn’t help myself lately. “I love you, old woman,” I said. “I don’t tell you that enough, and when I do, it isn’t with the passion I feel.”
“That’s nice to hear,” she said. “You can be so sweet sometimes. I love you too, and I always say it with the passion that I feel.”
“You feeling all right?” I asked.
“Today’s good. Tomorrow, who knows?” She shrugged. “I’m making some lunch. Don’t ask if you can help. I’m fine. Still on the right side of the grass.”
After lunch I went upstairs to my office in the attic to think about what my next steps should be. There was a fax waiting. I wagged my finger at it. “Unh-uh.”
It was a copy of a news story in the Miami Herald. I read about the execution the night before of a man named Tichter at the Florida State Prison in Starke. Abraham Tichter had been in Vietnam. Special Forces.
Scrawled at the bottom of the fax was the following:
Innocent of these murders in Florida. Wrongfully accused, convicted, and executed. Abraham Tichter makes six. In case you aren’t keeping count.
Foot Soldier
I was keeping count.
Chapter 90
EVER SINCE NANA had been under the weather I’d been doing the grocery shopping and most of the household chores. Usually I took Little Alex with me to the small Safeway on Fourth Street. That’s what I did early in the afternoon.
I carried him high on my shoulders, out the kitchen door and down the driveway to my car.
Alex was giggling and yapping as he always is. The boy never shuts up or sits still. He’s a bouncing ball of pure energy, and I can’t get enough of him.
I was absently thinking about the last message from Foot Soldier, so I don’t even know why I happened to notice the black Jeep traveling down Fifth.
It was moving at around thirty, right about the speed limit.
I don’t know why I paid it much attention, but I did. My eyes never left it as it came toward Little Alex and me.
Suddenly, the barrel of a black Tec protruded through the side window of the Jeep. I pulled down the baby, then dropped to the ground, whipping my body sideways, to avoid landing on Alex.
The shooting started.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
I bellied across the lawn, shielding my baby under my left arm, and then dragged him behind a shade tree. I needed cover between us and the gunman.
I didn’t get a good look inside the Jeep, but I did see that the driver and the shooter were white. Two of them — not three.
I couldn’t tell if they were the men from Rocky Mount. Who else could it be, though? The shooters from West Point? Were they the same? What was happening now on Fifth Street? Who had ordered it?
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
Bullets cracked into the walls of the house, and a front window shattered. I had to stop the attack somehow. But how? I crawled to the porch, and made it just before another round of fire.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
Unbelievable, even for Southeast.
I pushed Alex down behind the porch. He was screaming bloody murder now. Poor frightened little boy. I kept him down on the ground. Then lifted my head and got a quick peek at the Jeep stopped in front of my house.
Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
I returned fire. Three carefully aimed shots, so as not to hit someone in the neighborhood. Then two more shots. Yes! I knew that I got the shooter. Possibly in the chest, but maybe the throat. I saw him jerk back hard and then slump over the seat. No more shots came.
Suddenly the Jeep took off, tires screeching, shimmying as it skidded around the nearest corner.
I carried Alex inside and herded Nana and the baby into her room. I made them stay down on the floor. Then I called Sampson, and he was at the house in minutes. I was just about past being shocked and afraid for my family when I became as angry as I’d ever been. My body shook with rage and the need for retaliation.
“Lot of broken windows, some bullet holes in the walls. Nobody hurt,” Sampson said after a quick walk around the house.
“It
was a warning. Otherwise, I think they would have killed me. They came to the house to deliver a message. Just like when we went to Starkey’s house in Rocky Mount.”
Chapter 91
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 U.S. 64, headed 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, though. 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, about 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 U.S. 64 past Zebulon, then I-40 to 85 South. We went by Burlington, Greensboro, Charlotte, Gastonia, and then entered South Carolina.
Sampson sat beside me on the front seat, but he’d fallen 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 find it at this point.
The breakfast — cheese omelettes, 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 burned-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 my knife and fork down and pushed the plate away. No way could I finish off the omelette and ham. I’d barely touched the grits, which needed something. Maybe cheddar cheese? Onions, sautéed 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 I-75, which we took to U.S. 41, and then old 41. Then we were on some narrow, meandering country road in Kennesaw Mountain National Park. We were following three killers in northern Georgia, about an eight-hour drive from Rocky Mount, close to five hundred miles.
I passed the turnoff the first time and had to go back. A turkey vulture was sitting there watching us. The woods around here were heavily forested, and the foliage was thick and ornery-looking.
The RDF indicated that the Suburban was no longer moving.
“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 turnoff that would keep the car hidden. We opened the trunk and took out a duffel bag, as well as guns, ammo, and night-vision goggles for each of us. NVGs. Then we walked about half a mile through the thick woods before we could see a small cabin. Smoke was curling out of a fieldstone 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 T-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 three murders that he didn’t commit.
Chapter 92
“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 seemed almost 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 the 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.
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 9mm Glocks.
“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. “Yo
u’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 got 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.”
Four Blind Mice Page 19
