Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

by Patterson, James

  'I told Geoff he has to leave Washington. How do you think he'll take it?' Jones asked. 'I swear his office smelled as if a dead body had been festering there for a couple of days.'

  'Actually his disorder can involve an accompanying odor, but it's usually steely - like metal, very pungent, sticks to your nostrils. He probably isn't bathing. But his instincts for playing the game, for winning and surviving, are amazing,' I said. 'He won't stop.'

  'What's happening with the other players?' Sampson inquired. 'The so-called Horsemen?'

  'They claim that the game is over, and that it was only a fantasy game for them. Oliver Highsmith stays in touch, to keep tabs on us, I'm sure. He's actually a scary bastard in his own right. Says he's saddened by the murder of Detective Hampton. He's still not a hundred percent sure that Shafer is the killer. Urges me to keep my mind open on that one.'

  'Is your mind open on it?' I asked, looking around the room at the others.

  Jones didn't hesitate. 'I have no doubt that Geoffrey Shafer is a multiple murderer. We've seen enough, and heard enough from you. He is quite possibly a homicidal maniac beyond anything we've ever seen. And I also have no doubt that eventually he's going down.'

  I nodded my head. 'I agree,' I said, 'about everything you just said. But especially the homicidal maniac part.'

  ?CHAPTER One Hundred and Four

  Shafer was talking to himself again that night. He couldn't help it, and the more he tried to stop, the worse it became; the more he fretted, the more he talked to himself.

  They can all bugger off. Jones, Cross, Lucy and the kids, Boo Cassady, the other spineless players. Screw them all. There was a reason behind The Four Horsemen, he knew. It wasn't just a game. There was more to it than simple horseplay.

  The house at Kalorama was empty, much too quiet at night. It was huge and ridiculous, as only an American house can be. The 'original' architectural detail, the double living room, six fireplaces, long-ago-dead flowers, unread books in gold and brown leather binding, Lucy's Marmite. It was driving him up the twelve-foot-high walls.

  He spent the next hour or so trying to convince himself that he wasn't crazy; specifically that he wasn't an addict. Recently, he'd added another doctor in Maryland to his sources for the drugs. Unfortunately, the illegal prescriptions cost him a fortune. He couldn't keep it up forever. The Lithium and Haldol were to control his mood swings - which were very real. Thorazine was for acute anxiety, which was fucking bloody real as well. Narcan had also been prescribed for his mood swings. The multiple injections of Loradol were for something else, some pain from he couldn't remember when. He knew there were good reasons for the Xanax, Com-pazine, Benadryl.

  Lucy had already fled home to London, and she'd taken the traitorous children with her. They'd left exactly one week after the trial ended. Her father was the real cause. He'd come to Washington, spoken to Lucy for less than an hour, and she'd packed up and left, like the Goody Two-Shoes she'd always been. Before she departed, Lucy had the nerve to tell Shafer she'd stood by him for the sake of the children and her father, but now her duty was over. She didn't believe he was a murderer, as her father did; but he was an adulterer, and that she couldn't take for one moment longer.

  God, how he despised his little wifey. Before Lucy left, he made it clear to her that the real reason she'd performed her 'duty' was so he wouldn't reveal her unsavory drug habits to the press, which he would have, and might do anyway.

  At eleven o'clock he had to go out for a drive, his nightly constitutional. He was feeling unbearably jittery and claustrophobic. He wondered if he could control himself for another night, another minute. His skin was crawling, and he had dozens of irritating little tics. He couldn't stop tapping his goddamn foot!

  The dice were burning a bloody hole in his trouser pocket. His mind was racing in a dozen haphazard directions, all of them very bad. He wanted to, needed to, kill somebody. It had been this way with him for a long time, and that had been his dirty little secret. The other Horsemen knew the story; they even knew how it had begun. Shafer had been a decent soldier, but ultimately too ambitious to remain in the army. He had transferred into MI6 with the help of Lucy's father. He thought there was more room for advancement in MI6.

  His first posting had been Bangkok, which was where he met James Whitehead, George Bayer, and eventually Oliver Highsmith. Whitehead and Bayer spent several weeks working on him, recruiting Shafer for a specialized job: he would be an assassin, their own personal hit man for the worst sort of wet work. Over the next two years he did three sanctions in Asia, and found that he truly loved the feeling of power that killing gave him. Oliver Highsmith, who ran both Bayer and Whitehead from London, once told him to depersonalize the act, to think of it as a game, and that was what he did. He had never stopped being an assassin.

