?CHAPTER One Hundred and Fourteen
He felt so damn good. So fine. God, how he had missed this. The mainline of adrenaline, the incomparable thrill. He knew it was likely that the Jamaica Inn was being watched by the police, so he parked the Mustang at the nearby Plantation Inn.
He walked at a quickening pace through the crowded Bougainvillea Terrace. Drinks were being served while the wretched song 'Yellowbird' played loudly. He had a nasty fantasy about shooting up the terrace, killing several dickhead tourists, so he got away from the crowded area immediately, for everybody's sake, but mostly his own.
He strolled the beach and it calmed him. It was quiet, restful, with strains of calypso music gently weaving through the night air. The stretch between the two hotels was eye-catching, plenty of spotlights, sand the color of champagne, thatched umbrellas at even intervals. A very nice playing field.
He knew where Oliver Highsmith was staying, the famous White Suite, where Winston Churchill and David Niven and lan Fleming had all slept once upon a time. Highsmith loved his creature comforts almost as much as he loved the game itself. Shafer despised the other Horsemen, partly because he wasn't in their social class. Lucy's father had got him into MI6; the other players had been from the right backgrounds. Shafer's didn't quite match up. But there was another, more powerful reason for his hatred: they had dared to use him, to feel superior and throw it in his face.
He entered through a white picket-fence gate at the property line of the Jamaica Inn. He broke into a soft jog. He wanted to run, to sweat. He was feeling manic again. Playing the game had made him too excited.
Shafer held his head for a moment. He wanted to laugh and scream at the top of his lungs. He leaned against a wooden post leading up from the beach, and tried to catch his breath. He realized he was crashing and it couldn't have happened at a worse time.
'Everything all right, sir?' a hotel waiter stopped and asked him.
'Oh, couldn't be better.' Shafer said, waving the man away. 'I'm in heaven, can't you tell?'
He started walking toward the White Suite again. He realized that he was feeling the way he had the morning he'd nearly crashed his car in Washington. He was in serious trouble again. He could lose the game right now, lose everything. That required a change of strategy, didn't it? He had to be more daring, even more aggressive. He had to act, not think too much. The odds against him were still two to one.
At the far end of the courtyard, he spotted a man and a woman in evening clothes. They were loitering near a white stucco portico strewn with flowers. He decided they were Jones's people. They had staked out the hotel, after all. They were here for him and he was honored.
The male glanced his way, and Shafer abruptly lowered his head. There was nothing they could do to stop or detain him. He'd committed no crime they could prove. He wasn't wanted by the police. No, he was a free man.
So Shafer walked toward them at a leisurely pace, as if he hadn't seen them. He whistled 'Yellowbird'.
He looked up when he was a few yards away from the pair. 'I'm the one you're waiting for. I'm Geoffrey Shafer. Welcome to the game.'
He pulled a Smith Wesson 9mm semiautomatic and fired twice.
The woman cried out and grabbed the left side of her chest. Bright-red blood was already staining her sea-green dress. Her eyes showed confusion, shock and then rolled back into her forehead.
The male agent had a dark hole where his left eye had been. Shafer knew the man was dead before his head struck the courtyard floor with a loud, satisfying smack.
He hadn't lost anything over the years. Shafer hurried toward the White Suite and Conqueror. The gunshots certainly would have been heard. They wouldn't expect him to run straight into the trap they'd set. But here he was.
Two maids were pushing a squeaking cleanup cart out of the White Suite. Had they just turned down Conqueror's bed? Left the fat man a box of chocolate mints to nibble?
'Get the hell out of here!' he yelled, and raised his gun. 'Go on now! Run for your lives.' The Jamaican maids took off as if they had just seen the devil himself. They would tell their children that they had.
Shafer burst in the front door of the suite, and there was Oliver Highsmith freewheeling his chair across the freshly scrubbed floor.
'Oliver, it's you,' Shafer said. 'I do believe I've caught the dreaded Covent Garden killer. You did those killings, didn't you? Fancy that. Game's over, Oliver.'
At the same time, Shafer thought, watch him closely. Be careful with Conqueror.
