Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

This was a good one. The suspensions that had been handed down earlier that morning were mostly forgotten for a few hours. I was congratulated and hugged more times than I could count, and even kissed once or twice. Everybody was calling me “sugar,” following Sampson’s lead. The “love” word was used, and overused. I was roasted and toasted in sentimental speeches that seemed hilarious at the time. Just about everybody had too much to drink.

By four in the afternoon, Sampson and I were steadying each other, making our way into the blinding daylight on Second Street. Mike Hart himself had called us a cab.

For a brief, clear moment, I was reminded of the purple and blue gypsy cab we were looking for—but then the thought evaporated into the nearly white sunlight.

“Sugar,” Sampson whispered against my skull as we were climbing into our cab, “I love you more than life itself. It’s true. I love your kids, love your Nana, love your wife-to-be, the lovely Christine. Take us home,” he said to the driver. “Alex is getting married.”

“And he’s the best man,” I said to the driver, who smiled.

“Yes I am,” said Sampson. “The very best.”

Chapter 43

ON THURSDAY NIGHT, Shafer played the Four Horsemen again. He was locked inside his study, but through the early part of the night he could hear the sounds of his family throughout the house. He felt intensely isolated; he was nervous, jittery, and angry for no appar

ent reason.

While he waited to log on with the other players, he found himself thinking back to his wild car ride through Washington. He relived a particular feeling over and over: the imagined moment of sudden impact with an unmovable structure. He saw it as blinding light, and physical objects, and himself, all shattering like glass and then becoming part of the universe again. Even the pain he would feel would be part of the reassembling of matter into other fascinating forms and shapes.

I am suicidal, he finally thought. It’s just a matter of time. I really am Death.

When it was exactly nine o’clock, he began to type in a message on his computer. The other Horsemen were on-line, waiting for his response to the visit and warning by George Bayer. He didn’t want to disappoint them. What they had done had made him even more enthusiastic about playing the game. He wrote:

STRANGELY, DEATH WASN’T SURPRISED WHEN FAMINE APPEARED IN WASHINGTON. OF COURSE HE HAD EVERY RIGHT TO COME. JUST AS DEATH COULD GO TO LONDON, OR SINGAPORE, OR MANILA, OR KINGSTON, AND PERHAPS DEATH WILL PAY ONE OF YOU A VISIT SOON.

THAT’S THE BEAUTY OF THE GAME WE PLAY—ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN.

ULTIMATELY, THE ISSUE IS TRUST, ISN’T IT? DO I TRUST THAT YOU WILL ALLOW ME TO CONTINUE TO PLAY THE FANTASY GAME AS I WISH? AFTER ALL, THAT IS WHAT MAKES THE GAME DISTINCTIVE AND ALLURING: THE FREEDOM WE EXPERIENCE.

THAT IS THE GAME NOW, ISN’T IT? WE HAVE EVOLVED INTO SOMETHING NEW. WE HAVE RAISED THE TABLE STAKES. SO LET’S HAVE SOME REAL EXCITEMENT, FELLOW HORSEMEN. I HAVE A FEW IDEAS TO TRY OUT ON YOU. EVERYTHING IS IN THE SPIRIT OF THE GAME. NO UNNECESSARY RISKS WILL BE TAKEN.

LET’S PLAY THE GAME AS IF OUR LIVES DEPENDED ON IT.

PERHAPS MINE ALREADY DOES?

AS I TOLD YOU, WE HAVE TWO NEW PLAYERS. THEY ARE WASHINGTON DETECTIVES NAMED ALEX CROSS AND JOHN SAMPSON. WORTHY OPPONENTS. I’M WATCHING THEM, BUT I CAN’T HELP WONDERING WHETHER SOON THEY’LL BE WATCHING ME.

LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT A FANTASY SCENARIO THAT I’VE CREATED TO WELCOME THEM TO OUR GAME. I’M SENDING PICTURES NOW—DETECTIVES CROSS AND SAMPSON.

Chapter 44

IT TOOK US A DAY to get organized for our trip, but everybody seemed to enjoy the spontaneity, and also the special treat of our all being together on a vacation for the first time. And so Damon, Jannie, Nana, Christine, and I left D.C. in the afternoon and arrived in high spirits at Bermuda International Airport late on Thursday evening, the twenty-fifth of August.

I definitely wanted to be out of Washington for a few days. The Mr. Smith murder case had been followed too quickly by the Jane Doe investigation. I needed a rest. I had a friend who was part owner of a hotel in Bermuda, and it wasn’t a particularly long airplane ride. It was perfect for us.

One scene from the airport will always stick in my mind—Christine’s singing “Ja-da, ja-da,” with Jannie stuck at her side. I couldn’t help thinking that they looked like mother and daughter, and that touched me deeply. They were so affectionate and playful, so natural. It was a mind-photo for me to have and to hold, one of those moments that I knew I’d never forget, even as I watched the two of them dancing and singing as if they’d known each other forever.

We were blessed with extraordinarily good weather for our holiday. It was sunny and blue-skied every day, morning until nightfall, when the sky turned a magical combination of reds, oranges, and purples. The days belonged to all of us, but especially to the kids. We went swimming and snorkeling at Elbow Beach and Horseshoe Bay, and then raced mopeds along the picturesque Middle and Harbour roads.

The nights belonged to Christine and me, and we made the most of them. We hit all the best spots: the Terrace Bar at the Palm Reef, the Gazebo Lounge at the Princess, the Clay House Inn, Once Upon a Table in Hamilton, Horizons in Paget. I loved being with her, and that thought kept drifting through my mind. I felt that what we shared had been strengthened because I had backed off and given her time and space. And I felt whole again. I kept remembering the very first time I had seen her in the schoolyard at Sojourner Truth. She’s the one, Alex. That thought still played in my head, too.

We sat at the Terrace Bar overlooking the city and harbor of Hamilton. The water was dotted with small islands, white sails, ferries going back and forth to Warwick and Paget. We held hands, and I couldn’t stop staring into her eyes, didn’t want to.

“Big thoughts?” she finally asked.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about going into private practice again,” I told her. “I think it might be the best thing to do.”

She stared into my eyes. “I don’t want you to do it for me, Alex. Please don’t make me the cause of your leaving your job with the police. I know you love it. Most days you do.”