Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

“License and registration, sir,” the cop said, looking unbearably smug. A distorted voice inside Shafer’s head screeched, Shoot him now. It will blow everybody’s mind if you kill another policeman.

He handed over the requested identification, though, and managed a wanker’s sheepish grin. “We’re out of Pampers at home. Trip to the Seven-Eleven was in order. I know I was going too fast, and I’m sorry, Officer. Blame it on baby-brain. You have any kids?”

The patrolman didn’t say a word; not an ounce of civility in the prick. He wrote out a speeding ticket. Took his sweet time about it.

“There you go, Mr. Shafer.” The patrol officer handed him the speeding ticket and said, “Oh, and by the way, we’re watching you, shithead. We’re all over you, man. You didn’t get away with murdering Patsy Hampton. You just think you did.”

A set of car lights blinked on and off, on and off, on the side street where the patrol car had been sitting a few moments earlier.

Shafer stared, squinted back into the darkness. He recognized the car, a black Porsche.

Cross was there, watching. Alex Cross wouldn’t go away.

Chapter 105

ANDREW JONES SAT NEXT TO ME in the quiet, semi-darkened cockpit of the Porsche. We’d been working closely together for almost two weeks. Jones and the Security Service were intent on stopping Shafer before he committed another murder. They were also tracking War, Famine, and Conqueror.

We watched silently as Geoffrey Shafer slowly turned the Jaguar around and drove back toward his house.

“He saw us. He knows my car,” I said. “Good.”

I couldn’t see Shafer’s face in the darkness, but I could almost feel the heat rising from the top of his head. I knew he was crazed. The words “homicidal maniac” kept drifting through my mind. Jones and I were looking at one, and he was still running free. He’d already gotten away with one murder—several murders.

“Alex, aren’t you concerned about possibly putting him into a rage state?” Jones asked as the Jaguar eased to a stop in front of the Georgian-style house. There were no lights on in the driveway area, so we wouldn’t be able to see Geoffrey Shafer for the next few seconds. We couldn’t tell if he’d gone inside.

“He’s already in a rage state. He’s lost his job, his wife, the children, the game he lives for. Worst of all, his freedom to come and go has been curtailed. Shafer doesn’t like having limitations put on him, hates to be boxed in. He can’t stand to lose.”

“So you think he’ll do something rash.”

“Not rash, he’s too clever. But he’ll make a move. It’s how the game is played.”

“And then we’ll mess with his head yet again?”

“Yes, we will. Absolutely.”

Late that night, as I was driving home, I decided to stop at St. Anthony’s. The church is unusual in this day and age in that it’s open at night. Monsignor John Kelliher believes that’s the way it should be, and he’s willing to live with the vandalism and the petty theft. Mostly, though, the people in the neighborhood watch over St. Anthony’s.

A couple of worshipers were inside the candlelit church when I entered, around midnight. There are usually a few “parishioners” inside. Homeless people aren’t allowed to sleep there, but they wander in and out all through the night.

I sat watching the familiar red votive lamps flicker and blink. I sucked in the thick smell of incense from Benediction. I stared up at the large gold-plated crucifix and the beautiful stained-glass windows that I’ve loved since I was a boy.

I lit a candle for Christine, and I hoped that somehow, someway, she might still be alive. It didn’t seem likely. My memory of her was fading a little bit, and I hated that. A

column of pain went from my stomach to my chest, making it hard for me to breathe. It has been this way since the night she’d disappeared, almost a year ago.

And then, for the first time, I admitted to myself that she was gone. I would never see her again. The thought caught like a shard of glass in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes. “I love you,” I whispered to no one. “I love you so much, and I miss you terribly.”

I said a few more prayers, then I finally rose from the long wooden pew and silently made my way toward the doors of the vestibule. I didn’t see the woman crouching in a side row. She startled me with a sudden movement.

I recognized her from the soup kitchen. Her name was Magnolia. That was all I knew about her, just an odd first name, maybe a made-up one. She called out to me in a loud voice, “Hey Peanut Butter Man, now you know what it’s like.”

Chapter 106

JONES AND SANDY GREENBERG from Interpol had helped get the other three Horsemen under surveillance. The net being cast was large, as the catch could be if we succeeded.

The huge potential scandal in England was being carefully watched and monitored by the Security Service. If four English agents turned out to be murderers involved in a bizarre “game,” the fallout would be widespread and devastating for the intelligence community.

Shafer dutifully went to the embassy on Wednesday and Thursday. He arrived just before nine and left promptly at five. Once inside, he stayed out of sight in his small office, not even venturing out for lunch. He spent hours on America Online, which we monitored.