“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 1-75 which we took to US-41, and then old 41. Then we were on some narrow, meandering country road in Kennesaw Mountain Park. We were following three killers in northern Georgia, about eight hours from Rocky Mount, close to five hundred miles.

I passed the turn-off the first time and had to go back. A turkey vulture was sitting there watching us. The hills around here were heavily forested and the foliage was thick and ornery-looking.

“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 turn-in that would keep the car hidden. We opened the trunk and took out guns, ammo and night-vision goggles for each of us. Then we walked about half a mile through the thick woods before we could see a small cabin. Smoke was curling out of a field stone chimney.

A very cozy spot. For what, though? A meeting of some kind? Who was here?

The cabin was near a small lake that was fed by the headwaters of the Jacks River, at least that was how it was marked. A stand of hemlocks, maples and beech trees enveloped the clearing in deep green. Some of the trees were easily six feet wide.

The blue Suburban was parked in front of the cabin -but so was a silver Mercedes station wagon. It had North Carolina plates.

“They've got company. Who the hell is this?” Sampson asked. “Maybe we caught a break.”

We saw the front door open and Colonel Thomas

Starkey stepped outside. He had on a green tee-shirt and baggy fatigue pants.

Right behind him was Marc Sherman, Cumberland County's district attorney. Christ.

It was the lawyer who had prosecuted and convicted Ellis Cooper for the murders of three women that he didn't commit.

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Ninety-Two

What the hell is this? You know who he is?" Sampson asked. His temperature was rising fast.

“I remember him. Like you said, maybe we caught a little break. But why would Marc Sherman be here?”

Sampson and I were crouched behind a couple of ancient beech trees about a hundred yards from the cabin. The forest was eerily dark and almost seemed primitive. The roots of the huge trees all around us were carpeted by small ferns. On the walk there our legs got a good lashing from the catbrier and blackberry stickers.

“We're in deep shit somewhere around Kennesaw, Georgia. We traveled a lot of hours to get here. Now what? ”John asked.

“Now we wait. We listen,”I said.