The soldier at the desk was clearly frustrated; he wasn't used to civil disobedience, especially not in General
Hutchinson's office. He thought about it, then he finally picked up the plain black phone on his desk and called someone farther up the chain of command. I figured that was a good thing, a necessary next step.
A few minutes passed before a heavy wood door behind his heavy wood desk opened. An officer in uniform appeared and walked straight over to me.
“I'm Colonel Walker, the general's adjudicator. You can leave now, Detective Cross,” he said. “General Hutchinson won't be seeing you today. You have no jurisdiction here.”
I nodded. “But I do have some important information General Hutchinson should listen to. It's about events that took place during his command in the An Lao Valley. This was in sixty-seven through seventy-one, but in particular sixty-nine.”
“I assure you, the general has no interest in meeting with you or hearing any old war stories you have to tell.”
“I have a meeting set up with the Washington Post about this particular information,” I said. “I thought the general should hear the allegations first.”
Colonel Walker nodded his head once, but he didn't seem impressed or worried. “If you have someone in Washington who wants to listen to your story, you should go there with it. Now please leave the building or I'll have you escorted out.”
“No need to waste the manpower,” I said, and got up from the cushy armchair. “I'm good at escorting myself.”
I went outside on my own steam and walked to my car. I got in and slowly drove up the pretty main drag that cuts through West Point. I was thinking hard about
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what to do next. Eventually I parked on a side street lined with tall maples and oaks that had a majestic view of the Hudson.
I waited there.
The general will see me.
A.V,
Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
It was past dark when a black Ford Bronco turned into the driveway of a large Colonial-style house that was flanked by elm trees and ringed by fort-style fencing.
General Mark Hutchinson stepped out of his vehicle. The interior lights illuminated his face for a few seconds. He didn't look one bit worried. Why should he? He had been to war several times, and he'd always survived.
I waited about ten minutes for him to put the house-lights on, then get settled in. I knew that Hutchinson was divorced and lived alone. Actually, I knew a lot about the general by now.
I walked up the front steps, much as I'd gone up the steps to the general's office earlier that afternoon. The same deliberate pace. Relentless, unstoppable, stubborn as hell. I was going to talk to Hutchinson today, one way or the other. I had business to finish. This was my 'last case', after all.
I banged the front door's iron knocker a couple of times, a tarnished winged goddess that I found to be more imposing than inviting.
Hutchinson finally came to the door in a blue-checked sport shirt and pressed khaki slacks. He looked like a corporate executive caught at home by a pesky door-to-door salesman, and none too happy about the interruption at this time of night.
“I'm going to have you arrested for trespassing,” he said when he saw me. As I'd told the soldier in his reception area, the general knew who I was.
'That being the case I pushed my way in the front door. Hutchinson was a broad-shouldered man, but in his sixties. He didn't try to stop me, didn't touch me at all.
“Haven't you caused enough trouble?” he asked. “I believe you have.”
“Not really. I'm just getting started.”
I walked into a spacious living room and sat down. The room had deep couches, brass floor lamps, curtains in warm blues and reds. His ex-wife's taste, I assumed.
“This won't take too long, General. Let me tell you what I know about An Lao.”
Hutchinson tried to cut me off. “I'll tell you what you don't know, mister. You don't know how the Army works, and you don't seem to know much about life in power circles either. You're out of your depth here. Leave. Now. Take your goddamn stories to the Washington Post.”
“Starkey, Griffin and Brownley Harris were military assassins assigned to you in Vietnam,”I began.
The general frowned and shook his head, but finally seemed resigned to hearing me out. He sat down. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I've never heard of any of those men.”
“You sent ten-person teams into the An Lao Valley specifically to intimidate the Vietnamese. It was a guerrilla war, and your teams were instructed to act like guerrillas. They committed murders, mutilations. They slaughtered non-combatants. They had a calling card they painted their victims red, white or blue. It got out of control, didn't
