Patterson, James - Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

I went upstairs to my room and called Director Bums. He wasn't in, so I left a message. I wanted to call Jamilla, but it was too early in California so I logged onto my computer and sent her a long e-mail.

Then I found that I had a new message. Now what?

It turned out to be from Jannie and Damon. They were breaking my chops about being away from home again, even' for a night. When was I coming back? Would they get a neat souvenir from West Point? How about a shiny new sword for each of them? And one for little Alex, too.

There was a second message for me.

It wasn't from the kids.

Or Jamilla.

Detective Cross. While you are at West Point, you ought to see Colonel Owen Handler. He teaches political science. He might have some answers for you. He's a friend of the Bennetts. He might even know who killed them.

I'm just trying to be helpful. You need all the help you can get.

Foot Soldier.

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Sixty-Eight

The three killers had been right here. I couldn't get the thought out of my head, but the feeling was in my bones, my blood.

Sampson and I walked along the main drag toward Thayer Hall. Several cadets were out practicing for parade on the Plains. As we got closer, I saw that wooden pegs were driven into the ground to show the cadets exactly where to turn their faultlessly sharp corners. I had to smile. It reminded me that so many things in life were an illusion. Maybe even the 'facts' I was collecting on this case.

“So what do you think about this help we're getting? The mad e-mailer? The Foot Soldier?” Sampson asked. “I don't like it, Alex. It's too convenient, too pat. This whole case is about being set up.”

“You're right, we don't have any reason to trust the information we're getting. So I don't. On the other hand, we're here. Why not talk to Colonel Handler? It can't hurt.”

Sampson shook his head. “I wish that was so, Alex.”

I had called the History Department immediately after I received the 'helpful' e-mail from Foot Soldier. I was told that Colonel Handler had a class that met from eleven until noon. We had twenty minutes to kill, so we took in a few sights: Washington Hall, a cavernous three-story building where the entire Corps of Cadets could sit simultaneously for meals; the Eisenhower and MacArthur Barracks; the Cadet Chapel; plus several incomparable river vistas.

Cadets flowed past us lickity-split on the sidewalk. They wore long-sleeved gray shirts with black ties, gray trousers with a black stripe, brass belt buckles shined to perfection.

Everybody was moving in double time! It was contagious.

Thayer Hall was a huge gray building that was virtually windowless. Inside, the classrooms all looked identical, each with desks arranged in a horseshoe so that everyone was in the front row.

Sampson and I waited in a deserted hallway until Handler's class was finished and the cadets filed out.

They were incredibly orderly for college students, which didn't surprise me, but it was still impressive to watch. Why aren't students in all universities orderly? Because no one demands it? Well hell, who cares? But it was a striking scene. All these young kids with so much purpose and resolve. On the surface anyway.

Colonel Handler trailed his students out of the classroom. He was a burly man, around six feet one with short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard. I already knew he'd served two tours of duty in Vietnam,

had an MA from the University of Virginia and a doctorate from Penn State. That much was on the West Point web-site.

“We're Detectives Cross and Sampson,” I said as I walked up to him. “Could we talk to you for a moment?”

Handler grimaced. “What's this about, Detectives? One of our cadets in trouble?”

“No, no,” I shook my head. The cadets seem beyond reproach."

A smile broke across Handler's face. “Oh, you'd be surprised. They only look blameless, Detective. So if it isn't one of our charges, what is it you'd like to talk to me about? Robert and Barbara Bennett? I've already spoken to Captain Conte. I thought CID was handling that.”

“They are,” I told him. “But the murders might be a little more complicated than they appear. Just like the cadets here at West Point.”

As concisely as I could, I told Handler about the other murder cases that Sampson and I had been investigating. I didn't tell him about the e-mail from the Foot Soldier that had led us to him. As I spoke, I noticed a professor in the classroom next to Handler's. He had a bucket with water and a sponge, and he was actually washing the blackboard before the next class. All the classrooms had identical buckets and sponges. Hell of a system.

“We think there's a connection to something pretty bad that took place in Vietnam,” I said to Colonel Handler. “Maybe the murders actually started there.”

“I served in Southeast Asia. Two tours,” Handler volunteered. “Vietnam and Cambodia.”

“So did I,” said Sampson. “Two tours.”

Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, Colonel Handler seemed nervous. His eyes narrowed and darted around the hallway. The cadets were gone now, no doubt rushing off to Washington Hall for lunch.

“I'll talk to you,” he finally said, 'but not on the grounds. Pick me up at my place tonight. It's Quarters ninety-eight. We'll go somewhere else. Come by at eight sharp."

He looked at Sampson and me, and then Colonel Handler turned and walked away.

In double time.

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Sixty-Nine

I had the feeling that we were close to something important, at West Point, and maybe with Colonel Handler. It was something ineffable that I'd seen in his eyes when the subject had turned to Vietnam. Maybe the murders started there.

The colonel had made reservations at what he called an 'extraordinarily misplaced' northern Italian restaurant in Newburgh, II Cenacolo. We were on our way there, riding the Storm King Highway, a winding rollercoaster with incredible views of the Hudson, which stretched out hundreds of feet below.

“Why didn't you want to talk to us closer to home?” I finally asked the colonel.

Two of my best friends were just murdered there," Handler said. He lit up a cigarette, blew out a stream of smoke. It was pitch black outside and the mountainous road had no lights to guide our way.

“You believe the Bennetts were murdered?” I asked.

“I know they were.”

“Do you know why?”

“I might. You've heard of the blue wall of silence with the police? In the Army, it's the same, only the wall is gray. It's higher, thicker, and has been here for a hell of a long time.”

I had to ask another question. I couldn't hold back. “Are you Foot Soldier, Colonel? If you are, we need your help.”

Handler didn't seem to understand. “What the hell is Foot Soldier? What are you talking about?”

I told him that a mysterious someone had been periodically slipping me information, including Handler's own name. “Maybe you thought it was time we met face to face,”I said.

“No. I may be a source for you now. But it's only because of Bob and Barbara Bennett. I'm not Foot Soldier. I never contacted you. You came to see me. Remember?”

As convincing as he sounded, I didn't know whether to believe him, but I had to pursue the identity of Foot Soldier. I asked Handler for names, others who might be helpful in the investigation. He gave me a few, some Americans, even a couple of South Vietnamese who might be willing to help.

Handler spoke from the darkened backseat of the sedan. “I don't know who's been contacting you, but I'm not so sure that I'd trust whoever it is. Right about now, I'm not sure that I'd trust anyone.”