Four Blind Mice Read online

  “The Radisson’s not far. Why don’t you wait?” Vanessa asked. “You boys can hold it a little longer, can’t you?”

  “This can’t wait,” said Griffin. Suddenly, he had his pistol up tight against the girl’s skull.

  From the front seat, Brownley Harris had his gun aimed at her chest.

  “Dê hai tay lên dâu!” Thomas Starkey screamed, his voice deep and scary.

  Hands on your head.

  “Ban gap nhieu phien phúc rôi dó.”

  You’re in serious trouble, bitch.

  Vanessa didn’t understand a word but she sure got the tone. Bad shit was going down. Real bad shit. The girl’s stomach dropped. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have gotten into a car with three guys, but the driver had seemed so nice. Now why was he yelling at her? What kind of messed-up language was it? What was happening? She thought that she might throw up, and she’d had a chili dog and Fritos for dinner.

  “Stop, please, stop!” Vanessa said, and started to cry. It was an act, kind of, but usually it worked on the soldiers from Bragg.

  Not this time, though. The insane yelling in the car got even louder. The weird language she didn’t understand.

  “Ra khoi xe. Ngay bây gio,” said Thomas Starkey.

  Get out of the car. Do it now, bitch.

  They were waving their scary guns and pointing, and she finally understood that she was supposed to get out of the car. Oh my God, are they going to leave me out here as a sick joke? The bastards!

  Or was it worse than that? How much worse could it get?

  Then the one in the front seat smacked her with the back of his hand. Why? She was already getting out of the car. Goddamn him! She almost toppled over on her silver platform shoes. Willie Nelson kicked her in the back, and Vanessa gasped in pain.

  “Ra khoi xe!” the man in front screamed again. Who were they? Were they terrorists or something?

  Vanessa was sobbing, but she understood she was supposed to run, to hightail it into the dark woods and creepy swampland. Jesus, God, I don’t want to go in there! There’ll be snakes for sure!

  The one from the backseat punched her in the back again, and Vanessa started to run. What choice did she have?

  “Lúc dó mày se den toi!”

  She heard shouts behind her.

  Oh God, God, God, what are they saying? What is going to happen to me? Why did I let them pick me up? Big mistake, big mistake!

  Then all Vanessa could think about was running.

  Chapter 20

  “LET HER GO,” Thomas Starkey said. “Let’s be fair now. We told Vanessa we’d be good.”

  So they leaned against the Suburban and let the frightened girl run off into the swamp, giving her a good head start.

  Starkey slid on one of the Rangers’ new tan berets. It had replaced the black beret of the Special Forces once the rest of the army had gone to black. “Here’s the first side bet of the evening. Ol’ Vanessa will be wearing her platform heels when we catch up with her. Or do you boys think she’ll shuck the shoes?” asked Starkey. “Bets, gentlemen?”

  “Shuck ’em for sure,” said Griffin. “She’s dumb, but she’s not that stupid. I’ll take your bet. Fifty?”

  “She’ll be wearing the shoes,” pronounced Starkey. “Girl that pretty working the street, she’s dumb as a board. A hundred says so.”

  Just then they saw a pair of lights veering off the highway. Someone was driving toward where they’d parked. Now who the hell was this?

  “Trooper,” said Starkey. Then he raised his hand in a friendly wave at the slow-moving police car.

  “Problem here?” the statie said once he’d rolled up close to the big blue Suburban. He didn’t bother to get out of his car.

  “Just a little pit stop, Officer. We’re on our way to Fort Benning from Bragg,” Starkey said in the calmest voice. In truth, he wasn’t nervous about the trooper. Just curious about how this would turn out. “We’re in the Reserves. If the three of us were on the first team, I guess we’d all be in trouble.”

  “I saw your vehicle from the road. Thought I better check to make sure everybody was all right. Nothing but swamp back there.”

  “Well, we’re fine, Officer. Finish our smokes and hit the road again. Thanks for the concern.”

  The state trooper was just about to pull away when a woman’s scream came from the woods. There was no mistaking that it was a cry for help.