  Shafer turned on the CD in the Jag. Loud, to drown out the multiple voices raging in his head. The old-age-home rockers Jimmy Page and Robert Plant began a duet inside the cockpit of his car.

  He backed out of the drive and headed down Tracy Place. He gunned the car and had it up close to sixty in the block between his house and Twenty-Fourth Street. Time for another suicidal drive? He wondered.

  Red lights flashed on the side of Twenty-Fourth Street. Shafer cursed as a DC police patrol car eased down the street toward him. God damn it!

  He pulled the Jag over to the curb and waited. His brain was screaming. 'Assholes. Bloody impertinent assholes! And you're an asshole, too!' he told himself in a loud whisper. 'Show some self-control, Geoff. Get yourself under control. Shape up. Right now!'

  The Metro patrol car pulled up behind him, almost door to door. He could see two cops lurking inside.

  One of them got out slowly and walked over to the Jag's driver-side window. The cop swaggered like a hot-shit all-American cinema hero. Shafer wanted to blow him away. Knew he could do it. He had a hot semiautomatic under the seat. He touched the grip, and God, it felt good.

  'License and registration, sir,' the cop said, looking unbearably smug. A distorted voice inside Shafer's head screeched, Shoot him now. It will blow everybody's mind if you kill another policeman.

  He handed over the requested identification, though, and managed a wanker's sheepish grin. 'We're out of Pampers at home. Trip to the 7-Eleven was in order. I know I was going too fast, and I'm sorry, Officer. Blame it on baby brain. You have any kids?'

  The patrolman didn't say a word; not an ounce of civility in the bastard. He wrote out a speeding ticket. Took his sweet time about it.

  'There you go, Mr. Shafer.' The patrol officer handed him the speeding ticket. 'Oh, and by the way, we're watching you, shithead. We're all over you, man. You didn't get away with murdering Patsy Hampton. You just think you did.'

  A set of car lights blinked on and off, on and off, on the side street where the patrol car had been sitting a few moments earlier.

  Shafer stared, squinted back into the darkness. He recognized the car, a black Porsche.

  Cross was there, watching. Alex Cross wouldn't go away.

  ?CHAPTER One Hundred and Five

  Andrew Jones sat in the quiet, semi-darkened front seat of the Porsche with me. We'd been working closely together for almost two weeks. Jones and the Security Service were intent on stopping Shafer before he committed another murder. They were also tracking War, Famine, and Conqueror.

  We watched silently as Geoffrey Shafer slowly turned the Jaguar around and drove back toward his house.

  'He saw us. He knows my car,' I said. 'Good.'

  I couldn't see his face in the darkness, but I could almost feel the heat rising from the top of his head. I knew he was crazed. The phrase 'homicidal maniac' kept drifting through my mind. Jones and I were looking at one, and he was still running free. He'd already gotten away with murder, several of them.

  'Alex, aren't you concerned about possibly putting him into a rage state?' Jones asked, as the Jaguar eased to a stop in front of the Georgian-style house. There were no lights on in the
driveway area, so we couldn't see Geoffrey Shafer for the next few seconds. We couldn't tell if he'd gone inside.

  'He's already in a rage state. He's lost his job, his wife, his children, the game he lives for. Worst of all, his freedom to come and go has been curtailed. Shafer doesn't like limitations put on him, hates to be boxed in. He can't stand to lose.'

  'So you think he'll do something rash.'

  'Not rash, he's too clever. But he'll make a move. It's how the game is played.'

  'And then we'll mess with his head yet again?'

  'Yes, we will. Absolutely.'

  Late that night, as I was driving home, I decided to stop at St Anthony's. The church is unusual in this day and age; it's open at night. Monsignor John Kelliher believes that's the way it should be, and he's willing to live with the vandalism and petty theft. Mostly, though, the people in the neighborhood watch over St Anthony's.

  A couple of worshipers were inside the candlelit church around midnight, when I arrived. There usually are a few 'parishioners' inside. Homeless people aren't allowed to sleep there, but they wander in and out all through the night.

  I sat watching the familiar red-and-gold votive lamps flicker and blink. I sucked in the thick smell of incense from Benediction. I stared up at the large gold-plated crucifix and the beautiful stained-glass windows that I've loved since I was a boy.

