Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

“It is unbelievably romantic,” she finally said. “It is special. You are something else… sugar.”

We cuddled and hugged all the way into Washington. We talked, but I don’t remember the subject. I could feel her breasts rising and falling against me. I was surprised when we arrived at the intersection of Massachusetts and Wisconsin avenues. We were getting close to the surprise.

True to her word, Christine hadn’t asked any more questions. Not until the car eased up in front of Washington National Cathedral, and the driver got out and held the door open for us.

“The National Cathedral?” she said. “We’re going in here?”

I nodded and stared up at the stunning Gothic masterpiece that I’d admired since I was a boy. The cathedral crowns over fifty acres of lawns and woods and is Washington’s highest point, even higher than the Washington Monument. If I remembered correctly, it was the second-largest church in the United States, and possibly the prettiest

.

I led the way, and Christine followed me inside. She held my hand lightly. We entered the northwest corner of the nave, which extends nearly a tenth of a mile to the massive altar.

Everything felt special and very beautiful, spiritual, just right. We walked up to a pew under the amazing Space Window at midnave. Everywhere I looked there were priceless stained-glass windows, over two hundred in all.

The light inside was exquisite; I felt blessed. There was a kaleidoscope of changing colors on the walls: reds, warm yellows, cool blues.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I whispered. “Timeless, sublime, all that good Gothic stuff Henry Adams used to write about.”

“Oh, Alex, I think it’s the prettiest spot in Washington. The Space Window, the Children’s Chapel—I’ve always loved it here. I told you that, didn’t I?” she asked.

“You might have mentioned it once,” I said. “Or maybe I just knew it.”

We continued walking until we entered the Children’s Chapel. It is small, beautiful, and wonderfully intimate. We stood under a stained-glass window that depicts the story of Samuel and David as children.

I turned and looked at Christine, and my heart was beating so loud I was sure she could hear it. Her eyes were sparkling like jewels in the flickering candlelight. The black dress shimmered and seemed to flow over her body.

I knelt on one knee and looked up at her.

“I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you at the Sojourner Truth School,” I whispered, so that only she could hear me. “Except that when I saw you the first time, I had no way of knowing how incredibly special you are on the inside. How wise, how good. I didn’t know that I could feel the way I do—whole and complete—whenever I’m with you. I would do anything for you. Or just to be with you for one more moment.”

I stopped for the briefest pause and took a deep breath. She held my eyes, didn’t pull away.

“I love you so much, and I always will. Will you marry me, Christine?”

She continued to look into my eyes, and I saw such warmth and love, but also humility, which is always a part of who Christine is. It was almost as if she couldn’t imagine my loving her.

“Yes, I will. Oh, Alex, I shouldn’t have waited until tonight. But this is so perfect, so special, I’m almost glad I did. Yes, I will be your wife.”

I took out an antique engagement ring and gently slid it onto Christine’s finger. The ring had been my mother’s, and I’d kept it since she died, when I was nine. The exact history of the ring was unclear, except that it went back at least four generations in the Cross family and was my one and only heirloom.

We kissed in the glorious Children’s Chapel of the National Cathedral, and it was the best moment of my life, never to be forgotten, never to be diminished in any way.

Yes, I will be your wife.

Chapter 20

TEN DAYS HAD PASSED without another fantasy murder, but now a powerful mood swing had taken hold of Geoffrey Shafer, and he let himself go with the flow.

He was flying high as a kite—hyper, manic, bipolar, whatever the doctors wanted to call his condition. He’d already taken Ativan, Librium, Valium, and Depakote, but the drugs seemed only to fuel his jets.

That night at around six he pulled the black Jaguar out of the lot on the north side of the embassy, passing by the larger-than-life Winston Churchill statue with its stubby right hand raised in V for Victory, its left hand holding his trademark cigar.

Eric Clapton played guitar loudly on the car’s CD. He turned up the volume higher, slapping his hands hard on the steering wheel, feeling the rhythm, the beat, the primal urge.

Shafer turned onto Massachusetts Avenue and then stopped at a Starbucks. He hurried in and fixed up three coffees his way. Black as his heart, with six sugars. Mmm, hmmm. As usual, he had nearly finished the first before he got out the door.

Once he was inside the cockpit of his Jag again, he sipped a second cup at a more leisurely pace. He downed some Benadryl and Nascan. Couldn’t hurt; might help. He took out the twenty-sided game dice. He had to play tonight.