  “Now that’s a damn shame, Officer.” Starkey swung his pistol out from behind his back. He shot the trooper point-blank in the forehead. Didn’t even have to think about it. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

  He shook his head as he walked to the police car, shut off the headlights. He got into the front, pushing the dead trooper aside, and pulled the car out of sight from the main road.

  “Go find the girl,” he said to Harris and Griffin. “Pronto. She’s obviously not too far. And she’s still wearing her platforms, the twit. Go! Go!” he said to Harris and Griffin. “I’ll give you chumps a couple of minutes’ lead. I want to get this cruiser completely out of sight. Go. Warren is point. Brownie is flanker.”

  When Colonel Thomas Starkey finally made his move into the woods, there wasn’t a false step on his part. He went straight to where the girl had cried out for help and gotten the state trooper killed.

  From that point, it was mostly instinct for him. He saw mussed leaves and grass. A broken branch of a bush where she’d passed. He noted his own internal responses — rapid breathing, surging blood flow. He’d been here before.

  “Tao se tìm ra mày,” he whispered in Vietnamese. “Lúc dó mày se den toi.”

  I’m going to find you, honey. You’re almost dead.

  He was sorry that the chase after the girl had to be rushed, but the dead state trooper was an unexpected development. As he always did, Starkey had a calm, superaware focus. He was in the zone.

  Time slowed for him; every detail was precise and every movement was controlled. He was moving fast, comfortable and supremely confident in the dark woods. There was just enough moonlight for him to see.

  Then he heard laughter up ahead. Saw a light through the branches. Starkey stopped moving. “Son of a bitch!” he muttered. He moved forward cautiously, just in case.

  Harris and Griffin had caught the blond bitch. They had taken off her black hot pants, gagged her with her own scuzzy underwear, cuffed her hands behind her back.

  Griffin was ripping off her silver-sequined blouse. All she was wearing were the sparkly silver platforms.

  Vanessa didn’t wear a bra and her breasts were small. Pretty face, though. Reminded Starkey of his neighbor’s daughter. Starkey thought again that she was a fine little piece to be selling herself for cheap on the street. Too bad, Vanessa.

  She struggled and Griffin let her break away, just for the fun of it. But when she tried to run, she tripped and went down hard in the dirt. She stared up at Starkey, who was now standing over her. He thought she was pathetic.

  She was whimpering. Then she said something through the gag as she tried to push herself up. It sounded like “Why are you doing this? I never hurt anybody.”

  “This is a game we learned a long time ago,” Starkey said in English. “It’s just a game, honey. Passes the time. Amuses us. Get the paint,” he said to Master Sergeant Griffin. “I think red for tonight. You look good in red, Vanessa? I think red is your color.”

  He looked her right in the eye and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 21

  I GOT UP at about five-thirty my first morning back in Washington. Same old, same old, which was fine with me.

  I put on a Wizards T-shirt and ancient Georgetown gym shorts and headed downstairs. The lights in the kitchen were still off. Nana wasn’t up yet, which was a little surprising.

  Well, she deserved to sleep late every once in a while too.

  I laced up my sneaks and headed outside for a run. Immediately I could smell the Anacostia River. Not the greatest smell, but familiar. My pla
n was not to think about Ellis Cooper on death row this morning. So far, I was failing.

  Our neighborhood had changed a lot in the past few years. The politicians and businesspeople would say it’s all for the good, but I wasn’t so sure that’s right. There was construction on 395 South, and the Fourth Street on-ramp had been closed forever. I doubted it would have gone on for this long in Georgetown. A lot of the old brownstones I grew up with had been torn down.

  Town houses were going up that look very Capitol Hill to me. There was also a flashy new gym called Results. Some houses sported hexagonal blue ADT security signs, courtesy of the huge Tyco corporation. Certain streets were becoming gentrified. But the drug dealers were still around, especially as you traveled toward the Anacostia.

  If you could put on H. G. Wells time machine glasses, you would see that the original city planners had some good ideas. Every couple of blocks there was a park with clearly delineated paths and patches of grass. Someday the parks would be reclaimed by the people, not just the drug dealers. Or so I liked to think.

