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Starkey moved toward little Kym. He wasn’t afraid of the switchblade, almost as if he knew he wasn’t going to die like this. He twisted the knife out of her hand, then held the revolver against the side of her skull.
Tears ran down the girl’s smooth cheeks. Starkey brushed them away. She smiled up at him. “Hay yêu tôi di, anh ban,” she whispered.
Make love to me, soldier man.
Starkey was there in the apartment, but his head was in Vietnam. Kym was shaking, and he loved that — the total control he felt, the evil he was capable of, the electricity it could bring into his system.
He looked at Harris, who had his gun out now too, and his friend knew. He just knew.
They fired their guns simultaneously.
The girls flew back against the wall and then slid down onto the floor. Kym was shaking all over, very close to death. “Why?” she whispered.
Starkey just shrugged at her.
Upstairs there were two more pffthts. The sound of falling bodies, Susie and Hoa. Warren Griffin had been waiting for them. He knew too.
It was just like in the An Lao Valley, Vietnam.
Where the madness had started.
Chapter 67
WHEN WE FINISHED up at Colonel Bennett’s house, Sampson and I checked into the Hotel Thayer right on the grounds of West Point. I continued to think about the three killers and how they kept getting away. There was no blue paint this time, and none of the other victims had been set up to look like suicides. But it still felt the same. Force to bear without conscience. That was what Agent Fescoe had called it.
In the morning, I met Sampson for breakfast in the hotel dining room overlooking the majestic Hudson, which appeared almost steely gray in the distance and was topped by whitecaps. We talked about the grisly Bennett murders and wondered whether they were connected to the others, whether the killers had changed their pattern.
“Or maybe there are more murders that w
e just don’t know about,” Sampson said. “Who knows how many have been killed at this point, or how far back the murders go?”
Sampson poured himself another steaming cup of coffee. “It has to come down to the three killers. They were here, Alex. It has to be the same three men.”
I couldn’t disagree with him. “I have to make a few calls, then we’re out of here. I want to make sure the local police are checking into whether anybody actually saw three men who don’t belong on the grounds or in Highland Falls.”
I went upstairs to my room and called Director Burns. He wasn’t in, so I left a message. I wanted to call Jamilla, but it was too early in California, so I logged on to my computer and left her a long e-mail.
Then I saw that I had a message. Now what?
It turned out to be from Jannie and Damon. They were busting 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
Chapter 68
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 parade drilling on the Plain. 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.
