Four Blind Mice

at eight sharp.”
    He looked at Sampson and me, and then Professor Handler turned and walked away.
    In double time.

Chapter 69
    I HAD THE feeling that we were close to something important, at West Point, and maybe with Colonel Handler. It was something indefinable that I’d seen in his eyes when the subject had turned to Vietnam.
Maybe the murders started there.
    The colonel had made reservations at what he called an “extraordinarily misplaced” northern Italian restaurant in Newburgh, Il Cenacolo. We were on our way there, riding the Storm King Highway, a winding roller coaster with incredible views of the Hudson, which stretched out hundreds of feet below.
    “Why didn’t you want to talk to us closer to home?” I finally asked the colonel.
    “Two of my best friends were just murdered there,” Handler said. He lit up a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. It was pitch black outside, and the mountainous road had no lights to guide our way.
    “You believe the Bennetts were murdered?” I asked.
    “I
know
they were.”
    “Do you know why?”
    “I might. You’ve heard of the blue wall of silence with the police. In the army, it’s the same, only the wall is gray. It’s higher, thicker, and has been here for a hell of a long time.”
    I had to ask another question. I couldn’t hold back. “Are you Foot Soldier, Colonel? If you are, we need your help.”
    Handler didn’t seem to understand. “What the hell is Foot Soldier? What are you talking about?”
    I told him that a mysterious someone had been periodically slipping me information, including his name. “Maybe you thought it was time we met face-to-face,” I said.
    “No, I
may
be a source for you now. But it’s only because of Bob and Barbara Bennett. I’m not Foot Soldier. I never contacted you. You came to see me. Remember?”
    As convincing as he sounded, I didn’t know whether to believe him, but I had to pursue the identity of Foot Soldier. I asked Handler for names, others who might be helpful in the investigation. He gave me a few — some Americans, even a couple of South Vietnamese who might be willing to help.
    Handler spoke from the darkened backseat of the sedan. “I don’t know who’s been contacting you, but I’m not so sure that I’d trust whoever it was. Right about now, I’m not sure that I’d trust anyone.”
    “Not even you, Colonel?”
    “
Especially
not me,” he said, and laughed. “Hell, I’m a college professor.”
    I glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw a single pair of headlights approaching. I hadn’t noticed much traffic so far, and most of it had been speeding in the opposite direction, heading south.
    Suddenly Sampson raised his voice and turned to Handler. “Why don’t you tell us what’s really going on, Colonel? How many more have to die? What do you know about these murders?”
    That’s when I heard a gunshot and the sound of glass shattering. The car from behind was already on us.
    My eyes darted and I saw a driver, then a gunman leaning out the window of the backseat.
    “Get down!” I yelled at Handler and Sampson. “Cover up!”
    More shots came from the pursuing car. I violently swerved the wheel to the left. We skidded hard across double-yellow lines, headed for the mountain. Handler yelled,
“Watch it, Jesus! Watch it!”
    We hit a straight part of the highway, thank God. I stomped on the accelerator, picking up some speed. But I couldn’t lose the other car.
    He was still in the right-hand lane, but I was in the
wrong
lane, the one meant for oncoming traffic.
    Sampson had gotten to his gun and had returned fire. More shots struck our car.
    The other sedan stayed right with us. I couldn’t shake loose. I was doing over ninety on a twisty road built for fifty or sixty. On my left side was a shoulder and then the mountain wall; on my right, across the other lane, a sheer drop down toward the Hudson River and certain death.
    I was going too fast to see faces in the other car. Who the hell was it?
    Suddenly I stomped on the brakes, and our car skidded badly. Then it fishtailed. We wound up facing the opposite direction, south.
    I took off that way. Back toward West Point.
    I floored it again, got back up to ninety in an awful hurry.
    I passed two cars heading north, both blaring their horn at me. I couldn’t blame them. I was over the double line and racing about forty miles per hour over the speed limit. They must have thought I was drunk or mad, or both.
    When I was