Four Blind Mice

of apple cider, and added shallots, jalapeño peppers, ketchup, brown sugar, and tomato paste. I liked the mop
and
the rub just fine — as long as the meat was cooked until it just about fell off the bone.
    “Everybody is having such a good, all-American time,” Sampson said as we sat and watched the world go by. “Remind me to tell you about Billie in Jersey.”
    “Billie?” I asked. “Who’s Billie?”
    “Tell you later, partner. We’re working now. On the trail of three stone-cold killers.”
    That we were. We were busy watching the families of Starkey, Harris, and Griffin from a safe distance. I noticed that Thomas Starkey looked our way once or twice. Had he spotted us? If he had, he didn’t seem overly concerned or worried.
    “You think they’re the ones who killed Colonel Handler? Think they know who we are, sugar?” Sampson asked.
    “If they don’t, they probably will soon.”
    Sampson didn’t seem to mind. “That’s your big plan? Get us killed down here in Rocky Mount?”
    “They won’t do anything with their families around,” I said.
    “You sure?”
    “No,” I said. “I’m not sure. But that’s what my gut tells me.”
    “They’re killers, Alex.”
    “Professional killers. Don’t worry, they’ll pick their spot.”
    “Oh, I’m not worried,” Sampson said. “I’m just anxious to get it on with these boys.”
    As the afternoon progressed, we talked casually to some more H&K employees and their families. The people were easy to talk to, and we were real friendly. Most of them said they liked where they worked a lot. Sampson and I passed ourselves off as new to the company, and nobody questioned it. In fact, most everyone was cordial and welcoming, almost to a fault. Hard not to like the folks in Rocky Mount, most of them anyway.
    Lunch was followed by team sports and other competitive games: swimming races, volleyball, soccer, softball, and organized contests for the kids.
    Starkey, Harris, and Griffin eventually headed off toward one of the adjoining softball fields.
    Sampson and I followed at a distance.
    Let the games begin.

Chapter 82
    “NEED A COUPLE more to fill out this team. You big fellows play any ball?” an old man wearing a dusty Atlanta Braves shirt and ball cap asked us. “You’re welcome to join in. It’s a friendly little game.”
    I glanced over at Sampson. He smiled and said, “Sure, we’ll play some ball.”
    The two of us were put on the same team, which seemed the more ragtag and needier of the two. Starkey, Harris, and Griffin were on the other team. Our worthy opponents for the friendly game.
    “Looks like we’re the underdogs,” Sampson said.
    “We’re not down here to win a softball game,” I said.
    He grinned. “Yeah, and we’re not here to lose one either.”
    The game was good-natured on the surface, but everything was heavily stacked against our team. Starkey and Harris were good athletes, and everybody on their team seemed decent and knew how to play. Our group was uneven, and they exploited our weaknesses. We were behind by two runs after the first inning, and four runs after the third.
    As we jogged off the field to take our turn at bat, Sampson patted my butt. “Definitely not down here to lose,” he said.
    Sampson was due up third that inning. I would bat fourth if somebody got on base. A skinny, older Mexican man led off with a bunt single and got razzed by our macho opponents for not having any
cojones
. The next batter, a big-bellied accountant, blooped a single just over the second baseman’s head. More semi-good-natured razzing came from our opponents.
    “Rather be lucky than good,” our guy yelled back from first base as he slapped his big beer belly.
    Now Sampson stepped to the plate. He never took a practice swing, just touched the rubber base with the tip of the longest and heaviest bat he could find on the rack.
    “Big power hitter. Better move back those fences!” Starkey called from shortstop. He looked like a ballplayer, moved easily and fluidly at bat and in the field, the peak of his cap bent just so.
    Sampson just stood there with the bat on his shoulder. Nobody knew what to expect from the big man except me, and even I couldn’t always tell with him. The two of us had played a lot of ball together when we were kids. Sampson had been an all-city receiver as a junior in high school, but he didn’t even go out for the football team his senior year. He was an even better baseball player, but he never