“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 and 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: swim 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.
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter Eighty-Two
I eed a couple more to fill out this team. You big fellows play any ball?“ asked an old man wearing a dusty Atlanta Braves shirt and ball cap. ”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 scheduled to bat third that inning. I would be up 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, bent the peak of his cap just so.
Sampson just stood there with the bat on his shoulder. Nobody except me knew what to expect from the big man, 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 go out for the football team in his senior year. He was an even better baseball player, but he never played organized ball after Little League.
I stood on deck, trying to figure how he would play it.
Actually, there weren't any fences at the field, so he couldn't hit one out of the park if he wanted to. So what would he do?
The first pitch floated up to the plate, fat and juicy, but Sampson never took his bat off his shoulder. It was hard to imagine a more tempting pitch would come his way.
Warren Griffin was doing the pitching for their team. He was a decent-enough athlete, fielded his position well.
“Didn't like that one? ”he called to Sampson. “What's the matter with it?”
“No challenge.”
Griffin smiled. He signaled for Harris to come out to the mound. Brownley Harris was doing the catching, and he looked like a slightly shorter version of the old Red Sox great, Carlton Fisk. Pudge.
On the next pitch, Griffin wound up and delivered a windmill-style fastball toward home plate. He was real quick, what they call sneaky fast.
But so was Sampson.