  I lit a candle for Christine, and I hoped that somehow, some way, she might still be alive. It didn't seem likely. My memory of her was fading a little bit, and I hated that. A column of pain went from my stomach to my chest, making it hard for me to breathe. It had been this way since the night she disappeared, almost a year ago.

  And then, for the first time, I admitted to myself that she was gone. I would never see her again. The thought caught like a shard of glass in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes. 'I love you.' I whispered to no one. 'I love you so much and I miss you terribly.'

  I said a few more prayers, then I finally rose from the long wooden pew and silently made my way toward the doors of the vestibule. I didn't see the woman crouching in a side row. She startled me with a sudden movement.

  I recognized her from the soup kitchen. Her name was Magnolia. That was all I knew about her, just an odd first name, maybe a made-up one. She called out to me in a loud voice. 'Hey, Peanut Butter Man, now you know what it's like.'

  ?CHAPTER One Hundred and Six

  Jones and Sandy Greenberg, from Interpol, had helped get the other three Horsemen under surveillance. The net being cast was large, as the catch could be, if we succeeded.

  The huge potential scandal in England was being carefully watched and monitored by the Security Service. If four English agents were murderers involved in a bizarre game, the fallout would be widespread and devastating for the intelligence community.

  Shafer dutifully went to the embassy to work on Wednesday and Thursday. He arrived just before nine and left promptly at five. Once inside, he stayed out of sight in his small office, not even venturing out for lunch. He spent hours on America Online, which we monitored.

  Both days, he wore the same gray slacks and a double-breasted blue blazer. His clothes were uncharacteristically wrinkled and unkempt. His thick blond hair was combed back, looked dirty and greasy, and it resisted the high winds flowing through Washington. He looked pale, seemed nervous and fidgety.

  Was he going to crash?

  After dinner on Friday night, Nana and I sat out in back of the house on Fifth Street. We were talking, and spending more time together than we had in years. I knew she was concerned about me, and I let her help as much as she wanted. For both our sakes.

  Jannie and Damon were washing the dishes inside and they managed not to squabble too much. Damon washed while Jannie dried. Damon's tape deck played the beautiful score from the movie Beloved.

  'Most families have a washer and dryer these days,' Nana said, after she'd taken a sip of her tea. 'Slavery has ended in America, Alex. Did you happen to hear about that?'

  'We have a dishwasher and dryer, too. Sounds like they're in good working order. Low maintenance, low cost. Hard to beat.'

  Nana clucked. 'See how long it lasts.'

  'If you want a dishwasher we can buy it, or are you just practicing the fine art of being argumentative before you launch into something more deserving of your talents? As I remember, you are a fan of Demosthenes and Cicero.'

  She nudged me with her elbow. 'Wiseapple,' she said. 'Think you're so smart.'

  I shook my head. 'Not really, Nana. That's never been one of my big problems.'

  'No, I suppose not. You're right, you don't have a big head about yourself.' Nana stared into my eyes. I could almost feel her peering into my soul. She has an ability to look very deeply into things that really matter. 'You ever going to stop blaming yourself?' she finally asked. 'You look just terrible.'

  'Thank you. Are you ever going to stop nagging me?' I asked, and finally smiled at her. Nana could always bring me out of the doldrums, in her own special way.

  She nodded her small head. 'Of course I will. I'll stop one day. Nobody lives forever, grannyson.'

  I laughed. 'You probably will, though. Live longer than me or the kids.'

  Nana showed lots of teeth - her own, too. 'I do feel pretty good, considering everything,' she said. 'You're still chasing him, aren't you? That's what you're doing nights. You and John Sampson, that Englishman, Andrew Jones.'

  I sighed. 'Yeah, I am. And we're going to get him. There may be four men involved in a series of murders. Here, in Asia, Jamaica, London.'

  She beckoned to me with a bent, crabbed forefinger. 'Come closer now.'

  I grinned at her. She's such a soft touch really, such a sweetie, but such a hardass, too. 'You want me to sit down on your lap, old woman? You sure about that?'

  'Good Lord, no. Don't sit on me, Alex. Just bend over and show some respect for my age and wisdom. Give me a big hug, while you're at it.'

  I did as I was told, and I noticed there wasn't any fuss or clatter coming from the kitchen anymore.

