Four Blind Mice

Chapter Ninety-Three

We had been observing the rustic cabin for more than two hours, and now we watched the sun dip behind the mountains. It had gotten much colder and my body was feeling stiff and I was tired from the drive. The wind whistled through the forest, whistled and sometimes roared. It felt like it was blowing right through me.

“We're going to get them,” Sampson whispered hoarsely. I think he was trying to cheer me up. “Maybe tonight, maybe not. They're making mistakes, Alex.”

I agreed with that. “Yes, they are. They're not invincible. I'm not even sure if they have the whole story themselves. They're just a piece of this.”

We could hear them inside the cabin every word. Marc Sherman had apparently decided to stay for the party. Rock music echoed from the cabin. Janis Joplin was wailing, and one of the Asian women sang along. It sounded like bad karaoke, but nobody complained. Then the Doors came on. Memories of Vietnam, I suppose. “This is the end...”

Occasionally, someone would pass by a window. The Asian women had both taken off their tops. The taller of the two stepped outside for a few minutes. She smoked a joint, taking greedy puffs.

Harris came out and joined her. They spoke English on the porch.

“I used to know your mama-san,” he said, and giggled.

“You're kidding?” the girl laughed and blew out jets of smoke. “Of course you're joking. I get it. Sort of.” She looked to be in her late teens, maybe early twenties. Her breasts were large and too round, augmented. She wobbled slightly on the high-heels.

“No, I knew her. She was my hootch mama. I made it with her, and now I'm going to make it with you. See the irony?”

The girl laughed again. “I see that you're stoned.”

“Well, there's that too, my smart little dink. The thing is, maybe you're my daughter.”

I tuned out on the conversation and stared at the outline of the A-frame cabin. It looked like some family's vacation house. We'd heard that the three of them had been using the place since the mid-eighties. They'd already talked about murders committed in these woods, but it wasn't clear who had been killed, or why. Or where the bodies were buried.

Jim Morrison was still singing' The End'. The TV was on too, a University of Georgia football game. Georgia versus Auburn. Warren Griffin was rooting loudly and obnoxiously for Auburn. Marc Sherman had apparently gone to Georgia and Griffin was breaking his chops.

Sampson and I stayed in a culvert, a safe distance away. It was getting even colder, the wind screaming through the large hemlocks and beech trees.

“Starkey doesn't seem to be partying,” Sampson finally said. “You notice that? What's he doing?”

“Starkey likes to watch. He's the cautious one, the leader. I'm going to move a little closer. We haven't seen or heard from the other girl in a while. Makes me nervous.”

Just then, we heard Marc Sherman raise his voice. “Jesus, don't cut her. Be careful! C'mon, man. Put away the K-Bar!”

“Why the hell not cut her? ”Harris yelled at the top of his voice. “What the hell is she to you? You cut her, then. Try it, you'll like it. You cut her, Counselor. Get your hands dirty for a change!”

“I'm warning you, Harris. Put the goddamn knife down.”

“You're warning me? That's pretty rich. Here take the knife. Take it! Here you go!”

The lawyer groaned loudly. I was pretty sure he'd been stabbed.

The girls began to scream. Sherman was moaning in excruciating pain. Chaos had taken over inside the cabin.

“Cockadau!” Harris suddenly yelled in Vietnamese. He sounded a little nuts.

“Cockadau means kill,” Sampson told me.