Patterson, James - Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

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.