Oliver Highsmith stopped moving, then slowly, rather nimbly, turned his wheelchair to face Shafer. A face-to-face meeting. This was good. The best. Highsmith had controlled Bayer and Whitehead from London, when they were all agents. The original game, The Four Horsemen, had been his idea, a diversion as he eased into retirement. 'Our silly little fantasy game,' he always called it.
He studied Shafer, cold-eyed and measuring. He was bright; an egghead, but a genius, or so Bayer and Whitehead claimed.
'My dear fellow, we're your friends. The only ones you have now. We understand your problem. Let's talk things through, Geoffrey.'
Shafer laughed at the fat man's pathetic lies, his superior and condescending attitude, his nerve. 'That's not what George Bayer told me. Why, he said you were going to murder me. Hell of a way to treat a friend.'
Highsmith didn't blink, didn't falter. 'We're not alone here, Geoff. They're at the hotel. The Security Service team is in the grounds. They must have followed you.'
'And you, and Bayer, and Whitehead. I know all that, Oliver. I met a couple of crackerjack agents outside. Shot 'em dead. That's why I have to hurry up, can't tarry. The game's on a clock now. Lots of ways to lose.'
'We have to talk, Geoff.'
'Talk, talk, talk.' Shafer shook his head, frowned, then barked out a laugh. 'No, there's nothing for us to talk about. Talk is such an overrated bore. I learned to kill in the field, and I like it much more than talking. No, I actually love it to death.'
'You are mad,' Highsmith exclaimed, his grayish-blue eyes widening with fear. Finally he understood who Shafer was; he wasn't intellectualizing anymore. He felt it in his gut.
'No actually, I'm not insane. I know precisely what I'm doing, always have, always will. I know the difference between good and evil. Anyway, look who's talking, the Rider on the White Horse.'
Shafer moved quickly toward Highsmith. 'This isn't much of a fight - just the way I was taught to perform in Asia. You're going to die, Oliver. Isn't that a stunning thought? Still think this is a bloody fantasy game?'
Suddenly Highsmith jumped to his feet. Shafer wasn't surprised. He knew he couldn't have committed the murders in London from a wheelchair. Highsmith was close to six feet and obese, but surprisingly quick for his size. His arms and hands were massive.
Shafer was simply faster. He struck Highsmith with the butt of his gun and Conqueror went crashing down on one knee. Shafer bludgeoned him a second time, then a third, and Highsmith dropped flat on the floor. He groaned loudly, and slobbered blood and spit. Shafer kicked the small of his back, kicked a knee, kicked Highsmith's face.
Shafer bent and put the gun barrel against Highsmith's broad forehead. He could hear the distant sound of running footsteps slapping down the hall. Too bad, they were coming for him. Hurry, hurry.
'They're too late,' he said to Conqueror. 'No one can save you. Except me, Conqueror. What's the play? Counsel me. Should I save the whale?'
'Please, Geoff, no. You can't just kill me. We can still help each other.'
'I'd love to stretch this out, but I really have to dash. I'm throwing the dice. In my mind. Oh, bad news, Oliver. The game is up. You just lost.'
He inserted the barrel of his gun into Highsmith's pulpy right ear and fired. The gunshot blew Conqueror's gray matter all over the room, and Shafer's only regret was that he couldn't have tortured Oliver Highsmith much, much longer than he had.
Then Shafer was running away, and he realized something that actua
lly surprised him. He had something to live for. This was a wonderful, wonderful game.
He wanted to live.
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Fifteen
Sampson and I sprinted toward the secluded wing of the hotel where Oliver Highsmith had his suite. There had been gunshots, but we couldn't be everywhere at once. We'd heard the pistol reports all the way on the other side of the Jamaica Inn.
I wasn't prepared for the bloody massacre scene we found. Two English agents were down in the courtyard. I'd worked with them both, just as I'd worked side by side with Patsy Hampton.
Jones and another agent, in addition to a team of local detectives, were already crowded into Highsmith's suite. The room was abuzz. Everything had turned to chaos and carnage in a burst of homicidal madness.
