Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

SHAFER PARKED HIS JAG on the shadowy street and felt strangely alone and afraid. He was actually scaring himself. The things he thought and did. No one had a twisted mind like his—no one thought like this. No one had ever had such outlandish fantasies and ideas, and then acted them out.

The other players also had complicated and very sick fantasy lives, of course, but they paled in comparison to his. Famine claimed authorship of a series of psychosexual murders in Thailand and the Philippines. War liked to think of himself as the uncrowned head of the group—he claimed to “influence” the adventures of the others. Conqueror was confined to a wheelchair and made up stories about using his infirmity to lure his prey close enough for the kill.

Shafer doubted that any of them actually had the guts to play the game out in the real world.

But perhaps they would surprise him. Maybe each of the others was liv

ing out a homicidal fantasy. Wouldn’t that be something?

The Cahill women thought they were so perfectly safe inside the ranch house, less than fifty yards away. He could see a green wooden fence surrounding a stone terrace and lap swimming pool in the back. The house had sliding doors to the pool area. So many possibilities for him to consider.

He might enter the house and murder both of them execution-style. Then he would drive directly back to Washington.

The local police and FBI would be totally baffled. The story might even make network TV. Two women shot and murdered while they slept, a mother and daughter whom everybody in their small town admired. No motive for the horrific crime, no suspects.

He was hard now, and it was difficult to walk. That was comical to Shafer, his absurd hard-on waddle. His mouth formed a smile.

A dog was howling two or three houses down the street—a small wimpy dog, from the sound of it. Then a larger dog joined in. They sensed death, didn’t they? They knew he was here.

Shafer knelt beside a maple tree at the edge of the backyard. He stood in shadows while the moon cast a soft white light across the yard.

He slid the twenty-sided dice out of his pocket, then let them fall on the tufts of lawn. Here we go. Playing by the rules. Let’s see what the night has to offer. He counted the numerals on the special dice. They appeared fuzzy in the dark.

Shafer couldn’t believe what he saw. He wanted to howl like the crazed and bewildered neighborhood dogs.

The dice count was five.

Death had to leave! This instant! There could be no murders tonight!

No! He wouldn’t do it! To hell with the dice. He wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t. He was losing all impulse control, wasn’t he? Well, so be it. Alea jacta est, he remembered from his schoolboy Latin classes—Julius Caesar before he crossed the Rubicon: “The die is cast.”

This was a monumental night. For the first time, he was breaking the rules. He was changing the game forever.

He needed to kill someone, and the urge was everything to him.

He hurried to the house before he changed his mind. He was nervous. Adrenaline punched through his system. He used his glass cutter at first, but then just smashed in a small window with a gloved hand.

Once inside, he moved quickly down the darkened hallway. He was sweating—so unlike him. He entered Deirdre’s bedroom. She was asleep, despite the breaking of the glass. Her bare arms were thrown up over her head, the surrender position.

“Lovely,” he whispered.

She was wearing white bikini panties and a matching bra. Her long legs were spread delicately, expectantly. In her dreams, she must have known he was coming. Shafer believed that dreams told you the truth, and you had better listen.

He was still hard, and so glad he’d chosen to disobey the rules.

“Who the hell are you?” he heard, suddenly. The voice came from behind.

Shafer whirled around.

It was Lindsay, the daughter. She wore nothing but coral-pink underwear, a brassiere and briefs. He calmly raised his gun until it pointed between her eyes.

“Shhh. You don’t want to know, Lindsay,” he said in the calmest voice, not bothering to disguise his English accent. “But I’ll tell you anyway.”

He fired the gun.

Chapter 54

FOR THE SECOND TIME in my life I understood what it felt like to be a victim of a terrible crime rather than the detective investigating it. I was disconnected and out of it. I needed to be doing something positive on a case, or get back to volunteer work at St. Anthony’s—anything to take my mind off what had happened.