Four Blind Mice

Chapter Ninety-One

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.