Four Blind Mice

for all three of them.
    Harris was the only one up this early on the AT, at least on this particular stretch. He passed a four-person dome tent. Probably some white-bread family. Most likely “section hikers,” as opposed to “through hikers,” who would take up to six months to do the entire trail, finally ending at a place called Mount Katahdin, Maine. Around the dome tent he noticed a camp stove and fuel bottles, ratty shorts and T-shirts laid out to air.
Not a target,
he decided and moved on.
    Next he came upon a couple in sleeping bags just off the trail. They were young, probably “go see the world” types. They slept on self-inflatable air mattresses. All the comforts of home.
    Harris got up close, no more than ten yards from them, before he finally decided to move on. He could tell the girl was a looker, though. Blond, cute face, maybe twenty. Just watching her sleep with her boyfriend got his jets going pretty good. They were a definite maybe.
    He saw a second couple already up and exercising near their tent about a quarter mile farther on. They had high-tech internal frame packs and $200 hiking boots, and looked like snooty city slicks. He liked them as potential targets, mainly because he
disliked
the couple so much immediately.
    Not far past the couple’s camp, he came upon a single male hiker. This guy was definitely in for the long haul. He had a high-tech pack that looked light and tight. He would probably be carrying dried food, trail mix, protein drink powder — fresh food was too heavy and difficult to haul around on your back all day. His wardrobe would be no frills too — nylon shorts, tank tops, maybe long underwear for the colder nights.
    Harris stopped and watched the single hiker’s camp for a couple of minutes. He let his heartbeat slow and controlled his breathing. Finally, he slipped right into the man’s camp. He wasn’t afraid, and he never doubted himself. He took what he needed. The hiker never stirred from his sleep.
    Harris checked his sports watch and saw that it was only 5:50. So far, so good.
    He walked back to the trail, then began to jog again. He felt invigorated, excited about the hunt and kill out here on the nature trail. Man, he wanted to kill somebody, bad. Man or woman, old or young, it didn’t much matter.
    The next camp he came upon was close — another couple, still asleep in a two-person dome tent. Harris couldn’t help thinking how easy it would be to take them out right now. Ducks on a pond. Everybody was so vulnerable and trusting out here. What a bunch of loonies. Didn’t they ever read the funny papers? There were killers on the loose in America, lots of them.
    A little less than a mile beyond, he reached the camp of another family. Someone was already up.
    He hid in the pine trees and watched. A fire had been started and was throwing up sparks. A woman of about forty was futzing around with a rucksack. She wore a red Speedo swimsuit and seemed in good physical shape — well-muscled arms and legs, a nice ass too. She called out, “Wakee, wakee!”
    Moments later, two shapely teenage girls emerged from the larger tent. They had on one-piece bathing suits and were slapping their lithe bodies with their hands, trying to get warm in a hurry, trying to “wakee, wakee.”
    “Mama bear and two baby bears,” Brownley Harris muttered. “Interesting concept.” Maybe too close to the murders at Bragg, though.
    He watched as the three women huddled for a moment around the fire, then took off in a run. Soon he could hear a chorus of war whoops and screams, then laughter and loud splashes as they hit the small brook that ran directly behind their camp.
    Brownley Harris moved quickly and silently through the trees until he reached a choice spot where he could watch the mother and pretty daughters frolic in the cold stream. They sure reminded him of the women in the massacre in Fayetteville. Still, they could be the secondary target.
    He returned to his camp at a little past six-thirty. Griffin had prepared breakfast: eggs, bacon, plenty of coffee. Starkey was sitting in a familiar lotus position, thinking and plotting. He opened his eyes before Harris announced himself. “How’d you do?” he asked.
    Brownley Harris smiled. “We’re right on schedule, Colonel. We’re good. I’ll describe the targets while we eat. Coffee smells good. Hell of a lot better than napalm in the morning.”

Chapter 44
    STARKEY TOOK FULL command that morning. Unlike the