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“I have no idea. Complicates things, though, doesn’t it? These three know something, though. They’re in this conspiracy we’ve been hearing about.”
“The silent gray wall?”
“That’s the one. Seems to work pretty well too.”
I didn’t have to follow too closely, didn’t even have to keep the Suburban in sight. Earlier that morning, about three o’clock, I’d slapped a radio-direction-finding device under the vehicle. Ron Burns was helping me in any way he could. I’d told him about the shooting at my house.
I kept a good distance behind the killers. The Suburban stayed on U.S. 64 past Zebulon, then I-40 to 85 South. We went by Burlington, Greensboro, Charlotte, Gastonia, and then entered South Carolina.
Sampson sat beside me on the front seat, but he’d fallen asleep before we got to South Carolina. He had worked a shift the day before, and he was exhausted. He finally woke up in Georgia, yawned, and stretched his big body as best he could in the cramped space.
“Where are we?”
“Lavonia.”
“Oh, that’s good news. Where’s Lavonia?”
“Near Sandy Cross. We’re in Georgia. Still hot on their trail.”
“You think this is another hit coming up?”
“We’ll see.”
At Doraville we stopped at a diner and had breakfast. The state-of-the-art device attached to the Suburban was still tracking. It seemed unlikely that they’d find it at this point.
The breakfast — cheese omelettes, country ham, and grits — was a little disappointing. The diner looked just about perfect, and it sure smelled good when we walked inside, but the generous portions were bland, except for the country ham, which was too salty for me.
“You going to follow up with Burns? Maybe become an FBI man?” Sampson asked after he’d downed his second coffee. I could tell he was finally waking up.
“I don’t know for sure. Check with me in a week or so. I’m a little burned-out right now. Like this food.”
Sampson nodded. “It’ll do. I’m sorry I got you involved in all this, Alex. I don’t even know if we can bring them down. They’re cocky, but they’re careful when they need to be.”
I agreed. “I think they did the hits solely for money. But that doesn’t explain enough. What happened to start the killing? Who’s behind it? Who’s paying the bills?”
Sampson’s eyes narrowed. “The three of them got a taste for killing in the war. Happens sometimes. I’ve seen it.”
I put my knife and fork down and pushed the plate away. No way could I finish off the omelette and ham. I’d barely touched the grits, which needed something. Maybe cheddar cheese? Onions, sautéed mushrooms?
“I owe you. This is big debt, Alex,” Sampson said.
I shook my head. “You don’t owe me a thing. But I’ll probably collect on it anyway.”
We went back out to the car and followed the signal for another two hours. The trip had taken from morning into the early afternoon.
We were on I-75, which we took to U.S. 41, and then old 41. Then we were on some narrow, meandering country road in Kennesaw Mountain National Park. We were following three killers in northern Georgia, about an eight-hour drive from Rocky Mount, close to five hundred miles.
I passed the turnoff the first time and had to go back. A turkey vulture was sitting there watching us. The woods around here were heavily forested, and the foliage was thick and ornery-looking.
The RDF indicated that the Suburban was no longer moving.
“We ought to park somewhere along the main road. Hide the car as best we can. Then walk on in through the woods,” I said.
“Sounds like a plan. I hate the fucking woods, though.”
I found a little turnoff that would keep the car hidden. We opened the trunk and took out a duffel bag, as well as guns, ammo, and night-vision goggles for each of us. NVGs. Then we walked about half a mile through the thick woods before we could see a small cabin. Smoke was curling out of a fieldstone chimney.
A very cozy spot. For what, though? A meeting of some kind? Who was here?