'Shafer went through two of my people to get here,' Jones said in an angry voice strained with tension and sadness. He was already smoking a cigarette. 'He came in shooting, took down Laura and Gwynn. Highsmith is dead, too. We haven't found George Bayer.'
I knelt and quickly checked the damage to Oliver Highsmith's skull. It wasn't subtle. He'd been shot at point-blank range and the wound was massive. I knew from Jones that Shafer had resented the senior man's intelligence, and now he'd blown out his brains. 'I told you he liked to kill. He has to do this, Andrew. He can't stop. 'Whitehead!' I said. 'The end of the game.'
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Sixteen
We drove faster than the narrow, twisting road safely allowed, barreling toward James Whitehead's home. It wasn't far.
We passed a road sign that read: MALLARD'S BEACH -SAN ANTONIO.
Sampson and I were quiet, lost in our own thoughts. I kept thinking of Christine, couldn't stop the images from coming. We have her. Was that still true?
I didn't know, and only Shafer, or possibly Whitehead, could give me the answer. I wanted to keep both of them alive if I could. Everything about the island, the exotic smells and sights, reminded me of Christine. I tried, but I couldn't imagine a good conclusion to any of this.
We headed toward the beach and soon we were skimming past private houses and a few very large estates. Some of the estates had long, winding driveways that stretched a hundred yards or more to the main house.
In the distance I could see the glow of passing house lights, and I figured that we had to be close to James Whitehead's. Was he still alive? Or had Shafer already come and gone?
Jones's voice came in spits on the radio. 'This is his place, Alex. Glass-and-stone house up ahead. I don't see anybody.'
We pulled in near the crushed-seashell driveway to the house. It was dark, pitch black and satiny. There were no lights anywhere on the property.
We jumped out of our cars. There were eight of us, including one team of detectives from Kingston. The detectives were Kenyon and Anthony, and both were acting nervous.
I didn't blame them. I felt exactly the same. The Weasel was on a rampage and we already knew that he was suicidal. Geoffrey Shafer was a homicidal-suicidal maniac.
Sampson and I ran through a small garden that led to a pool and cabana area on one side, an expanse of lawn and the sea on the other.
We could see Jones's people beginning to fan out in the grounds. Shafer had come into the hotel with guns blazing. He didn't seem to care whether he survived. But I did. I needed to question him. I had to know what he knew. I needed all the answers.
'What about this prick Whitehead?' Sampson asked as we hurried toward the house.
It was dark near the water, a good place from which Shafer could attack. Dark shadows stretched out from every tree and bush.
'I don't know, John. He was at the hotel briefly. He's a player, so he's after Shafer, too. This is it. Endgame. One of them wins the game now.'
'He's here,' I whispered. 'I know it.'
I could definitely sense Geoffrey Shafer's presence. I was sure about it, and the fact that I knew scared me almost as much as he did.
Shots came from the darkened house.
My heart sank and I had the most disturbing and contradictory thought: Don't let Geoffrey Shafer be dead.
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Seventeen
One more target, one last opponent, and then it was over. Eight glorious years of play, eight years of revenge, eight years of hatred. He couldn't bear to lose the game. He'd shown Bayer and Highsmith a thing or two; now he'd demonstrate to James Whitehead who was truly 'superior'.
Shafer had noisily crashed through thick foliage, then waded waist deep into a foul-smelling swamp. The water was distressingly tepid and the oily green scum on the surface was an inch or two thick.
He tried not to think about the swamp, or the insects and snakes that might infest it. He'd waded into far worse waters during his days and nights in Asia. He kept his eyes set on James Whitehead's expensive beach house. One more to go, just one more Horseman.
He'd been to the villa before, knew it well. Beyond the swamp was another patch of thick foliage, and then a chain-link fence and Whitehead's manicured yard. He figured that Whitehead wouldn't expect him to come through the swamp. War was cleverer than the others though. He'd been committing murders in the Caribbean for years, and not even a blip had shown up to suggest a pattern to the police. War had also helped him in the matter of Christine Johnson, and that had gone perfectly. It was a mystery, inside a mystery, all inside a complex game.
