And one name kept coming up whenever I talked about the An Lao Valley.

In the records.

Everywhere I looked.

One name that was a link to so much that had happened there, and here.

The fourth of the blind mice?

I had to find that out now.

Early on Thursday morning I left for West Point. It would be about a five-hour drive. I was in no particular hurry. The person I wanted to see there wasn't going anywhere. He didn't think he had any reason to run and hide.

I loaded up the CD player with the blues mostly, but also the new Bob Dylan which I wanted to hear at least once. I brought along a thermos of coffee as well as sandwiches for the road. I told Nana that I would try to be home tonight, to which she curtly replied, “Try harder. Try more often.”

The drive gave me time to think. I needed to be sure that I was doing the right thing by going to West Point again. I asked myself a lot of tough but necessary questions. When I was satisfied with the answers, I gave some more thought to taking a job with the FBI. Director Ron Burns had done a good job showing me the kind of resources I'd have at Quantico. The message was clear, and it was also clever: I would be better at what I did working with the FBI.

Hell, I didn't know what I wanted to do, though.

I knew that I could make it in private practice as a psychologist, if that was what I really wanted. Maybe I could do a better job with the kids if I had a regular job instead of the Job. Use those marbles wisely, savor those precious Saturdays. Make a go of it with Jamilla, who was constantly in my thoughts, and should be.

Eventually, I found myself on Route 9W, following road signs for Highland Falls and West Point.

As I got close to the Point, I checked my Clock and put a clip in. I wasn't sure if I'd need a gun. Then again, I hadn't thought I'd need one the night Owen Handler was murdered near here.

I entered West Point through the Thayer gates at the north end of Highland Falls.

Cadets were all over the Plains, practicing for parade, still looking beyond reproach. Smoke curled lazily from a couple of chimneys on top of Washington Hall. I liked West Point a lot. I also admired most of the men and women I'd met in the Army. But not all of them, and everybody knows what a few bad apples can do.

I pulled up in front of a redbrick building. I had come here for answers.

One name was left on my shopping list. A big name. A man beyond reproach.

General Mark Hutchinson.

The commandant of West Point.

He had avoided me the night Owen Handler had been murdered, but that wasn't going to happen again.