  A Washington Post article the other day proclaimed that some people in the neighborhood actually protect the dealers. Well, some people think the dealers do more good things for the community than the politicians do — like throwing block parties and giving kids ice cream money on hot summer days.

  I’ve been here since I was ten, and we’ll probably stay in Southeast. I love the old neighborhood, not just the memories but the promise of things that could still happen here.

  When I got home from my run, the kitchen lights still weren’t on. An alarm was sounding inside my head.

  Pretty loud too.

  I went down the narrow hallway from the kitchen to check on Nana.

  Chapter 22

  I EDGED OPEN the door and saw her lying in bed, so I quietly moved into the room. Rosie the cat was perched on the windowsill. She meowed softly. Some watchcat.

  I let my eyes roam. Saw a familiar framed poster depicting jazz musicians by Romare Bearden; it’s called Wrapping It Up at the Lafayette.

  On top of her armoire were dozens of hatboxes. Nana’s collection of hats for special occasions would be the envy of any milliner.

  I realized I couldn’t hear Nana’s breathing.

  My body tensed and suddenly there was a loud roaring sound inside my head. She hadn’t gotten up to make breakfast only a handful of times since I was a kid. I felt the fears of a child as I stood perfectly still in her room.

  Oh God, no. Don’t let this happen.

  When I got close to her bed, I heard shallow breaths. Then her eyes popped open.

  “Alex?” she whispered. “What’s happening? Why are you in here? What time is it?”

  “Hi there, sweetheart. You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m just kind of tired. Feeling a little under the weather this morning.” She squinted her eyes to look at the old Westclox on her night table. “Seven? Oh my. Half the morning’s gone.”

  “You want a little breakfast? How about breakfast in bed this morning? I’m buying,” I said.

  She sighed. “I think I’ll just sleep in a little longer, Alex. You mind? Can you get the kids ready for school?”

  “Sure. Are you positive you’re okay?”

  “I’ll see you later. I’m fine. Just a little tired this morning. Get the children up, Alex.” Rosie was trying to get into bed with Nana, but she wasn’t having any of it. “Scat, cat,” she whispered.

  I got the three kids up, or so I thought, but then I had to rouse Jannie and Damon a second time. I put out their favorite cereals and some fruit, and then I made scrambled eggs — overdoing it a little to compensate for Nana’s not being there. I warmed Alex’s milk, then fixed his breakfast and spoon-fed it to him.

  The kids marched off to school, and I cleaned up after they were gone. I changed Alex’s diapers for the second time that morning, and I put him in a fresh onesie covered with fire trucks. He was liking this extra attention, seemed to think it was funny.

  “Don’t get used to this, little buddy,” I told him.

  I checked on Nana, and she was still resting. She was fast asleep, actually. I listened to her breathing for a couple of minutes. She seemed all right.

  Her bedroom was so peaceful, but not old-lady rosy. There was a fuzzy, very colorful orange and purple rug at the foot of the bed. She says the rug gives her happy feet.

  I took Little Alex upstairs to my room, where I hoped to get some work done that morning. I called a friend at the Pentagon. His name’s Kevin Cassidy. We had worked a murder case together a few years back.

  I told him about the situation at Fort Bragg, and how little time Sergeant Cooper had on death row. Kevin listened, then cautioned me to be extremely careful. “There are a lot of good folks in the army, Alex. Good people, well intentioned, honorable as hell. But we like to clean up our own messes. Outsiders aren’t usually welcome. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “Ellis Cooper didn’t commit those murders,” I told him. “I’m almost certain of it. But I’ll take your advice to heart. We’re running out of time, Kevin.”

  “I’ll check into it for you,” he said. “Let me do it, Alex.”

  After I got off the phone with the Pentagon, I called Ron Burns at the FBI. I told him about the developing situation at Fort Bragg. The director and I had gotten fairly close during the troubles with Kyle Craig. Burns wanted to get me over to the Bureau, and I was thinking about it.