  I glanced at the screen door, and saw my two little busybodies were watching, their faces pressed against the mesh wire. I waved them away from the door, and their faces disappeared.

  'I want you to be so very, very careful.' Nana whispered as I held her gently. 'But I want you to get him somehow, some way. That man is the worst of all of them. Geoffrey Shafer is the worst, Alex, the most evil.'

  ?CHAPTER One Hundred and Seven

  The game had never really ended - but it had changed tremendously since the trial in Washington.

  It was five thirty in the evening in London and Conqueror was waiting at his computer. He was both anxious and feverishly excited about what was happening: The Four Horsemen was starting up again.

  It was twelve thirty a.m. in Manila in the Philippines. Famine was ready for a message, and a new beginning to the game he loved.

  And War awaited news of The Four Horsemen at his large house on the island of Jamaica. He too was obsessed with how it would end, and whether he would be the winner.

  It was twelve thirty in Washington. Geoffrey Shafer was driving fast to the White Flint Mall, from the embassy. He had a lot to accomplish that afternoon. He was revved and manic.

  He sped up Massachusetts Avenue, past the British Embassy and the vice-president's house. He wondered if he was being followed and assumed it was possible. Alex Cross and the other police were out there, just waiting to get him. He hadn't spotted them yet, which only meant that they were getting serious now.

  He made a quick right, hit a traffic circle, and shot onto Nebraska Avenue headed toward American University. He snaked around back roads near the university, then got on Wisconsin, and sped toward the mall.

  He entered Bloomingdale's, found the department store sparsely crowded, a little depressing actually. Good, he despised the American shopping scene anyway. It reminded him of Lucy and her brood. He walked at a leisurely pace through the men's clothing section. He picked up a
few overpriced Ralph Lauren Polo sport shirts, and then two pairs of dark trousers.

  He draped a black Giorgio Armani suit over his arm and took the bundle into the changing rooms. At a security desk inside he handed the clothes to an attendant on duty, to curtail shoplifters, no doubt.

  'Changed my mind,' he said.

  'That's not a problem, sir.'

  Shafer then jogged down a narrow corridor that led to a rear exit. He sprinted toward the glass doors, then burst into a parking lot in back. He saw signs for Bruno Cipriani and Lord Taylor, and knew he was heading in the right direction.

  A Ford Taurus was parked there near the F pole. Shafer jumped inside, started it up, and drove up the Rockville Pike to Montrose Crossing, a little over a mile away.

  He didn't think anyone was following now. He passed Montrose, and headed north to the Federal Plaza shopping center. Once he was there, he entered Cyber Exchange, which sold new and used software and lots of computers.

  His eyes darted left and right, until he saw exactly what he needed.

  'I'd like to try out the new iMac,' he told the salesperson who approached him.

  'Be my guest. You need any assistance, holler,' the salesperson said. 'It's easy.'

  'Yes, I think I'm fine. I'll call if I get stuck. I'm pretty sure I'm going to buy the iMac, though.'

  'Excellent choice.'

  'Yes. Excellent, excellent.'

  The lazy clerk left him alone and Shafer immediately booted on. The display model was connected online. He felt a rush of manic excitement, but also a tinge of sadness as he typed in his message to the other players. He'd thought this through and knew what had to be said, what had to be done.

  GREETINGS AND SALUTATIONS. THIS GLORIOUS AND UNPRECEDENTED ADVENTURE OF EIGHT YEARS, THE FOUR HORSEMEN, IS NEARLY AT AN END NOW. YOU HAVE STATED YOUR CASE VERY LOGICALLY, AND I ACCEPT THE REGRETTABLE CONCLUSION YOU'VE REACHED. THE GAME HAS BECOME TOO DANGEROUS. SO I PROPOSE THAT WE CREATE AN UNFORGETTABLE ENDING. I BELIEVE THAT A FACE-TO-FACE MEETING IS A FITTING END. IT'S THE ONLY CONCLUSION THAT I CAN ACCEPT. THIS WAS INEVITABLE, I SUPPOSE, AND WE HAVE DISCUSSED IT MANY TIMES BEFORE. YOU KNOW WHERE THE GAME ENDS. I PROPOSE THAT WE START PLAY ON THURSDAY. TRUST ME, I WILL BE THERE FOR THE GRAND FINALE. IF NECESSARY, I CAN BEGIN THE GAME WITHOUT YOU. DON'T MAKE ME DO THAT... DEATH.