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.

Then, at the last possible instant, I went wide and low. I did a pretty hook-slide around the catcher. With my left hand I touched home plate between his thick legs and muddy cleats.

“Safe!”the umpire yelled and spread his arms wide.

As I was getting up, I caught sight of Harris out of the corner of my eye. He was moving toward me fast. This could be trouble. No more friendly little game.

His right arm suddenly shot forward and he slapped me 'five'.

“Nice play,” he said. “You got us that time, partner. Be ready for you next time. Hell, we're all on the same team anyway, right? H and K all the way.”

Jesus, he actually seemed like a nice guy.

For a killer.

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Eighty-Three

You run pretty good for a washed-up cop in his early forties," Sampson said as we walked through a dusty lot filled mostly with minivans and trucks. We'd seen enough at the company picnic. After our show of respectability we'd lost the softball game by seven runs, and it could have been even worse.

“At least I don't have to bunt to get on base,” I said.

“Last thing they expected, sugar. Worked, didn't it? Pissed'm off, too.”

“We lost the game.”

“But not the war,” said Sampson.

“This is true. Not the war. Not yet anyway.”

I drove from the picnic site out to the Falling River Walk development. I parked right around the corner from Thomas Starkey's house. It was redbrick with white trim on the windows, black shutters. The lot looked to be about an acre and was landscaped with rhododendron, hemlock and mountain laurel. It was well kept. We walked past a mass of yellow chrysanthemums to the side door.