  “You know how territorial local cops can be,” he said. “The army is even worse, especially when it comes to a homicide.”

  “Even if one of their own is innocent and wrongly accused? Even if he’s about to be executed? I thought they didn’t leave their own out there to die.”

  “If they believed that, Alex, the case would have never gone to trial. If I can help, I will. Let me know. I don’t make offers that I don’t keep.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said.

  After I got off the phone, I brought Little Alex downstairs for some more milk. I was becoming faintly aware of just how much work was involved every day, every hour of every day, at the house. I hadn’t even done any cleaning or straightening up yet.

  I decided to check on Nana again.

  I gently opened the door. I couldn’t hear anything.

  I moved closer to the bed.

  Finally, I could hear the sound of her breathing. I stood stock-still in her bedroom, and for the first time that I could remember, I worried about Nana. She was never sick.

  Chapter 23

  NANA FINALLY GOT up about noon. She shuffled into the kitchen holding a thick new book, The Bondwoman’s Narrative. I had a hot lunch ready for her and the baby.

  She didn’t want to talk about how she was feeling and didn’t eat much, just a few spoonfuls of vegetable soup. I tried to get her over to Dr. Rodman’s, but she wasn’t having any of it. But she did let me cook the meals for the rest of the day and take care of the kids and clean the house from top to bottom, per her explicit instructions.

  The next morning I was up before Nana for the second day in a row. It was unheard-of in all our years together.

  While I waited for her to come to the kitchen, I took in the familiar sights. Paid attention, that is.

  The room is dominated by her old Caloric gas stove. It has four burners and a large space she uses to hold goods cooling or waiting to be cooked. There are two ovens side by side. A large black skillet sits on top of the stove at all times. The refrigerator is also an older model that Nana refuses to give up for a newer one. It’s always covered with notes and schedules about our life together: Damon’s choir and basketball schedules; Jannie’s “whatever” schedule; emergency phone numbers for Sampson and me; an appointment card for Little Alex’s next pediatrician checkup; a Post-it on which she has written her latest sage advice: You will never stumble while on your knees.

  “What are you up to, Alex?” I heard the familiar scuff of her slippers. I turned and saw her standing there, hands on hips
, ready for battle, or whatever.

  “I don’t know. The ghost of breakfast past? How are you feeling, old woman?” I said. “Talk to me. You okay?”

  She winked and nodded her tiny head. “I’m just fine. How ’bout yourself? You okay? You look tired. Hard work taking care of this house, isn’t it?” she said, and cackled. She liked the sound of it so much that she cackled again.

  I went across the kitchen and picked her up in my arms. She was so light — less than a hundred pounds. “Put me down!” she said. “Gently, Alex. I might break.”

  “So tell me about yesterday. You going to make an appointment with Dr. Rodman? Of course you are.”

  “I must have needed a little extra sleep, that’s all it was. It happens to the best of us. I listened to my body. Do you?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “I’m listening to it now, and it’s voicing some serious concern about you. Will you make an appointment with John Rodman, or do I have to make it for you?”

  “Put me down, Alex. I’m already seeing the doctor later this week. Regular visit, no big thing. Now. How do you want your eggs this morning?”

  As if to show me how fine she was, Nana said that I should go back to Fort Bragg with Sampson and finish up my business there. She insisted. I did need to go to Bragg at least once more, but not before I got Aunt Tia to come and stay with Nana and the kids. Only after I was sure that everything was under control did I set out for North Carolina.

  On the ride, I told Sampson what had happened with Nana, and also a blow-by-blow of my day with the kids.

  “She’s eighty-two, Alex,” he said, then added, “she’ll probably only be with us for another twenty years or so.” We both laughed, but I could tell that John was worried about Nana too. By his own admission, she’s been like a mother to him.

  We finally arrived at Fayetteville, North Carolina, about five in the afternoon. We had to see a woman about an alibi that maybe could save Sergeant Cooper.

  Chapter 24

  WE DROVE TO the Bragg Boulevard Estates, which was less than half a mile from Fort Bragg. The jets were still flying nonstop overhead, and the artillery kept pounding away.