He studied Shafer, cold-eyed and measuring. He was bright—an egghead, but a genius, or so Bayer and Whitehead claimed.
“My dear fellow, we’re your friends. The only ones you have now. We understand your problem. Let’s talk things through, Geoffrey.”
Shafer laughed at the fat man’s pathetic lies, his superior and condescending attitude, his nerve. “That’s not what Georgie Bayer told me. Why, he said you were going to murder me! Hell of a way to treat a friend.”
Highsmith didn’t blink, didn’t falter. “We’re not alone here, Geoff. They’re at the hotel. The Security Service team is on the grounds. They must have followed you.”
“And you, and Bayer, and Whitehead! I know all that, Oliver. I met a couple of crackerjack agents down the hall. Shot ’em dead. That’s why I have to hurry up, can’t tarry. The game’s on a clock now. Lots of ways to lose.”
“We have to talk, Geoff.”
“Talk, talk, talk.” Shafer shook his head, frowned, then barked out a laugh. “No, there’s nothing for us to talk about. Talk is such an overrated bore. I learned to kill in the field, and I like it much more than talking. No, I actually love it to death.”
“You are mad,” Highsmith exclaimed, his grayish-blue eyes widening with fear. Finally, he understood who Shafer was; he wasn’t intellectualizing anymore. He felt it in his gut.
“No, actually, I’m not insane. I know precisely what I’m doing—always have, always will. I know the difference between good and evil. Anyway, look who’s talking: the Rider on the White Horse.”
Shafer moved swiftly toward Highsmith. “This isn’t much of a fight—just the way I was taught to perform in Asia. You’re going to die, Oliver. Isn’t that a stunning thought? Still think this is a bloody fantasy game?”
Suddenly Highsmith jumped to his feet. Shafer wasn’t surprised; he knew he couldn’t have committed the murders in London from a wheelchair. Highsmith was close to six feet, and obese, but surprisingly quick for his size. His arms and hands were massive.
Shafer was faster. He struck Highsmith with the butt of his gun, and Conqueror went crashing down on one knee. Shafer bludgeoned him a second time, then a third, and Highsmith dropped flat on the floor. He groaned loudly and slobbered blood and spit. Shafer kicked the small of his back, kicked a knee, kicked his face.
Then he bent and put the gun barrel against Highsmith’s broad forehead. He could hear the distant sound of running footsteps’ slapping down the hall. Too bad—they were coming for him. Hurry, hurry.
“They’re too late,” he said to Conqueror. “No one can save you. Except me, Conqueror. What’s the play? Counsel me. Should I save the whale?”
“Please, Geoff, no. You can’t just kill me. We can still help each other.”
“I’d love to stretch this out, but I really have to dash. I’m throwing the dice. In my mind. Oh, bad news, Oliver. The jig is up. You just lost game.”
He inserted the barrel of his gun into Highsmith’s pulpy right ear, and fired. The gunshot blew Conqueror’s gray matter all over the room. Shafer’s only regret was that he hadn’t been able to torture Oliver Highsmith for a much, much longer time than he had.
Then Shafer was running away, and suddenly he was struck with a realization that actually surprised him: he had something to live for. This was a wonderful, wonderful game.
I want to live.
Chapter 115
SAMPSON AND I sprinted toward the secluded wing of the hotel where Oliver Highsmith had his suite. There had been gunshots, but we couldn’t be everywhere at once. We’d heard the pistol reports all the way on the other side of the Jamaica Inn.
I wasn’t prepared for the bloody massacre scene we
found. Two English agents were down in the courtyard. I’d worked with them both, just as I’d worked side by side with Patsy Hampton.
Jones and another agent, in addition to a team of local detectives, were already crowded into Highsmith’s suite. The room was abuzz. Everything had turned to chaos and carnage in a burst of homicidal madness.
“Shafer went through two of my people to get here,” Jones said in an angry voice strained with tension and sadness. He was smoking a cigarette. “He came in shooting, took down Laura and Gwynn. Highsmith is dead, too. We haven’t found George Bayer yet.”
I knelt and quickly checked the damage to Oliver Highsmith’s skull. It wasn’t subtle. He’d been shot at point-blank range, and the wound was massive. I knew from Jones that Shafer had resented the senior man’s intelligence, and now he’d blown out his brains. “I told you he liked to kill. He has to do this, Andrew. He can’t stop.
“Whitehead!” I said. “The end of the game.”
Chapter 116
WE DROVE FASTER than the narrow, twisting road safely allowed, barreling toward James Whitehead’s home. It wasn’t far.
We passed a road sign that read Mallard’s Beach—San Antonio.