Four Blind Mice

Chapter Ninety-Two

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 almost seemed 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 a 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 in Quantico.

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 9-millimeter Clocks.

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. “You'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 were 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.”

We watched as the red car bounced up the badly rutted dirt road. It pulled in behind the Suburban, screeched to a stop.

The front door of the cabin opened. Starkey, then Harris stepped outside onto the porch.

The doors of the sports car were flung open simultaneously, almost as if the action was choreographed.

Two dark-haired women stepped out. Asian and very pretty. They were wearing skimpy tops and short skirts. Both had on outrageous shoes with high-heels. The driver held up a bottle in silver wrapping paper, smiled, and waved it at Starkey.

“Chao mung da den voi to am cua chung toi,” Starkey called from the front porch.

“Vietnamese,” Sampson said. “Starkey said something like, ”Welcome to our hootch." '