Shafer lost track of everything real for a moment or two - where he was, who he was, what he had to do.
Now that was scary - a little mental breakdown at the worst possible time. Ironically, it had been Whitehead who had made him dependent on uppers and downers in Asia.
Shafer began to slosh across the fetid swamp, hoping the water wouldn't be over his head. It wasn't. He waded out and climbed over the chain-link fence on the far side. He started across the back lawn.
He had the most powerful obsession about destroying James Whitehead. He wanted to torture Whitehead - but where would he find the time? Whitehead had been his first handler in Thailand and then in the Philippines. More than anyone, Whitehead had made Shafer into a killer. Whitehead was the one he held responsible.
The house was still dark, but Shafer believed War was in there.
Suddenly a gun fired from the house. War, indeed.
Shafer began to zig and zag like an infantryman thoroughly trained in combat. His heart was thundering.
Reality came in odd stop-and-go movements. He wondered if Whitehead had a nightscope on his gun. And how good a shot he was.
Whether he'd ever been in combat.
Was he frightened? Or was he excited by the action?
He guessed the doors to the house were locked and that War would be crouched low, hiding inside, waiting to take a shot without too much exposure. He had never done his own dirty work though. None of them had; not Whitehead, not Bayer, not Highsmith. They had used Death, and now he'd come for them. If they hadn't agreed to meet in Jamaica he would have come after them one at a time.
Shafer broke into a full sprint toward the house. Gunshots exploded from inside. Bullets whizzed past. He hadn't been hit. Because he was so good? Or because War wasn't?
Shafer suddenly threw both arms up in front of his face. This was it. He dived through the large picture window in the loggia.
Glass exploded everywhere as the window blew into a thousand small pieces. He was inside!
War was here, close. Where was his enemy? How good was James Whitehead? His mind was filled with important questions. A dog was barking somewhere in the house.
Shafer tumbled across the tile floor, hit the leg of a heavy table, but came up firing anyway. Nothing. No one was in the room.
Suddenly he heard voices outside - at the front. The police were here! Always trying to spoil his fun.
Then he saw War trying to run. Tall, gangly, longish black hair. War had blinked first. He was heading toward the front door, looking for help from the police, of all people.
'You can't make it, Whitehead. Stop! I won't let
you get out! Stay in the game.'
Whitehead apparently realized he couldn't get out the front door. He turned towards a stairway and Shafer followed, only a few steps behind. War turned sharply, and fired again.
Shafer flicked his hand at a wall switch and the hall lights flashed on.
'Death has come for you! It's your time. Look at me! Look at Death!' he screamed.
Whitehead kept moving and Shafer calmly shot him in the buttocks. The wound was large, gaping, and White-head screamed like a stuck pig. He whirled and fell halfway down the stairs. His face slammed against the metal railing as he fell.
He finally lay writhing at the foot of the stairs, where Shafer shot him again. This time between the legs, and War screamed again, loudly. He moaned, then began to sob.
Shafer stood over Whitehead, triumphant, his heart bursting. 'You think sanctions are a game? Is this still a game to you?' he asked in the softest voice. 'I believe it's great fun, but do you?'
Whitehead was sobbing loudly as he tried to speak. 'No, Geoffrey. It's not a game. Please, stop. That's enough.'
Shafer began to smile. He showed his enormous teeth. 'Oh, you're so wrong. It's lovely! It is the most amazing mind game you could imagine. You should feel what I feel right now, the power over life and death.'
He had a thought - and it changed everything, changed the game for him and for Whitehead. This switch was so much better than what he'd originally planned.
'I've decided to let you live, not very well, but you'll live.'
He fired the semiautomatic again, this time into the base of Whitehead's spine.
'You will never forget me, and the game will continue for the rest of your life. Play well. I know that I shall.'
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Eighteen
The moment we heard the gunshots we ran toward the main house. I raced ahead of the others. I had to get to Shafer before they did. I had to take him myself. I had to talk to him, to know the truth once and for all.
I saw Shafer slip out a side door of the house. Whitehead must be dead. Shafer had won the game.
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel Page 27