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real work. Now she too took a sip of his wine. Robert Bennett kissed the back
of her neck. They seemed loving for a couple married well over twenty years.
That's too bad, Starkey thought, but kept it to himself.
"Let's do it,"he said. "The last piece in the puzzle."
And it truly was a puzzle even to the killers.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Robert and Barbara Bennett were just sitting down to dinner when the three
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heavily armed men burst through the back door into the kitchen. Colonel
Bennett saw their guns, camouflage dress, and also noted that none of the men
wore masks. He saw all of the faces and knew this couldn't be worse.
"Who are you? Robert, who are they?" Barbara stuttered out a few words.
"What's the meaning of this?"
Unfortunately, Colonel Bennett was afraid that he knew exactly who they were,
and maybe even who had sent them. He wasn't sure, but he thought he recognized
one of them from a long time ago. He even remembered a name Starkey. Yes,
Thomas Starkey. Good God, why now? After all these years?
One of the intruders pulled shut the colorful curtains on the two kitchen
windows. He used a free arm to sweep the dinner plates, chicken, salad and
wine glasses onto the kitchen floor. Bennett understood this was for dramatic
effect.
Another man held an automatic weapon pressed to Barbara Bennett's forehead.
The kitchen was totally silent.
Colonel Bennett looked at his wife and his heart nearly broke. Her blue eyes
were stretched wide and she was trembling. "It's going to be all right,"
Bennett said in the calmest voice he could manage.
"Oh, is it, Colonel?" Starkey spoke for the first time. He signaled the third
intruder, and the man grabbed the front of Barbara's white peasant blouse and
tore it off. Barbara gasped and tried to cover herself. The bastard then
yanked off her bra. It was for effect, again, but then the man stared at
Barbara's breasts.
"Leave her alone! Don't hurt her! "Bennett yelled, and it sounded like a
command, as if he were in a position to give them.
The one he knew to be Starkey hit him with the butt of his handgun. Bennett
went down and thought that his jaw was broken. He almost blacked out, but
managed to stay conscious. His cheek was pressed into the cold tile of the
kitchen floor. He needed a plan even a desperate one would do.
Starkey stood directly over him. And now it got insane. He spoke in
Vietnamese.
Colonel Bennett understood some of the words. He'd done enough interrogations
during the war, when he'd run several Kit Carson scouts in Vietnam and Laos.
Then Starkey spoke in English. "Be afraid, Colonel. You'll suffer tonight. So
will your wife. You have sins to pay for. You know what they are. Tonight your
wife will know about your past, too."
Colonel Bennett pretended to pass out. When one of the gunmen leaned over him,
he pushed off the floor and grabbed at his handgun. Getting the gun was the
only thought in Bennett's brain. He had it!
But then he was struck viciously on the head. Then on the shoulders and back.
He was being screamed at in Vietnamese as the severe beating continued. He saw
one of the bastards punch his wife right in the face. For no reason at all.
"Stop it. Don't hurt her for Christ sakes."
"May se nkin co ay chet," Starkey yelled in Vietnamese.
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Now you get to watch her die.
"Trong luc tao hoi may."
While I interrogate you, pig.
"May thay cank nay co quen khong, Robert?"
Does that sound familiar, Robert?
Starkey then forced his pistol inside Colonel Bennett's mouth. "Remember this,
Colonel? Remember what happens next?"
Chapter Sixty-Three
Sampson and I got to West Point at a little past five o'clock on Friday
evening. All hell had broken loose there.
I'd received an urgent heads-up from Ron Burns at the FBI. There'd been a
murder-suicide at the Point that had immediately aroused suspicions when the
news got to Quantico. A highly decorated colonel had supposedly killed his
wife, then himself.
Sampson and I flew into Stewart Field in Newburgh, then I drove eighteen miles
by car to West Point. We had to park our rented car and walk the last several
blocks to the officers' housing
The streets were roped off and closed to through traffic. The press was on
hand, but they were being kept away by military police. Even the cadets
couldn't help looking curious and concerned.
"You're getting chummy with Burns and the FBI," Sampson said as we walked to
the murder scene on Bartlett Loop. "He's giving a lot of help."
"He has it in his head that I might want to work with them," I told Sampson.
"And? Might you?"
I smiled at Sampson, didn't confirm or deny.
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