She stayed a safe distance behind the black Jag, following it along crowded Massachusetts Avenu
e. Shafer didn’t seem to be heading home, and he wasn’t going to Southeast, either.
Where are we going tonight? she wondered as she tailed him. And what does it have to do with the Four Horsemen? What game are you really playing? What are your fantasies?
Are you a bad man, a murderer, Geoffrey? You don’t look like it, blondie. Such a nice, spiffy car for a scumbag killer.
Chapter 65
AFTER WORK, Geoffrey Shafer joined the clogged artery of rush-hour traffic inching along Massachusetts. Turning out of the embassy, he had spotted the black Jeep behind him.
The tail was still there as he drove down Massachusetts Avenue.
Who’s in the Jeep? One of the other players? D.C. police? Detective Alex Cross? They’ve found the garage in Eckington. Now they’ve found me. It has to be the bloody police.
He watched the black Jeep as it trailed four cars behind him. There was only one person inside, and it looked like a woman. Could it possibly be Lucy? Had she discovered the truth about him? God, had she finally figured out who and what he was?
He picked up his mobile phone and made a call home. Lucy picked up after a couple of rings.
“Darling, I’m coming home, after all. There’s a bit of a lull at the office. We can order in or something—unless you and the children already have plans.”
She blathered on in her usual maddening way. She and the twins had been going to catch a movie, Antz, but they’d rather stay home with him. They could order from Pizza Hut. It would be fun for a change.
“Yes, what fun,” Shafer said, and cringed at the thought. Pizza Hut served indigestible cardboard drenched with very bad tomato soup. He hung up, then took a couple of Vicodin and a Xanax. He thought he could feel cracks slowly opening up in his skull.
He made a dangerous U-turn on Massachusetts Avenue and headed toward home. He passed the Jeep going in the opposite direction and was tempted to wave. A woman driver. Now, who was she?
The pizza got to the house at around seven, and Shafer opened an expensive bottle of Cabernet. He washed down another Xanax with the wine in the downstairs bathroom. Felt a little confused, fuzzy around the edges. That was all right, he supposed.
Jesus Christ, he couldn’t stand being with his family, though; he felt as if he were going to crawl out of his skin. Ever since he was a boy in England he’d had a repetitive fantasy that he was actually a reptile and could shed his own skin. He’d had the dream long before he read any Kafka; he still had the disturbing dream.
He rolled three dice in his hand as he sipped his wine, played the game at the dinner table. If the number seventeen came up, he would murder them all tonight. He swore he would do it. First the twins, then Robert, and then Lucy.
She kept prattling on and on about her day. He smiled blithely as she told him about her shopping trip to Bloomingdale’s and Bath & Body Works and Bruno Cipriani at the mall. He considered the supreme irony of his taking truckloads of antidepressants and only becoming more depressed. Jesus, he was cycling down again. How low could he go?
“Come, seventeen,” he finally said aloud.
“What, darling?” Lucy suddenly asked. “Did you just say something?”
“He’s already playing tonight’s game,” said Robert, and snickered. “Right, Daddy? It’s your fantasy game. Am I right?”
“Right, son,” Shafer replied, thinking, Christ, I am mad!
He let the dice gently fall on the dining table, though. He would kill them—if their number came up. The dice rolled over and over, then banked off the greasy pizza box.
“Daddy and his games,” Lucy said, and laughed. Erica and Tricia laughed. Robert laughed.
Six, five, one, he counted. Damn, damn.
“Are the two of us going to play tonight?” Robert asked.
Shafer forced a smile. “Not tonight, Rob Boy. I’d like to, but I can’t. I have to go out again.”
Chapter 66
THIS WAS GETTING VERY INTERESTING. Patsy Hampton watched Shafer leave the large and expensive house in Kalorama at around eight-thirty. He was off on another of his nightly jaunts. The guy was a regular vampire.
She knew that Cross and his friends called the killer the Weasel, and it certainly fit Shafer. There was something uncomfortable about him, something bent.