Patterson, James - Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

“Everybody is having such a good, all-American time,” Sampson said as we sat and watched the world go by. “Remind me to tell you about Billie in Jersey.”

“Billie?”I asked. Who's Billie?"

Tell you later, partner. We're working now. On the trail of three stone-cold killers."

That we were. We were busy watching the families of Starkey, Harris and Griffin from a safe distance. I noticed that Thomas Starkey looked our way once or twice. Had he spotted us? If he had, he didn't seem overly concerned.

“You think they're the ones who killed Colonel Handler? Think they know who we are, sugar?”Sampson asked.

“If they don't, they probably will soon.”

Sampson didn't seem to mind. “That's your big plan? Get us killed down here in Rocky Mount?”

“They won't do anything with their families around,” I said.

“You sure?”

“No,” I said. “I'm not sure. But that's what my gut tells me.”

“They're killers, Alex.”

“Professional killers. Don't worry, they'll pick their spot.”

“Oh, I'm not worried,” Sampson said. “I'm just anxious to get it on with these boys.”

As the afternoon progressed, we talked casually to some more H and K employees and their families. The people were easy to talk to and we were real friendly. Most of them said they liked where they worked a lot. Sampson and I passed ourselves off as new to the company and nobody questioned it. In fact, most everyone was cordial and welcoming, almost to a fault. Hard not to like the folks in Rocky Mount, most of them anyway.

Lunch was followed by team sports and other competitive games: swim races, volleyball, soccer, softball, and organized contests for the kids.

Starkey, Harris and Griffin eventually headed off toward one of the adjoining softball fields.

Sampson and I followed at a distance.

Let the games begin.

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Eighty-Two

I eed a couple more to fill out this team. You big fellows play any ball?“ asked an old man wearing a dusty Atlanta Braves shirt and ball cap. ”You're welcome to join in. It's a friendly little game."

I glanced over at Sampson. He smiled and said, “Sure, we'll play some ball.”

The two of us were put on the same team, which seemed the more ragtag and needier of the two. Starkey, Harris and Griffin were on the other team. Our worthy opponents for the friendly game.

“Looks like we're the underdogs,” Sampson said.

“We're not down here to win a softball game,” I said.

He grinned. “Yeah, and we're not here to lose one either.”

The game was good-natured on the surface, but everything was heavily stacked against our team. Starkey and Harris were good athletes, and everybody on their team seemed decent and knew how to play. Our group was uneven, and they exploited our weaknesses. We were behind by two runs after the first inning, and four runs after the third.

As we jogged off the field to take our turn at bat, Sampson patted my butt. “Definitely not down here to lose,” he said.

Sampson was scheduled to bat third that inning. I would be up fourth if somebody got on base. A skinny, older Mexican man led off with a bunt single and got razzed by our macho opponents for not having any cojones. The next batter, a big-bellied accountant, blooped a single just over the second baseman's head. More semi-good-natured razzing came from our opponents.

“Rather be lucky than good,” our guy yelled back from first base as he slapped his big beer belly.

Now Sampson stepped to the plate. He never took a practice swing, just touched the rubber base with the tip of the longest and heaviest bat he could find on the rack.

“Big power hitter. Better move back those fences!” Starkey called from shortstop. He looked like a ballplayer, moved easily and fluidly at bat and in the field, bent the peak of his cap just so.

Sampson just stood there with the bat on his shoulder. Nobody except me knew what to expect from the big man, and even I couldn't always tell with him. The two of us had played a lot of ball together when we were kids. Sampson had been an all-city receiver as a junior in high school, but he didn't go out for the football team in his senior year. He was an even better baseball player, but he never played organized ball after Little League.

I stood on deck, trying to figure how he would play it.

Actually, there weren't any fences at the field, so he couldn't hit one out of the park if he wanted to. So what would he do?

The first pitch floated up to the plate, fat and juicy, but Sampson never took his bat off his shoulder. It was hard to imagine a more tempting pitch would come his way.

Warren Griffin was doing the pitching for their team. He was a decent-enough athlete, fielded his position well.

“Didn't like that one? ”he called to Sampson. “What's the matter with it?”

“No challenge.”

Griffin smiled. He signaled for Harris to come out to the mound. Brownley Harris was doing the catching, and he looked like a slightly shorter version of the old Red Sox great, Carlton Fisk. Pudge.

On the next pitch, Griffin wound up and delivered a windmill-style fastball toward home plate. He was real quick, what they call sneaky fast.

But so was Sampson.

He dropped his bat and sent a near-perfect drag bunt down the third-base line. They were so surprised, he could have walked to first base and made it easily. He was on, the bases full.

“Up to you, sugar,” Sampson called from first base. He was grinning at me, winking, pointing an imaginary six-gun my way.

I started to smile as I strolled to the plate. He'd put me on the spot, just like he'd planned it.

“You like a challenge, too?” Warren Griffin called from the pitcher's mound.

“You a hunter or a hitter?” Starkey taunted from his spot at shortstop.

The catcher, Brownley Harris, settled in behind me. “What's it going to be, hot-shot? How you want it?”

I looked back at him. “Surprise me,”I said.

Griffin set up for a windmill-style pitch so I figured he was coming with heat. What the hell? I thought. Just a friendly little game.

The fast pitch came in a little high, but it was close enough to my power wheel that I couldn't resist taking a whack. The bat cracked and the ball shot straight over the pitcher's head, still picking up speed and altitude. It flew over the center fielder's head, too. Our team of misfits was going crazy, screaming and cheering from the bench. Suddenly, there was some joy in Mudville.

I was on my horse, rounding the bases. Starkey gave me a look as I touched second and raced past him. It was as if he knew something. Did he?

I made it to third and saw Sampson ahead of me; he was waving me home. I didn't even look toward the outfield I was coming no matter what happened out there.

I curled around third base, and then I accelerated. I probably hadn't moved this fast in years.

I was really motoring.

Brownley Harris was waiting for me at home plate but where was the ball? I was moving like a runaway train when I saw the throw from the outfield skipping through the infield on two hops. Hell, it was going to beat me home. Goddamn it.

Harris held his ground as he took the perfect throw from the center fielder. He had me dead to rights.

I kept barreling toward him. Harris was blocking home plate with his beefy body. If I hit him hard it might shake the ball loose. His dark, hooded eyes held mine. He was ready for impact, whatever I could give him. He looked like he'd played some football; still looked tough and in shape. Army Ranger. Killer. His eyes bordered on mean.

I was bearing down on Harris and, as I got close, I lowered my shoulder. Let him see what was coming his way.